Inbox - Fade Rift

[nonvenomous]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.

Comments

[wythersake]

"Of course," Carpentry. "How long will you need it?"

Should he like. Leave. With the Tranquil, he usually leaves.

[nonvenomous]

“No more than a few minutes.”

Easy.

Hands at his sides, Richard offers no clue in posture or tone to help Isaac along with deciding one way or the other. He waits (with the empty patience of a blue-eyed grackle waiting for a french fry) until he adds:

“You can hold it in place if you like. A level surface would be best.”

[wythersake]

Isaac blinks first —

Of course he does, shifting to make room less for Richard than to shuffle off uncertainty. It clears a space about the desk, all the same.

"Very well," He stretches to press the pieces together. "Qui ne risque rien n'a rien."

[nonvenomous]

This entire operation has been strange, but what is Dick’s life if not a series of variously strange operations. Apart from his silence while he waits for Isaac to figure himself out, there’s no trace of outward discomfort about him.

“No risk, no reward?” he guesses, when all is finally clear for him to step in and place his hands on either side of the break.

“I’ve been meaning to study Orlesian.”

Matter-of-fact, with a glance aside, and the crook of half a smile. Keeping with the theme of normalcy, he then proceeds to murmur over the staff in a language most often associated with demons and snakes, sibilant, breathy. If it was any less casual, an eavesdropper could be forgiven for thinking this is part of the slow build to an unwilling sacrifice.

definitely not almost a month later

[wythersake]

"Oh, you don't want to do that," Edging an elbow about his. "Orlesians are dreadful."

Richard speaks, if one may call it speech — there are things that hiss in dreams, that wind through paths of Fade. Few of them own tongues, but every night, you can listen.

You can grow used to anything.

He listens, and it isn't casual; not really. The tension in his hands draws them up new, knuckles lifted with a degree of care not present about the apple. And something in the staff slithers, reaches for itself.

[nonvenomous]

There’s no glimmer or glow to mark the incantation taking hold between them -- Richard’s spellwork is as severe as the rest of him, and in this case, all but indistinguishable from prayer. Raw, healthy material builds its way out of the break at a crawl, virgin wood following the grain to bridge the gap from both sides.

No more than a minute has passed when Richard winds down into a silence that the growth continues beyond, the eerie trickle of cells through a rapid cycle of growth and death just audible beneath the rustle of his breath.

The new wood is a shade or two lighter than the staff around it, not yet having endured the rigors of weather or travel or combat under a mage’s hand, but otherwise seamless. Natural.

He lifts his hands with a hope you weren't expecting something more spectacular glance, and withdraws an easy step, leaving Isaac room to admire or test it as he sees fit.