He crooks the leading edge of a grin back at her as he enters, barely there, until he takes note of the empty bed, and closes away into darker consideration. If Ashey Pelt has gone, who will Loxley console himself with finding flowers for after Athessa has blown up in his face?
There is a table. He invites himself to unscroll the leather wrapping across it, with care taken not to tip the viola’s case, or to scatter cards loose of the deck. Fitcher’s blade rests at the hide’s center, exactly as she remembers it -- perhaps a bare shave brighter at the edges, where it’s been given a few passive-aggressively helpful passes across a strop.
He steps away with a glance rather than pass the knife to her directly, giving her space to inspect it without him hovering.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" is hypothetical and managed just prior to setting the pipe back between her teeth as she turns to the question of tossing her things until the dagger's empty scabbard reveals itself. It's a simple, unadorned leather thing - a good match for the understated weapon; Fitcher makes only the sparest inspection of the blade (a fingertip tapping the marginally sharper edge) before tucking it safely away.
The sum of its parts is tossed carelessly onto the bed, to be forgotten until some later moment when she rediscovers it with a knee or hand or it falls out onto the floor as she climbs under the blankets.
Standing apart in the negative space that constitutes the rest of the room with his hands at his sides, tidy as Pelt’s made bed, Richard catches his instinctive preference short at the intake of breath for it, thinks a beat, and says, “Whiskey,” instead.
"The better pick, if I'm honest. The wine's some Orlesian vintage that isn't worth what I paid for it and I've not been desperate enough to crack it. At this rate, I may save it for a Satinalia present."
The trunk at the foot of her bed is attended to, various inset trays (of folded scarves and stockings and various hair pins and so on) being slid out of the way so she might fetch the half full bottle of tasteful spirit in question—she passes it up to him with an, 'If you would be so kind,'—and a pair of cups. Straightening comes with a colossal crunch of some joint beneath her skirts, which is mostly ignored.
“I can assure you the cultural significance would be wasted on me.” Nevermind his lack of experience with vintage in general.
Mild affirmation to accompany his openly watching her sort through trays on her way deeper into her trunk, as naturally nosy as the little grass snake up his sleeve. He gives himself more rein to turn directly towards it, even, after outwardly demonstrating a commendable lack of awareness towards the writing case. For now.
He doesn’t step closer until she’s prompted him with the bottle and cups, and (with one last glance) he ferries both to the table to pour -- neatly -- as he’s been asked. There is a distinct pause between pours at the crunch, the bottle tilted partway to the next cup.
“Your tailor,” he says, once he’s recovered. “In Canoshaw Alley.”
The trunk with its rearranged contents (a few packets of letters bound with ribbons; a series of carefully folded shirts or skirts or something similar; a dark lump that might be either a sturdy winter coat or merely something wrapped in one) is left open either out of disregard - unlikely - or, perhaps, as a small token of appreciation. A grin hooks at the corner of her mouth.
"I'll have to stop in and see if I've earned some favor yet in thanks for the referral. Let me see."
With a flick of skirts, Fitcher drifts closer - setting her fingers unceremoniously at his collar and some silvered detailed there. The work is briefly assessed. With his hand idle there, she says, "I must owe you at least one, I think. You've been an admirably good sport, Richard."
His eyes are clear and light in their sobriety -- affable, in their interest, an undercurrent of humor kept low key. Understated. Unexciting. But some of the world’s most successful ambush predators look like logs.
He doesn’t draw away from her inspection.
He does turn enough to proffer the finger of whiskey he’s poured for her, before he collects his own cup. Helpful again.
“The last time someone offered me a favor, it ended with them agreeing to cut my hand off.” Cheers.
Her hand unwinds in favor of accepting the drink - raises it in all good humor as the pipe is set somewhere where it won't risk tipping and setting any stray playing cards on fire.
"Well, I can't guarantee to be so useful as all that. But I'll do my best."
The cups make a hollow clunk noise as they're tapped together. Without bothering to sit first, she drinks.
Dick mirrors her with a shorter sip, also standing, with a tell of tension through his shoulders where he has to stifle the threat of a shudder for the taste, or for the burn. Both. An absent tug of his free hand to the open fasten of his collar sees it adjusted not at all. It’s too stiff to need adjusting.
“Substantial as it is, your blade doesn’t carry quite the same heft.”
He can be reasonable. Anyway, he looks to her open trunk:
“If we’re keeping score, I was already in your debt from the tailoring referral.”
"Please. That's all self interest. Sweet Moresina is almost guaranteed to reward me with a discount, and I get the added pleasure of seeing some decent clothes being worn about the Gallows."
The rest of her whisky is downed without much consideration for either the burn or the fact that it's smooth enough to warrant sipping, her eye following the line of his to the trunk and then back again.
The bottle is fetched up. Her cup is dosed with another finger from it.
"Surely my undergarments aren't so interesting as all that, Richard."
So spotlighted, Richard looks back at her, not with the wide-eyed haste of the freshly accused, but with the tight-at-the-corners patience of someone who is being teased while he’s trying to read.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen any that weren’t covered in blood,” he says, matter-of-fact, and taking down a longer swallow by way of dry punctuation. “Or mine.” He could look away, but eye contact is what she deserves.
“Is it undergarments all the way down, or is there a layer of throwing knives to keep things lively?"
Scandal finds its way into the knit of his brow, shadowed by you shouldn’t have incredulity. He meanders over to peer directly down into it, cup in hand for him to drain -- he immediately has to stifle a cough, and clears his throat. Smooth or not, it’s clear the majority of his evenings don’t start with whiskey in a cup.
With her cup in hand, Fitcher neatly untucks one of the narrow chairs from the table and settles down into it. It's a patient thing - roighly as concerned with the lay of her skirts and the drink as she is with him peering down into the trunk's contents.
"The packet with the blue cord is from one of Riftwatch's donors - a gentleman who's fairly convinced he knows who killed Grand Cleric Agathe. I'm entertaining him as a favor to Byerly. The rest are from a friends in Antiva, Ostwick, and so on. I've a fine friend in Rialto who's sent the best of my silks. That red kerchief in the top tray, for example."
A sip from her cup. A quirked eyebrow—
"There's a ledger in the bottom on the left hand side. But if you're looking for something pointy, try between the coat and the skirts."
Richard sinks into a crouch, empty cup set at the corner of the open trunk, with both hands aligned across opposite edges to level his balance on the balls of his feet. There he has a better view of the packeted letters in question, with their color-coded cords -- he shifts a tray carefully to one side, with a sidelong look to Fitcher at her perch after he does so, measuring her comfort level against his progress.
This is an unorthodox rendezvous, even for him.
Once he’s cleared the way, he reaches in as directed, with passing care taken to feel along the inside panel for wires and switches on the way. It’s a subtle endeavor -- a few fine plucks of tension through the back of his wrist, until he shifts the coat to feel under it.
"Because he's an old bat with too much time on his hands, is my estimation. You can borrow them if you like. It's entertaining reading."
Wires and switches, no. All manner of personal odds and ends, lace edged or otherwise, yes. But under the coat lies a slim hard case with little metal latches, and in the case set in its padded interior are a series of fine old tools: a set of files, a series of lock picks, sharp nosed pliers and a polished hand mirror, a few bobbins of thread and neatly organized spools of wire and - significantly, in the vein of points - stitching needles of various gauges.
From her chair, Fitcher finishes her cup and sets it aside.
His thumb finds the case; he prizes it just open without drawing it out of its nest, until he’s caught a glint of the steel inside. Then it’s both hands all the way in, the case cradled in one while he keeps the lid open with the other.
He takes inventory in silence, the fuzzy lines around his mouth set in grim with recognition. She’ll see the subtle switch of him closing it again, and the more distinct motion involved in him tucking it away. Right where he found it, noscope 360 while he’s preoccupied.
Thinking.
“I am a Rifter.”
This, he assures when he finally looks back over to her. Still crouched.
“Terrific.” Looking back at her from the cusp of her hoard, in the center of her lair.
His cup is empty.
So he reaches for that first, on his way to standing. He’s halfway through closing the trunk lid when he sees the letters with the blue cord, and raises it again to collect them before closing it properly. And back to the table he goes, letters deposited ahead of his reach for the bottle.
She half turns in concert with him, though doesn't remove her propped arm or shift her hand from her cheek by any great degree, nor make an indication that he ought to give her cup a splash while he's at it. Two fingers of whisky is more than enough for her evening, thank you. Instead, Fitcher reaches with her spare hand to fetch back her pipe and sets it between her teeth. A few puffs are enough to remind the bowl's muted ember that it's burning.
Richard busies himself, and his contribution to the conversation falls into foley work -- the nudge and rustle of letters further from the edge of the table, the slosh of whiskey across the bottom of his cup, and the thunk of the bottle. He draws out a chair and takes a seat, not looking back at her and her hand-to-cheek until he’s mostly settled, still adjusting skinny seat to skinny seat.
There’s no outward change; he’s as mild now as he was upon his initial arrival. His eyes are kind, his nose defines his bony face, and his whiskers are closely kempt.
Something sparks first in her dark eye, and on its heels Fitcher laughs - pleasantly low and rounded, exhaling gauzy sweet-sharp smoke between her teeth.
"Not Dick Dickerson? I'm gutted."
There is some sense of unraveling as her elbow draws from the chair back, as her cheek comes up out of her palm and she reorients - a certain opaque layer of put on guile peeling backward in favor of a broader flashing smile, crinkling wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. It's a rather genuine sort of pleasure. She offers him her long hand.
He takes it only to balance it over the edge of his like a blade, light touch across the palm and a fleeting glance across the back in search of marks, scars, calluses. He’s felt her hands before, but under more harrowing or less sober circumstances.
“And yours. Sorry to disappoint.”
He releases it back to her, his own smile barely there opposite hers over the edge of his cup -- inward facing, and dry.
“I’m confident the legend of Dick Dickerson will live on in the hearts and minds of Riftwatch long after I’ve returned to the Fade."
Her hand, unscathed save perhaps from one or two little marks that might as easily be from a surly cat as anything else, is drawn back.
"Undoubtedly. We keep such thorough records," she says, all dry humor even as the pipe is set back between her teeth. Mumbling conversarionally past it, her hands both compelled now to the activity of gathering the loose deck of cards— "Why the charade? You are a Rifter."
He will assist in clearing the table upon seeing her gathering, letters parceled up in the soft hide that previously transported her knife, and dropped aside, bottle plugged.
“It took some study for me to be sure this was a different plane and not simply a different continent.”
Loxley might know, or might not. He exaggerates the mystery with a mugging look as he sweeps a few errant ram hairs off the table’s edge, woOOoOoo.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 09:45 pm (UTC)He crooks the leading edge of a grin back at her as he enters, barely there, until he takes note of the empty bed, and closes away into darker consideration. If Ashey Pelt has gone, who will Loxley console himself with finding flowers for after Athessa has blown up in his face?
There is a table. He invites himself to unscroll the leather wrapping across it, with care taken not to tip the viola’s case, or to scatter cards loose of the deck. Fitcher’s blade rests at the hide’s center, exactly as she remembers it -- perhaps a bare shave brighter at the edges, where it’s been given a few passive-aggressively helpful passes across a strop.
He steps away with a glance rather than pass the knife to her directly, giving her space to inspect it without him hovering.
There are other things here for him to see.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 09:59 pm (UTC)The sum of its parts is tossed carelessly onto the bed, to be forgotten until some later moment when she rediscovers it with a knee or hand or it falls out onto the floor as she climbs under the blankets.
"Whisky or wine?"
no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 10:53 pm (UTC)Standing apart in the negative space that constitutes the rest of the room with his hands at his sides, tidy as Pelt’s made bed, Richard catches his instinctive preference short at the intake of breath for it, thinks a beat, and says, “Whiskey,” instead.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 11:08 pm (UTC)The trunk at the foot of her bed is attended to, various inset trays (of folded scarves and stockings and various hair pins and so on) being slid out of the way so she might fetch the half full bottle of tasteful spirit in question—she passes it up to him with an, 'If you would be so kind,'—and a pair of cups. Straightening comes with a colossal crunch of some joint beneath her skirts, which is mostly ignored.
"Is that a new coat?"
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 01:00 am (UTC)Mild affirmation to accompany his openly watching her sort through trays on her way deeper into her trunk, as naturally nosy as the little grass snake up his sleeve. He gives himself more rein to turn directly towards it, even, after outwardly demonstrating a commendable lack of awareness towards the writing case. For now.
He doesn’t step closer until she’s prompted him with the bottle and cups, and (with one last glance) he ferries both to the table to pour -- neatly -- as he’s been asked. There is a distinct pause between pours at the crunch, the bottle tilted partway to the next cup.
“Your tailor,” he says, once he’s recovered. “In Canoshaw Alley.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 01:23 am (UTC)"I'll have to stop in and see if I've earned some favor yet in thanks for the referral. Let me see."
With a flick of skirts, Fitcher drifts closer - setting her fingers unceremoniously at his collar and some silvered detailed there. The work is briefly assessed. With his hand idle there, she says, "I must owe you at least one, I think. You've been an admirably good sport, Richard."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 04:14 am (UTC)He doesn’t draw away from her inspection.
He does turn enough to proffer the finger of whiskey he’s poured for her, before he collects his own cup. Helpful again.
“The last time someone offered me a favor, it ended with them agreeing to cut my hand off.” Cheers.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 04:51 am (UTC)"Well, I can't guarantee to be so useful as all that. But I'll do my best."
The cups make a hollow clunk noise as they're tapped together. Without bothering to sit first, she drinks.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 05:29 am (UTC)“Substantial as it is, your blade doesn’t carry quite the same heft.”
He can be reasonable. Anyway, he looks to her open trunk:
“If we’re keeping score, I was already in your debt from the tailoring referral.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 05:41 am (UTC)The rest of her whisky is downed without much consideration for either the burn or the fact that it's smooth enough to warrant sipping, her eye following the line of his to the trunk and then back again.
The bottle is fetched up. Her cup is dosed with another finger from it.
"Surely my undergarments aren't so interesting as all that, Richard."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 07:10 am (UTC)“It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen any that weren’t covered in blood,” he says, matter-of-fact, and taking down a longer swallow by way of dry punctuation. “Or mine.” He could look away, but eye contact is what she deserves.
“Is it undergarments all the way down, or is there a layer of throwing knives to keep things lively?"
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 07:26 am (UTC)With a flick of the finger, she gestures toward the open chest. Go on then, if you're so keen.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 05:43 pm (UTC)“Well, with your permission.”
Scandal finds its way into the knit of his brow, shadowed by you shouldn’t have incredulity. He meanders over to peer directly down into it, cup in hand for him to drain -- he immediately has to stifle a cough, and clears his throat. Smooth or not, it’s clear the majority of his evenings don’t start with whiskey in a cup.
“What are the letters?”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 06:36 pm (UTC)"The packet with the blue cord is from one of Riftwatch's donors - a gentleman who's fairly convinced he knows who killed Grand Cleric Agathe. I'm entertaining him as a favor to Byerly. The rest are from a friends in Antiva, Ostwick, and so on. I've a fine friend in Rialto who's sent the best of my silks. That red kerchief in the top tray, for example."
A sip from her cup. A quirked eyebrow—
"There's a ledger in the bottom on the left hand side. But if you're looking for something pointy, try between the coat and the skirts."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-17 10:50 pm (UTC)Richard sinks into a crouch, empty cup set at the corner of the open trunk, with both hands aligned across opposite edges to level his balance on the balls of his feet. There he has a better view of the packeted letters in question, with their color-coded cords -- he shifts a tray carefully to one side, with a sidelong look to Fitcher at her perch after he does so, measuring her comfort level against his progress.
This is an unorthodox rendezvous, even for him.
Once he’s cleared the way, he reaches in as directed, with passing care taken to feel along the inside panel for wires and switches on the way. It’s a subtle endeavor -- a few fine plucks of tension through the back of his wrist, until he shifts the coat to feel under it.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 12:04 am (UTC)Wires and switches, no. All manner of personal odds and ends, lace edged or otherwise, yes. But under the coat lies a slim hard case with little metal latches, and in the case set in its padded interior are a series of fine old tools: a set of files, a series of lock picks, sharp nosed pliers and a polished hand mirror, a few bobbins of thread and neatly organized spools of wire and - significantly, in the vein of points - stitching needles of various gauges.
From her chair, Fitcher finishes her cup and sets it aside.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 12:30 am (UTC)His thumb finds the case; he prizes it just open without drawing it out of its nest, until he’s caught a glint of the steel inside. Then it’s both hands all the way in, the case cradled in one while he keeps the lid open with the other.
He takes inventory in silence, the fuzzy lines around his mouth set in grim with recognition. She’ll see the subtle switch of him closing it again, and the more distinct motion involved in him tucking it away. Right where he found it, noscope 360 while he’s preoccupied.
Thinking.
“I am a Rifter.”
This, he assures when he finally looks back over to her. Still crouched.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 12:47 am (UTC)All light, as if he's said something funny— "I noticed."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 01:19 am (UTC)His cup is empty.
So he reaches for that first, on his way to standing. He’s halfway through closing the trunk lid when he sees the letters with the blue cord, and raises it again to collect them before closing it properly. And back to the table he goes, letters deposited ahead of his reach for the bottle.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 01:55 am (UTC)"Old habits," she says.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 05:13 am (UTC)Richard busies himself, and his contribution to the conversation falls into foley work -- the nudge and rustle of letters further from the edge of the table, the slosh of whiskey across the bottom of his cup, and the thunk of the bottle. He draws out a chair and takes a seat, not looking back at her and her hand-to-cheek until he’s mostly settled, still adjusting skinny seat to skinny seat.
There’s no outward change; he’s as mild now as he was upon his initial arrival. His eyes are kind, his nose defines his bony face, and his whiskers are closely kempt.
“My name is Silas.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 06:09 am (UTC)"Not Dick Dickerson? I'm gutted."
There is some sense of unraveling as her elbow draws from the chair back, as her cheek comes up out of her palm and she reorients - a certain opaque layer of put on guile peeling backward in favor of a broader flashing smile, crinkling wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. It's a rather genuine sort of pleasure. She offers him her long hand.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Silas."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 05:32 pm (UTC)“And yours. Sorry to disappoint.”
He releases it back to her, his own smile barely there opposite hers over the edge of his cup -- inward facing, and dry.
“I’m confident the legend of Dick Dickerson will live on in the hearts and minds of Riftwatch long after I’ve returned to the Fade."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 05:59 pm (UTC)"Undoubtedly. We keep such thorough records," she says, all dry humor even as the pipe is set back between her teeth. Mumbling conversarionally past it, her hands both compelled now to the activity of gathering the loose deck of cards— "Why the charade? You are a Rifter."
Does Loxley know?
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 06:15 pm (UTC)He will assist in clearing the table upon seeing her gathering, letters parceled up in the soft hide that previously transported her knife, and dropped aside, bottle plugged.
“It took some study for me to be sure this was a different plane and not simply a different continent.”
Loxley might know, or might not. He exaggerates the mystery with a mugging look as he sweeps a few errant ram hairs off the table’s edge, woOOoOoo.
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