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.
You slippery bastard, she does not say though the amused glimmer of it is in the flash of Fitcher's eye and the arch of her eyebrow. She squares the reassembled deck with a brisk rap on the table, then begins shuffling.
"Concerned your world ending employers might catch up with you?"
The cards arc and bow under her agile fingers, well worn suites flashing in the room's low lamplight.
“Maintaining appearances.” Should he be caught up with -- a lean sees the bottle placed down near the parcel. It hardly matters now, per a slant at his brows while he watches the cards flash through her fingers. “Not that I'd call it a wasted effort.
“No one overestimates a man named Richard Dickerson.”
"Next you'll tell me you're not really an accountant."
Tap. The deck is squared once more, then subsequently dealt. The game itself - some simple affair involving the collection and matching of suits - is unimportant.
He catches up the cards as they’re dealt, at odds with certain conventions about that sort of thing, but doesn’t check them until she has her full hand as well. And he’ll play with her a while in as much quiet as the game allows for, sporting about his level of effort, in much the same way he’s been about collecting paper for an ant, or building a chicken coop.
She plays in turn, with answering skill - good, but not too good. Making mistakes, but not too many.
"I liked race horses as a girl. Livestock is a popular trade in Antiva. But cards? Not until later. I find they're a pleasant way of getting to know people."
A card is turned, some combination of plays activated through it.
“It’s an expensive way of getting to know people.” At times coupled with the threat of aggressive pursuit, as was their recent experience, insinuated with a glance as he folds, or mucks, or discards his hand face down, conceding victory, and only a little skeptical. He has a bottle to place back up on the table, and a cup of whiskey to finish before he can stage an exit.
He flops the parcel of letters up last, and only after he’s pushed his cards across the table for her to take, in no rush to bolt down the near full finger he has left.
“I take it you resolved matters with your friend in the green vest."
She hums in affirmation around the pipe's stem, sweeping up the cards in broad strokes.
"For the present." She shoots him a sidelong glance. And just like there, the easy quality of her attention has drifted back toward something sharper and more pointed once again. A bright flicker. Her curving smile is put on and she knows that is looks that way.
With a huff of exhaled smoke, with the cards folded back into a deck, she frees the pipe from between her teeth. A cap is fetched from her pocket; the burning ember in the bowl is smothered under it.
"I really do apologize for Barrow. He means well."
It’s easy to find his eyes, sidelong or otherwise.
There’s nothing especially sharp or pointed about him in return, past hard creases and silver flash. He has an easier time relaxing than he has a right to, in a world without real stakes, and he’s more comfortable now than he was when he first went spelunking in her luggage, having had plenty of time with his own thoughts between hands.
“That must be gratifying for him.”
...is a little mean. He drinks.
“I gave him an opportunity and he held back,” he notes, more kindly. “I’m not concerned.”
Poor Barrow. So free of firm convictions and so burdened by the expectation that he have them. No, she guesses. Richard - or Silas, or whatever he's to be called - has very little to be worried about.
She taps the pipe on the table. It makes a sturdy clicking sound as she studies him, and is easily and thoughtlessly discarded.
"I'm retired," she says. "As much as is allowed with these things. Unless Yseult asks, of course."
Imagine retirement. Richard does, briefly distant, his brows at an awkward slant.
“I was arrogant enough to make an attempt.” Here, he means.
It was obviously short-lived, with Serrah Richard Dickerson now filed neatly under the Research designation. He’s zeroed back in on her, a little dead behind the eyes with rue at his own expense. This particular failure hasn’t been as easy to swallow as some of the others.
But that’s life as an alien two societies deep.
He says, “Congratulations,” with an appropriate amount of respect for the accomplishment it represents. He’ll even drink to it, polishing off the dregs and smoothing his whiskers. Idle with the empty cup a moment, while he watches her. “She isn't lacking for incentive.”
Her smile flickers briefly crooked, something very like sympathy lurking momentarily in her expression. Not for him, not strictly. But maybe for Yseult if what she says after is any indication: "I don't envy her. She's fallen into a truly strange position. Even worse, I think she feels some obligation to it."
(Privately, she thinks how strange it is to regret a lie so soon after telling it.)
"Though I suppose most of us do. Even you." She nods to his hand. "Still, Andraste preserve her—I'd rather jump off a tower than be ringmaster of this circus."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 06:31 pm (UTC)"Concerned your world ending employers might catch up with you?"
The cards arc and bow under her agile fingers, well worn suites flashing in the room's low lamplight.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 07:05 pm (UTC)“No one overestimates a man named Richard Dickerson.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 09:14 pm (UTC)Tap. The deck is squared once more, then subsequently dealt. The game itself - some simple affair involving the collection and matching of suits - is unimportant.
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 10:02 pm (UTC)He catches up the cards as they’re dealt, at odds with certain conventions about that sort of thing, but doesn’t check them until she has her full hand as well. And he’ll play with her a while in as much quiet as the game allows for, sporting about his level of effort, in much the same way he’s been about collecting paper for an ant, or building a chicken coop.
“When did you get into gambling?”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 10:31 pm (UTC)"I liked race horses as a girl. Livestock is a popular trade in Antiva. But cards? Not until later. I find they're a pleasant way of getting to know people."
A card is turned, some combination of plays activated through it.
"For better or worse, as you know."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 02:19 am (UTC)“It’s an expensive way of getting to know people.” At times coupled with the threat of aggressive pursuit, as was their recent experience, insinuated with a glance as he folds, or mucks, or discards his hand face down, conceding victory, and only a little skeptical. He has a bottle to place back up on the table, and a cup of whiskey to finish before he can stage an exit.
He flops the parcel of letters up last, and only after he’s pushed his cards across the table for her to take, in no rush to bolt down the near full finger he has left.
“I take it you resolved matters with your friend in the green vest."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 02:51 am (UTC)"For the present." She shoots him a sidelong glance. And just like there, the easy quality of her attention has drifted back toward something sharper and more pointed once again. A bright flicker. Her curving smile is put on and she knows that is looks that way.
With a huff of exhaled smoke, with the cards folded back into a deck, she frees the pipe from between her teeth. A cap is fetched from her pocket; the burning ember in the bowl is smothered under it.
"I really do apologize for Barrow. He means well."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 03:32 am (UTC)There’s nothing especially sharp or pointed about him in return, past hard creases and silver flash. He has an easier time relaxing than he has a right to, in a world without real stakes, and he’s more comfortable now than he was when he first went spelunking in her luggage, having had plenty of time with his own thoughts between hands.
“That must be gratifying for him.”
...is a little mean. He drinks.
“I gave him an opportunity and he held back,” he notes, more kindly. “I’m not concerned.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 04:12 am (UTC)She taps the pipe on the table. It makes a sturdy clicking sound as she studies him, and is easily and thoughtlessly discarded.
"I'm retired," she says. "As much as is allowed with these things. Unless Yseult asks, of course."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 05:15 am (UTC)“I was arrogant enough to make an attempt.” Here, he means.
It was obviously short-lived, with Serrah Richard Dickerson now filed neatly under the Research designation. He’s zeroed back in on her, a little dead behind the eyes with rue at his own expense. This particular failure hasn’t been as easy to swallow as some of the others.
But that’s life as an alien two societies deep.
He says, “Congratulations,” with an appropriate amount of respect for the accomplishment it represents. He’ll even drink to it, polishing off the dregs and smoothing his whiskers. Idle with the empty cup a moment, while he watches her. “She isn't lacking for incentive.”
no subject
Date: 2020-10-19 05:55 am (UTC)(Privately, she thinks how strange it is to regret a lie so soon after telling it.)
"Though I suppose most of us do. Even you." She nods to his hand. "Still, Andraste preserve her—I'd rather jump off a tower than be ringmaster of this circus."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From: