[OPEN]

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Richard Dickerson, Ellis, YOU?
WHAT: Dirty jobs + some closed starters + catch all.
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Docks/Lowtown/Gallows/Wildcard
NOTES: Additional starters pending. Action spam and prose are both fine.

Blending in if at the Viscount’s Head Tavern

Alternatively:

Scouting with or bothering him while he’s at Any Other Tavern

Richard has brought his journal with him, as if he expected to be here alone. The fact that he isn’t here alone has not deterred him from opening it and getting to work -- short, sharp strokes of ink on the paper at the point of his quill.

The tavern is as noisy as it smells like it should be, crowded, sticky tables and the stink of salt in the air.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asks, without glancing up from his work.

This doesn’t have to be awkward. If nothing else, the rate at which they’re drinking to keep pace with the local color should see to that.


Wildcard

Throw us somewhere or HMU and we can brainstorm.

Comments

[charmoffensive]

Eventually, the peaceful silence gives way to footfalls loud on wooden flooring, and the scrape of a key in the lock of their room. On the field, Richard knows Loxley to be quiet when he wants to be, not just lightfooted but in the silent and patient care he takes with a troublesome lock. Existing in the same living space gives him new insights into how he conducts himself when their lives aren't actively imperiled.

The door swings open. It's been raining for much of the evening, but most of it had slid right off treated leather by the time Loxley enters the room. Careless noise aside, he is returning sober -- a dark ferry ride in this weather will have a bracing effect even if he had been drinking -- and in decent, if weary spirits.

"One day," he says, upon spotting Richard by the table, "I'm going to open the door to riotous revelry. Or perhaps a dead body, throat sliced open, that we'll need to dispose of in the harbour."

He sets about shucking off his coat.

"Just for a change of pace."

[nonvenomous]

What Loxley opens the door to is the sight of Richard sizing him up immediately for sobriety from his seat at the table. When the score there is higher than expected, he performs a second sweep -- more comprehensive.

Checking for injuries.

“You won’t.”

For Dick’s part, he’s dressed down for the hour, book closed and placed aside. His jacket is open over a loose tunic, and he looks leaner than is typical without benefit of the usual armor or cloak to bulk out his frame. He is not wearing shoes.

Something stopped him when he was nearly ready for bed, and sat him down at this table instead. His head turns to follow Loxley’s shucking.

“I need to speak to you.”

[charmoffensive]

The sound Loxley makes in response to this first bit has a bit of a never say never tone to it, hanging up his coat. Unbuckling his belt and the heavy blade that hangs from it, which he gathers in a bundle around when Richard states that this evening has more structure in it than Loxley's own plans of light chattery en route to bed.

There are no visible injuries, but there's a little caution in his movements for what is likely to be a stock standard bruising beneath his light leathers. He sits, and stiffly crosses an ankle over his knee so as best to unbuckle the sheathed dagger strapped there.

"That sounds ominous," he says. "If it's that any of our party members have arrived, tell me in the morning, if you'd be so kind."

[nonvenomous]

“It was intended to.”

For all that his expression is impossible to read, he makes clear note of the dagger Loxley is working to unfasten at his ankle. His eyes are clear, and kind more by virtue of the spark and color than they are the crow’s feet that frame them.

There is bruising, also -- a few scrapes still healing over from a recent scrap in Lowtown. Nothing new, or surprising.

“I’ve been lying to you,” he says, once he’s looked up again. “My name isn’t Richard Dickerson.”

[charmoffensive]

Leather slithers out from buckle and Loxley looks up at Richard, a pause before he goes and sets his dagger down on the table next to the tangle of belt and sword. Incidentally, this is how negotiations are conducted in the underworld -- at least, the corners of the underworld that are simpler and governed by blades.

But there's the beginnings of a smile on Loxley's face as he says, "But it's such a strong name," before he decides that Richard isn't fucking with him, and the humour is shortlived. "What is it, then?"

[nonvenomous]

“I know,” Richard waits for Loxley to settle his dagger before he reaches to lift the ale between them by the neck, “that’s why I chose it.” He twists out the cork, and chokes up on the bottle to pour himself a cup.

“My name is Zseiless.”

None of the sibilants are silent.

[charmoffensive]

Concealing names isn't, in Loxley's books, such a terrible thing. That he adopted a new one and has used it ever since doesn't feel like deceit, and Richard's ties to the underworld might nudge his imagination in that direction. There are a great many reasons one might assume a different identity.

That's a weird name, though.

"Zseiless," he repeats. There is a wariness thrummed through his manner, now, but more bracing for impact of more information. "That's unique."

[nonvenomous]

Dick sets the bottle back between them, within Loxley’s reach. He places the cork down after it, eye contact cool and direct.

“It’s a Yuan-ti name.”

And so not very unique at all, actually.

“Snake people,” he adds helpfully, just in case.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley takes the bottle of ale, pouring his own glass. That there is no strong reaction immediately means that he has to make a History check think to what he's ever heard of Yuan-ti, about 'snake people', but--

"You're not human," he concludes, but says it a little like he's testing to see if he's got the wrong end of the stick, here. Maybe he was raised by snake people.

[nonvenomous]

Good.

Richard watches him pour.

“No more than you are Qunari.”

Cheers. He drinks to that while Loxley still has a hand on the bottle. Regret bites into the grim lines around his mouth as he swallows, too tired and too personal to read performative. Loxley of Loxley’s low insight tends to be very forgiving, anyway.

“I was directed to report on the movements of your party after the incident in Phandalin.”

[charmoffensive]

Silently, Loxley is busy re-calibrating to account for hidden racial identities and it goes a little something like: it's understandable, what with the political climate, to masquerade as something you're not, something human, especially something that the basic bitches of the world could consider dragonish, but isn't it a little hurtful that Richard, or Zseiless, never at least told them or told him that he isn't--

"What," he says out loud, and now a flash of irritation, although he couldn't say what it's directed at. "I mean, we know you were working for the Guild. You were reporting on us to the Guild."

[nonvenomous]

“I did draft a report for the Guild.” Dick squares his cup back down to the table, close to the bottle, where it’s unlikely to tip over in the event of a sudden scramble.

“But I was in Qamrah because I was told your party might be problematic for the Yuan-ti empire.” Beyond his careful maneuvering of the cup, he does not seem to acknowledge irritation in any form. His regard is mild, and his affect reasonable. Maybe he didn’t notice. “I was reporting on you to my people.”

[charmoffensive]

Objectively, Loxley might think that if Richard intended him physical harm, he wouldn't bother with a supervillain reveal beforehand. Subjectively, negative wisdom modifiers don't equate to having zero subliminal instinct. As Richard low key prepares for the possibility of a sudden scramble, Loxley likewise seems to tense.

And while there's no glancing to his weapons on the table or evaluation as to whether Richard is armed, he's ignoring his own ale.

"How are we problematic for the Yuan-ti empire," is his question that is not tonally pitched like a question but is a question. "What did you tell them."

[nonvenomous]

Richard finds and turns the cork over to square it under his fingers, side to top, top to side, side to bottom. His left hand has receded from the table edge to rest lax in his lap. Were he to have a dagger on him, it’d be hard for him to get ahold of with speed. His jacket is loose, his belt is at the foot of the cot behind him. His ankles are bare.

“I didn’t ask,” sounds very stupid, for a human to say. “But I have suspicions.”

Matter-of-fact.

There is a little snake curved around the back of his neck, snuggled in beneath the flip of his collar. Occasionally the flick of its needle tongue breaches the shadows, there.

“Initially I only reported the party’s movements across Promias, with the expectation that we would proceed directly south to the temple on the Sultana’s orders. I stopped reporting after that, and was approached by an Anathema in The Cruxal who wanted to know what we were doing there.”

[charmoffensive]

"And you told the-- you told it what?"

Quicker off the mark to ask, this time, acclimatising to the new reality, if still at a remove, still a little abstracted. There is impatience for what he doesn't yet know, which apparently, is a fuckload!, including what questions are best to ask. So Loxley presses the story to continue and maintains eye contact.

Well. He glances at the snake.

[nonvenomous]

“I told her we were researching the temple dragon so that we’d be better equipped to slay it.”

Easy question.

He stops his cork on its edge mid-turn, and waits for the next one.

[charmoffensive]

Now there's a silence, Loxley staring at the other man across the table. Slowly does it, his hand reaches for his ale, and he says, "And fortunately, you're a good liar."

He swallows some ale. He doesn't appear to enjoy it very much.

[nonvenomous]

Richard's smile for that is thin, tired lines pulled tight at the corners of his eyes. Still. There’s an affable slant to his brows that betrays tolerance rooted in affection -- more often it’s a sentiment reserved for Loxley’s reluctance to steal, or proclivity for taking jobs that sound chivalrous but don’t pay well.

Here it might be a little condescending, if not outright poisonous.

“Most of us are.” Goes with the territory. “It was borderline miraculous that I survived."

[charmoffensive]

Loxley isn't smiling, all simmering distrust across the table. Being not entirely stupid, he can process the implications laced in Richard's words. The absence of reporting. The lying, allegedly at great personal cost.

It also annoys him that he believes him, strangely. Like that amount of trust is what betrayed him in the first place.

And so, in turn, he is slow to trust that instinct.

"You're telling me now," he says, "here. Where it doesn't matter."

[nonvenomous]

The smile fades, slowly and naturally under the weight of the subject matter. There’s nothing for him to gloat over. Frankly the level of cowardice on display here is staggering: all of this ceased to matter months ago.

Shame, sorrow or reflection should all drive his gaze down, or away.

He stays on target, the cork rolled up over his thumb.

“Yes.”

[charmoffensive]

If Loxley still had a tail, it'd be lashing to and fro.

Great. Good. As long as we're agreed. It also means that any urgent questions he might have had, with regards to their mission, their party members, dragons and impending doom, are disappearing into obscurity, if not yet all the way gone. If they get back home with all memories intact, then perhaps he can ask them there.

It feels desperately unlikely. Tonight, anyway.

"Why?"

Because mattering is a two way street.

[nonvenomous]

In isolation like this and without any daggers in play, Richard explores the luxury of not needing to answer immediately. The snake gathered up under his collar has grown very still, her tail snuggled in tight and her tongue stowed.

“Because I don’t want to lie to you about it anymore.”

This feels true. Or at least, earnest.

But there’s a glimpse of something more shrewdly mathematical in a slanting glance aside, between thoughts. He is confident that Loxley won’t leave, or make an announcement about his trustworthiness.

“It might not surprise you to learn that I haven’t had many friends.”

[charmoffensive]

Unhappiness settles sullen along Loxley's narrow shoulders and it's likely a testament to the vital span of months and weeks they've spent together, in and out of Thedas, that he refrains from rolling his eyes. Or a number of other more proportionate, more passionate reactions available to him.

He drinks from his ale again, and sets it back down.

"I was christened 'Chivalry'," he volunteers, apropos of being unable to pick another thing to say out of all the competing things to say. There's a little bit of whimsy in the impulse to share, given the circumstance, but that leaves his tone quickly enough. "Chiv, for short. I didn't know what the long version meant, when I was small, and I asked one of the minders about it."

He tips his cup a little in gesture. He hasn't actually looked up, since looking down. "I think she tried to explain, but I mustn't have grasped it, because she had me read these stories instead, about this-- ever so dashing prince who would disguise himself and mingle around the common folk, doing good things, saving lives, and such. I suppose you could say it left an impression, although there are times it feels a little like a bad joke.

"Do you wish to be called Zseiless?"

[nonvenomous]

It’s Richard’s turn to drink, through Loxley’s unhappiness and through his story, ale swallowed down in a bolt that will take too long to bleed through his system. Sobriety was the safer -- if exponentially more uncomfortable -- bet, and even as he drinks, he’s keeping a weather eye.

Something recedes behind it at the question, the octopus press of his engagement peeling itself carefully back off the porthole glass. The pause it gives him is distinct. Also brief.

“A challenging name to live up to,” he says.

“It suits you.”

Reassuring. He takes another drink, little left to swirl in the bottom. There is unfulfilled momentum subtle in its tilt away from the table -- trace evidence of an attempted departure controlled and aborted very early in its inception.

“You can call me Richard. It’s what I deserve.” There’s the smile again. Please release him.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley mirrors Richard on a delay but down the rest of his ale in doing so, a couple of gulps of borderline too-bitter liquid that has him grimacing by the time he's done. Where is usually neutral to glad for flattery, he seems to lean back from it now, gaze averted and wandering off.

For the same reason, he doesn't seek out answers to questions like, 'would you have told us, eventually?' He doesn't want to hear it, when it's not going to help anything.

"Is there anything else I should know?"