[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]

That little piece of intelligence is enough to gain back Loxley's attention -- less so for the content itself so much as mild surprise that Richard thought to share it at all. And then he watches Richard get ready for bed and unease settles in him. Less out of a true worry that he would wake up with a knife to his throat (or fail to wake up at all) and more just.

A visceral dislike at the notion of lying awake in the dark, stewing in as yet unasked questions, hurt feelings, and so on and so forth. Definitely not sleeping any time soon.

He stands up, and takes up the bottle of firmly closed ale.

"I'm going for a walk," he announces. It's not a lie. That's exactly as far as he's planned as to what he will do once he's out the door. There is the dim thought he might write down a list of questions so he doesn't accidentally forget them the next time they talk and he becomes angered at any point, but.

The night is young.

[nonvenomous]

Richard looks back at the sound of the bottle leaving the table -- too natural a progression to evoke surprise. He drops the dead weight of his jacket over the back of his desk chair and nods, acknowledgement well short of permission. He’s not that bold.

But the night isn’t that young, either.

Anything he could say about safety would sound contrite; he leaves it at silence and a lingering look, waiting for Loxley to cross the threshold into the hallway to sweep a glance around their shared quarters.

This is probably fine.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley leaves. He leaves behind his weapons, the tangle of rapier and daggers lying a little carelessly on the table as opposed to securely stowed into the chest at the end of his bed, or within arms reach just beneath it. He leaves behind his coat, too, with its leather panels and battle scars.

The night isn't that young and there are no ferries out from the Gallows for the rest of the evening, so it'd be hard for Loxley to get into an excess of trouble.

The door is closed, and stays that way until the morning.