[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

[nonvenomous]

Richard stands and is wrapped like a terrier unhappy about being helped into a sweater, civil disobedience more of a statement than a real barrier for capable hands. He is fully aware of how physically outmatched he is, for the second time this evening.

Ellis had stepped over his bag. Now Dick nods to it in the dark, everything he’s collected so far offered out to place inside.

“If we get a room here, I can take care of it.”

He sounds very confident.

[heorte]

Ellis, on the other hand, is absolutely not confident.

"If it's punctured something inside, it'll need more than bandaging."

There's nothing in his tone that suggests he plans on humoring this request to get a room in Lowtown and watch Richard bleed to death. He does acquiesce to the nod, momentarily yielding his grip on Richard to stoop to sweep the assortment of items into the bag as briskly as possible. He does make some effort not to look closely at what he's handling, as if that'll make Richard feel less aggrieved about this entire affair.

[nonvenomous]

Wet papers, wet books, a ruler -- there’s nothing embarrassing for Ellis to avert his gaze from, at a glance. Richard assists with dumping what he’s picked up himself into his satchel, the leather already heavy with the sludge it’s soaked up from the street.

“I told you before that I’m a healer.”

His eyes stand out bright against the muck and blood, brighter now for the pushback Ellis is putting up -- remnant adrenaline buzzing hot through a crack in the embarrassment and contrition that has him so haggard. As warnings go, the tension in his tone is very polite. It is also tough to translate, beyond the universal language of certain looks and postures telegraphing a man’s intent to get stubborn about this.

He stifles another shiver behind grit teeth.

[heorte]

"You've been stabbed in the back."

There's an element of genuine confusion in that frustrated retort.

"I am a fair hand with bandages and I heed instruction well, but even the best healers need help with something out of their eyeline."

[nonvenomous]

There’s a certain centering of tension in the core that bunches up to ready for fight or flight. Poked and soaked, Richard’s composure is further shot through with cracks under the pressure of this debate, glassy brittle. It’s briefly clear in the tilt of his crusty jaw that he is considering trying to run away like a jackass.

But he hasn’t made the move. Yet.

“This is Kirkwall.”

Right?

He looks to Ellis for confirmation, only for it to immediately occur to him that he can peel up the edge of one of his gloves and grimace down at the splinter of green light beneath, like he’s checking the time.