WHO: Tony Stark, Joselyn Smythe, Richard Dickerson, Wysteria Poppell, Vanadi de Vadarta WHAT: A group of nerds and one cool elf investigate some strange reports coming out of a Free Marches village. WHEN: Second week of August. WHERE: Free Marches NOTES: TBA.
He casts a glance upward and has to admit, yes, he does resent them a bit for their unfamiliar shapes. He'd just not though to complain about it before.
"Mm. I can't say I'm fond of their take on elves." His eyes shift from sky to Richard. "Was there any particular attitude toward them in your world?"
“Nothing that comes close to what the elves here have experienced.”
There’s a felled log within the ring of the fire’s glow. Dick crosses behind the flames to take up a seat near its center, hands laced loose between his knees.
“Humans outnumber most of the other races two to one, but half-elves are common, and racial subjugation was virtually unheard of before the Sultana started hanging dragonborn.” He has a plain way of speaking, to the point. “Some of the same slurs exist. One of my companions set a shop on fire after the owner called him ‘knife ear.’”
Well, they have something called dragonborn, which he hasn't heard of here, so that's one more similarity. And a way of speaking passionlessly on mass hangings, but he supposes one might pick that up anywhere.
"Well done to your companion," he says, though he can't say he's ever felt moved to set anything on fire after a mild insult. You've got to appreciate spirit, though.
He's quiet for a moment, and the only sounds are the dubiously relaxing sounds of the strange life around them. In a moment more, though, he adds, "Did the witch give you the snake, too?"
It resulted in them being wanted throughout the local stretch of the empire. As a creature sharing scales in common with the source of the Sultana’s ire, Dick had not been amused.
Now he is content to let the chirr of insects and the occasional disembodied peep of a gecko fill the silence that settles between them, until Vanadi breaks it. Underlit by the low lick of the fire as he is, it’s clear he’s doing a better job of watching an elf than he is the surrounding countryside.
The camp will have to go unguarded for a few seconds, as Vanadi's gaze cuts away from the dark and toward his companion. It's gone a little teasing, with a sharp smile that's been hardly seen at all on this trip.
"In a manner of speaking is no kind of answer at all, Richard Dickerson."
Ridiculous names aside, he hasn't been away from courtly intrigue and drama for that long; he knows a half-told truth when he hears one.
Richard al-most smiles at the sound of his full name, a wry crook at the corner of his mouth tough to resist for the very good joke he’s made at humanity’s expense. It’s clear he’s ceded the point before it fades, but he doesn’t answer immediately, leaning back instead to bring a dry log up from behind his seat.
“She was given to me by a handler as a means of staying in contact.”
He drops the log on the fire.
As it settles, a beetle burrowed into the bark pops in a spit of steam and with a whistle that probably only coincidentally sounds like the scream of a very, very tiny human. Dick doesn’t seem to notice, or chooses not to, affect returned to its default flatline.
That wry crook of Richard's mouth feels like a victory, and Vanadi is happy to take it. It doesn't bother him that the real answer only leads to more questions; you've got to start somewhere.
He spends a brief moment contemplating which races he might know would have a vested interest in seeming human, but that tiny hissing nearly-a-scream shakes him out of it. They're keeping watch for a reason. He returns his gaze dutifully to the foliage around them.
"A cultist," he says, because one dash of honesty deserves another. It's not a truth he's told very much -- or ever, really. "That is, if you mean the one across my nose. I've quite a few, take your pick."
“That is the one that I meant,” Dickerson assures, after a quick and uncertain perusal of his memory for any others of equal prominence or greater scandal he might have seen and somehow forgotten since they’ve been here. More direct to the point, he wastes no time asking:
“What kind of cultist?”
Pop, hiss, a shrill, protracted scream, almost outside the threshold for hearing. He nudges the log into a roll with his boot, and the sound muffles and truncates with a second pop.
It was an unfair question, Vanadi doesn't tend to display much skin — and really the only other scar that promises some juicy tale is the one dragged across his neck by a jagged blade, and he is so very careful with his high necklines. Maybe it was an attempt to distract. The topic is a splinter driven under his casual veneer, and that second little scream gets a flinch from him.
He clears his throat and resettles, as if that's all the flinch was, and his tone has a practiced airiness to it. "The kind which dies disappointed," he says. And then, a little less airy, "Your handler isn't here, I take it."
They have an affinity for high collars and long sleeves in common. That Richard is slightly more free about limiting layers to one or two is a natural byproduct of his having been here nearly a year, and human in every meaningful sense of the word.
He marks that flinch with a close eye, measuring for affectation the way he’d inspect a chest in a dungeon for signs that it might be breathing: at a distance, and with intensity.
It’s odd. But Dick is an odd person.
“No,” he says, once he’s reasonably certain he’s not staring down another snake. “Fortunately.”
He's not sure what to make of the close scrutiny, but bears it without complaint. It's related somehow — and maybe it doesn't look so very different from his own, when he's carefully weighing the pros and cons of some tiny measure of extended trust.
The eventual answer quirks half his mouth into a smile. Fortunately is relatable. Maybe that's what makes him reckless with his own response.
"Nor mine," he says, and runs a hand through his hair as the quirked smile widens to a quick grin. "A bit freeing, isn't it?"
Even with that initial read complete, Richard remains watchful, arm’s length deliberately imposed in the lack of any immediate reaction, for that grin, or hand through hair. There’s a hint of a defensive brace to his shoulders, his eyes and the lick of firelight off his shirt the only bright spots about him, as he peers out at Vanadi from beneath the log of his better judgment.
“A bit.”
He is too freshly awake, and possibly too sober for this.
And just as quickly the grin is gone, dropped away into wariness and defensive edges. He flicks a glance toward the small handful of sleeping forms, then back to Richard.
"Why?" asked carefully, but with less of the sharp alert his bearing is going on about.
"Not -- " Richard closes his eyes, "these people specifically -- most of the other Rifters can be trusted to keep a secret. But the natives have their own priorities and prejudices.
"Most of them don’t care for elves, and they prefer to keep their magic users locked away in towers."
He pauses, as if waiting for some kind of follow-up worse news. He's a creature made entirely of suspicion and wariness lately, and those were among the first lessons learned here.
"Yes, of course," he says, head tipped just slightly. "I've picked up on that. Is there anything else you'd have me bear in mind? I should find it very useful, for example, if you happened to have a handbook of the most likely to plant a knife in your back."
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faderift2020-08-04 09:35 pm
no subject
He meant what he said. Only just now.
“I still don’t like the stars,” smattered as they are across the night sky, in unfamiliar constellations, “or the clergy.”
no subject
"Mm. I can't say I'm fond of their take on elves." His eyes shift from sky to Richard. "Was there any particular attitude toward them in your world?"
no subject
There’s a felled log within the ring of the fire’s glow. Dick crosses behind the flames to take up a seat near its center, hands laced loose between his knees.
“Humans outnumber most of the other races two to one, but half-elves are common, and racial subjugation was virtually unheard of before the Sultana started hanging dragonborn.” He has a plain way of speaking, to the point. “Some of the same slurs exist. One of my companions set a shop on fire after the owner called him ‘knife ear.’”
no subject
"Well done to your companion," he says, though he can't say he's ever felt moved to set anything on fire after a mild insult. You've got to appreciate spirit, though.
He's quiet for a moment, and the only sounds are the dubiously relaxing sounds of the strange life around them. In a moment more, though, he adds, "Did the witch give you the snake, too?"
no subject
Now he is content to let the chirr of insects and the occasional disembodied peep of a gecko fill the silence that settles between them, until Vanadi breaks it. Underlit by the low lick of the fire as he is, it’s clear he’s doing a better job of watching an elf than he is the surrounding countryside.
“In a manner of speaking.”
no subject
"In a manner of speaking is no kind of answer at all, Richard Dickerson."
Ridiculous names aside, he hasn't been away from courtly intrigue and drama for that long; he knows a half-told truth when he hears one.
no subject
“She was given to me by a handler as a means of staying in contact.”
He drops the log on the fire.
As it settles, a beetle burrowed into the bark pops in a spit of steam and with a whistle that probably only coincidentally sounds like the scream of a very, very tiny human. Dick doesn’t seem to notice, or chooses not to, affect returned to its default flatline.
“Who gave you that scar?”
no subject
He spends a brief moment contemplating which races he might know would have a vested interest in seeming human, but that tiny hissing nearly-a-scream shakes him out of it. They're keeping watch for a reason. He returns his gaze dutifully to the foliage around them.
"A cultist," he says, because one dash of honesty deserves another. It's not a truth he's told very much -- or ever, really. "That is, if you mean the one across my nose. I've quite a few, take your pick."
no subject
“What kind of cultist?”
Pop, hiss, a shrill, protracted scream, almost outside the threshold for hearing. He nudges the log into a roll with his boot, and the sound muffles and truncates with a second pop.
no subject
He clears his throat and resettles, as if that's all the flinch was, and his tone has a practiced airiness to it. "The kind which dies disappointed," he says. And then, a little less airy, "Your handler isn't here, I take it."
no subject
He marks that flinch with a close eye, measuring for affectation the way he’d inspect a chest in a dungeon for signs that it might be breathing: at a distance, and with intensity.
It’s odd. But Dick is an odd person.
“No,” he says, once he’s reasonably certain he’s not staring down another snake. “Fortunately.”
no subject
The eventual answer quirks half his mouth into a smile. Fortunately is relatable. Maybe that's what makes him reckless with his own response.
"Nor mine," he says, and runs a hand through his hair as the quirked smile widens to a quick grin. "A bit freeing, isn't it?"
no subject
“A bit.”
He is too freshly awake, and possibly too sober for this.
“Be careful of what you tell these people.”
no subject
"Why?" asked carefully, but with less of the sharp alert his bearing is going on about.
no subject
"Most of them don’t care for elves, and they prefer to keep their magic users locked away in towers."
no subject
"Yes, of course," he says, head tipped just slightly. "I've picked up on that. Is there anything else you'd have me bear in mind? I should find it very useful, for example, if you happened to have a handbook of the most likely to plant a knife in your back."