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.
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 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."