WHO: Adrasteia, Erik, other folks. WHAT: It's an open log WHEN: Mid to late Guardian WHERE: Kirkwall, &c. NOTES: Erik curses. That's about it. Open starters in threads.
Even in libraries, different types of creatures come crawling at night.
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
Oh hey. It's that guy, is what Erik thinks once he places the posture and the body language. It does take him a moment, though, mostly because the books are in the way until they're haphazardly set down on the table over there.
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
Recognition reflected back in equal measure gives Richard a beat’s pause -- his nod comes a little too late for to pass for casual acknowledgement.
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
"Mister Silas. Since we're mister-ing, I guess." Erik gives a haphazard sort of shrug. He notices the smell, and the general look about the man. Someone is not having a good time of things, he thinks.
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
“Force of habit,” says Richard, as he lifts the little snake and deposits her at his collar, “I’m taken to understand most of Miss Poppell’s circle prefers formal designation.”
He is here to return these books -- the quickest way to escape a potentially awkward conversation is to complete that task as efficiently as possible. So he begins, reasonably, by separating tomes off the top of the pile into smaller stacks by subject matter.
"I wouldn't consider myself part of her circle, to be honest." Doing one project together barely makes them coworkers, much less whatever being part of someone's circle implies beyond that. "But you're not the first one to tack a mister onto my name, and I doubt you'll be the last here."
Better than Tony calling him 'Steven', at the very least.
"Having an easier time of it than some people, I'd gather. Would ask if you're doing okay, but..." But he's clearly doing something, and okay is not what Erik would call it. "How long you been here, in Thedas?"
“It’s not a bad circle to be in, provided you prefer listening to speaking.” Whatever that means.
He doesn’t elaborate, and he definitely doesn’t acknowledge the suggestion that he is anything but fine.
There is a stack of books on mages, and one on demons, and one on abominations -- none of them particularly tall. Only so much scientific material is available to the layman in a library like this, and the majority of what he’d borrowed is random, covering everything from dracolisks to religious tradition.
Erik makes a little huff of a laugh at that. Between Wysteria and Tony, he can picture an exact framework in which someone would end up just listening to them go on and on forever. "Dunno if it's for me, but I guess we'll see."
There's an interesting spread of books between them, now that Silas has started organizing them. Erik recognizes the titles on religious traditions and mages, at least, and most of the rest he can sort out based on what he's stacked together.
"Damn." That's a while. Erik scratches at his chin and the beard that is getting a little unruly there. "Did you have the dream the first time it happened too?"
Dick doesn’t have to go far to fit the first few volumes back onto shelves; many of them appear to be housed nearby. Conveniently. It helps that he seems to have the sections mapped out on the underside of his brain, there for easy reference with a pause here or there for ragged, ale-soaked recall.
“The episode during the previous Wintersend?”
That’s the only dream incident that comes to mind for him, after a longer pause for thought, two books in hand. The little grass snake at his collar has slipped almost entirely out of sight beneath it.
“It consisted of a smaller series of incidents that spanned a month or two. I was only very tangentially affected.”
Dude's affinity for, what, familiars or some shit is actually pretty cool, in Erik's consideration, though he keeps being worried that the cat is gonna make a meal out of that garden snake one day. Well. That's not entirely his problem is it?
He dos miss the dog from the dream though. That mabari was pretty fucking cool. Erik picks up a book and scans the shelves before he finds another title by the same author. Does this go here? About to find out.
"I don't know when or what, just that it happened last year. Sister Sawbones told me about it." She'd been pressed as a starched shirt about it too, by his recall, but he'd been worried about brain trauma at the time and hadn't thought much of it.
There’s a blip of uncertainty to him catching it out of the corner of his eye -- a hitch in the process of him shoving one of his own books back up into place. It’s probably fine. Richard is just rotten enough not to trouble himself with checking.
Erik was in here first. Surely he knows what he’s doing.
“Dwarves are naturally incapable of dreaming,” he explains, as he follows it up with book #2. Between them, they’re making quick work of it. “These events tend to be especially unsettling for them.”
Well, it goes there now, and if Erik comes across a librarian or some such lamenting people putting books back in the wrong places, well. He won't stand up and declare himself their enemy or anything.
He presumes librarians are used to that kinda thing, even here.
"Yeah, she mentioned that," it's just real fucking weird, imagining an entire race of people who can't dream. Literally. How do their brains process their shit, he wonders? Be fascinating to see a dwarven brain in a CT scan, but he knows that's not about to happen. "What about where you're from? Prophetic dreams a thing there?"
Returned to the table to sweep up the last three, he pauses to think.
“They are. Gods occasionally use them as a means to impart guidance to a given -- ‘conduit.’” The word ‘cleric’ is so loaded here. He dwells on the nature of his chosen substitute for a beat with books in hand, slow 0with drink, but swift to change the subject once he’s deemed it satisfactory.
“Most of Riftwatch was unhappy to see me in the wilds,” he says. “It was kind of you to speak with me.”
"Huh," is all Erik has to say to that because he's not used to such an easy response that includes god of the multiple varieties. He's not even sure he's a theist, most days, but he believes that there's definitely more than one hand in the pot, all things considered.
People come from all over the fucking place.
He doesn't expect the next thing that Silas says, not even a little bit. Erik blinks, and then shakes his head, shrugging. "I could imagine bein' in your place, easy. Havin' someone to talk to would'a saved my sanity."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
no subject
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
no subject
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
“They haven’t met.”
no subject
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
no subject
He is here to return these books -- the quickest way to escape a potentially awkward conversation is to complete that task as efficiently as possible. So he begins, reasonably, by separating tomes off the top of the pile into smaller stacks by subject matter.
“Silas Atheris.”
Appropriately alliterative, for a villain.
“How are you settling in?”
no subject
Better than Tony calling him 'Steven', at the very least.
"Having an easier time of it than some people, I'd gather. Would ask if you're doing okay, but..." But he's clearly doing something, and okay is not what Erik would call it. "How long you been here, in Thedas?"
no subject
He doesn’t elaborate, and he definitely doesn’t acknowledge the suggestion that he is anything but fine.
There is a stack of books on mages, and one on demons, and one on abominations -- none of them particularly tall. Only so much scientific material is available to the layman in a library like this, and the majority of what he’d borrowed is random, covering everything from dracolisks to religious tradition.
“I’ve been here for a year and a half.”
no subject
There's an interesting spread of books between them, now that Silas has started organizing them. Erik recognizes the titles on religious traditions and mages, at least, and most of the rest he can sort out based on what he's stacked together.
"Damn." That's a while. Erik scratches at his chin and the beard that is getting a little unruly there. "Did you have the dream the first time it happened too?"
no subject
“The episode during the previous Wintersend?”
That’s the only dream incident that comes to mind for him, after a longer pause for thought, two books in hand. The little grass snake at his collar has slipped almost entirely out of sight beneath it.
“It consisted of a smaller series of incidents that spanned a month or two. I was only very tangentially affected.”
no subject
He dos miss the dog from the dream though. That mabari was pretty fucking cool. Erik picks up a book and scans the shelves before he finds another title by the same author. Does this go here? About to find out.
"I don't know when or what, just that it happened last year. Sister Sawbones told me about it." She'd been pressed as a starched shirt about it too, by his recall, but he'd been worried about brain trauma at the time and hadn't thought much of it.
no subject
There’s a blip of uncertainty to him catching it out of the corner of his eye -- a hitch in the process of him shoving one of his own books back up into place. It’s probably fine. Richard is just rotten enough not to trouble himself with checking.
Erik was in here first. Surely he knows what he’s doing.
“Dwarves are naturally incapable of dreaming,” he explains, as he follows it up with book #2. Between them, they’re making quick work of it. “These events tend to be especially unsettling for them.”
no subject
He presumes librarians are used to that kinda thing, even here.
"Yeah, she mentioned that," it's just real fucking weird, imagining an entire race of people who can't dream. Literally. How do their brains process their shit, he wonders? Be fascinating to see a dwarven brain in a CT scan, but he knows that's not about to happen. "What about where you're from? Prophetic dreams a thing there?"
no subject
“They are. Gods occasionally use them as a means to impart guidance to a given -- ‘conduit.’” The word ‘cleric’ is so loaded here. He dwells on the nature of his chosen substitute for a beat with books in hand, slow 0with drink, but swift to change the subject once he’s deemed it satisfactory.
“Most of Riftwatch was unhappy to see me in the wilds,” he says. “It was kind of you to speak with me.”
no subject
People come from all over the fucking place.
He doesn't expect the next thing that Silas says, not even a little bit. Erik blinks, and then shakes his head, shrugging. "I could imagine bein' in your place, easy. Havin' someone to talk to would'a saved my sanity."