OPEN

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Dick
WHAT: Dick.
WHEN: Guardian
WHERE: The Gallows/Kirkwall
NOTES: Brackets or prose ok, wildcard ok. Other starters maybe later who knows what could happen.

The Gallows

A sharp intake of breath, pupils blown out in freefall panic that quickly pins into blearier confusion, Richard Dickerson jolts awake where he’s sat. Sometimes he reaches for his hip, sometimes he flinches blind to jostle an empty glass, or knocks the book at his knee to the floor.

In the library, in the chantry, in the baths, in any seldom-used nook or cranny between the towers after hours, he might be found dozing and nudged or shaken or spooked by instinct at the proximity of another living creature’s presence.


Lowtown

In a Lowtown tavern, he’s being hefted off a table by the shoulder, levered to his feet to have his satchel shoved into his arms.

A gossamer thread of drool keeps him tied to the surface for a moment after he’s upright. There might be blood spindling through it if his nap was unscheduled at the end of a sucker punch at some smart remark. Or maybe it’s clear -- maybe it’s just past closing time and he doesn’t have to go home, but he can’t stay here.

Regardless, he cuts a distinct figure at a distance -- long legs and beak and beard and the shaggy ruff of his cloak, which will serve him well in the snow outside.


Kirkwall/The Gallows

On business in the streets of Kirkwall, or in the hallways between spaces within the Gallows, his reluctance to engage in anything but the most cursory of conversation is clear: he keeps odd hours and waits behind blind corners for approaching footsteps to carry on past.

This is especially true of ferry trips and mealtimes, when he must watch from afar to see that the boat is likely to stay empty, or snake in and skim off the scraps left over -- cold eggs, lukewarm dregs of stew. He’s not picky, so long as he doesn’t have to make small talk.

He’s always been this way, but now more than ever, there’s a clockwork regularity to his comings and goings that makes him easier to find than he’d like for anyone who’s looking.


Wildcard

Choose your own adventure -- check in w/me about meetings arranged or requested IC, as he is likely to be rude or otherwise strange about them for the foreseeable future.

Comments

[acreage]

There was a time, when he was younger, that he would've immediately answered with: well, I am sorry that you're such an asshole. Older and wearier, he only thinks it; though it's possible there's a flash of the sentiment in his face, the scrunch to his forehead or the brief set of his mouth.

(Has he ever deliberately done anything truly terrible? Maybe one day Kenzo, or Melissa, or Dr. Mesplede will fall out of a rift, and answer that.)

"Unless you're expecting the Gallows to fall tomorrow, you're not likely to be in a position to make those choices again." His tone could be called patient. It could also be called patronizing. "I'm assuming you're not making any plans to go out and kill any anchor-bearers for the greater good anytime soon."

You, he says, because it might be too much to hope that Riftwatch isn't. But they aren't stretched thin in the ways of the dream; and their enemy isn't as powerful as they'd been, either. Anyway: the point is that Silas can apologize for the murders and not, like, being ruthless.

[nonvenomous]

For all his posturing, his bundled belongings, Richard stands and listens at the end of a trail of damp footprints. It’d be difficult for him to make this any worse for himself. Still. The gathering malice behind his need to try is a visible process -- grasping for something mean to say in the steam. The effort makes him tired again, heat bled out into murkier resentment.

“I was making something for myself here,” is all he can muster, matter-of-fact, with a single fasten holding his pants up. “An apology won’t erase their memories.”

Also as he takes a step back, lest Holden think all that percolation was for naught, he adds:

“If I’d known you were so sanctimonious I would’ve left you to the Venatori.”

https://64.media.tumblr.com/df74c371a287d77aa68e77f42c76f4b9/tumblr_pmd9yppnMS1xe3hkno1_1280.png

[acreage]

"I hate to break it to you," he says in a tone that indicates otherwise, "but you weren't the only person who did some bad shit in the dreams." Like, take Jone. "What do you think they remember that's going to change what you were doing?"

The making something for himself, apparently. Again: take Jone. People literally aren't exactly lining up for revenge.

In the dream, that jab might have landed. In reality, amusement flickers across his expression, pulls at his mouth. Not something terribly unlike sure, Jan in sentiment.

"You can keep that in mind for next time."

[nonvenomous]

Breath pushed out in quiet huff, Dick endures this assessment with touch-and-go eye contact. It’s a familiar look for anyone who’s ever had the chance to laugh at a dog in a dumb sweater: confusion about why its feelings are hurt built up on confusion over why it’s not being taken seriously.

He turns to leave without excusing himself, past one last glowering don’t follow me glance as he goes.