WHO: James Holden and YOU WHAT: Catch-all for April WHEN: Fantasy April WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall, mostly, but around NOTES: Starters in the comments, lmk if you'd like something bespoke or feel free to drop in a wildcard.
He swears under his breath as the goddamn thing tries to wriggle out of his hands yet again, rearranging his fingers to get a better grip on its slippery skin without actually hurting it. Never mind that the thing is definitely traumatized, and probably so are its fellows, by the rough handling; though if it'd been smart enough to not try eating wire, they wouldn't be in this situation. Also: not that he's unappreciative of Silas being the one to thrust his arm down the pharynx of an ugly little creature.
"Well, I'm sure she'll," as the nug in queston gives a determined wiggle, "thank you later."
“I think I have it,” is all he can say in return, still straining, stretching long fingers, carefully, carefully --
Further back, she’s champing furiously on his forearm, leaving big doofy teethmarks with jaws that lack the leverage to break skin, gagged open as they are. Behind him, there’s a heavy thump, the sound of naked hide scuffling over the edge of the open crate --
Dick risks a glance in the nick of time to see an albino nug butt tumbling rosy pink over the side. Nug #3 rises up on her haunches to peer out after it.
There's a moment as he turns and watches the pale little nug plummet to the ground with an affronted squeak, where James Holden, champion of those in need, seriously considers letting it escape. Then he imagines the creature running into a seagull, or a small dog, or an overweight rat. And sighs.
"It could be worse," he says contemplatively, as the third nug starts scrabbling up the side of the crate. It loses its footing, falls noisily within. "Just get this thing out and we can worry about the other two."
“Of course,” says Silas, over the wet smacking of his wrist being gobbled by a writhing designer piglet, “I’ll just ‘get it out.’” Like he’s fishing the seed out of an avocado and not playing Operation with a twist of sharp wire in an esophagus.
He hoods his brow for a Look a little too hard-edged to read as reassuring in aside.
But the wire is coming, maneuvered up past the tips of his fingers until he can curl it under a knuckle, back, up, and out. The creature vomits instantly, everywhere. Dick grinds his jaw at the sound of spatter across his boots as he drops the wire aside with its predecessor, plink.
Silas gets a look for a Look, all well, get on with it. And he does, at least, for all of the disgusting result. His own boots aren't unscathed, though it's nothing like the calamity that's befallen Silas's day's clothes.
He says, "Please tell me that was the last piece."
There’s blood twisting dark through the Stuff on his boots; Richard plants his gore-streaked hand across the exhausted creature’s mug and mutters an incantation in the serpent tongue he most often uses for such obligations. Holden might feel her pulse warm, weirdly naked as she is in his arms, if he’s paying very close attention.
“But we should monitor her overnight to be sure.” Maybe they can have a sleepover.
He’s produced a rag from his satchel, and is using it to mop through his fingers even as he reaches sly-like to try to take her into his arms. If he is successful, Jim will have to chase down the spare that’s currently scrabbling away through the warehouse.
When is a memory not a memory? When it's a dream; or maybe that's not true. There's a sense of familiarity to Dick's murmur in an incomprehensible tongue, to the way the nug seems to quiet and still, soothed without the worst of the scraping to her insides.
"I didn't know you cared," he deadpans, letting Silas take the small creature back.
But he isn't wrong; they do need to make sure she's okay before handing her off to being someone else's problem. There's a beat before he realizes that, with Silas holding this nug, someone has to go get the other one. He sighs again, once more with feeling, and then turns to consider the matter of the nug on the run.
Catching up with it isn't too hard, but the naked little thing is slippery, and it takes him more than one try to catch hold of it without fucking dropping it.
"Who the hell would pay for these things?" he complains.
The first nug, exhausted by her ordeal and healed of her hurts, has tucked her face away into the crook of his arm. She’s still, well on her way to falling asleep beneath the lazy massage of his free hand across her wrinkled haunches. It’s only very slightly diabolical; the flecks of bile drying into his arm hair really detract from the overall drama of his rolled sleeves and snappy vest in the warehouse gloom.
He trusts Holden to see the second nug back into its crate alone, as evidenced by the lack of any movement to assist. His hands are occupied.
“I’ve documented reports of a Fade-touched population on the Minanter River.”
Is it? He half-expects Silas to bring up the existence of a designer nug black market in Hightown.
Which, there probably is one. But for the cursing under his breath as he walks his not-so-docile nug back to the crate, he sets it down gently, spares a moment to make sure the less mobile third is alright, before looking back up at Silas.
“The hides of Fade-touched creatures are often imbued with unique properties that makes them useful for crafting weapons and armor,” Silas explains, by protracted way of a yes. Yes, a Fade-touched population of nugs.
The wrinkly pink bottom curled in his arms nestles in deeper, but he’s focused entirely on Holden now.
“I’ve considered organizing a venture to collect them.”
The value of such an expedition is obvious: if Silas can find out about a Fade-touched population of nugs, so can others, and better the creatures end up with Riftwatch than in enemy hands. He considers saying, as he stands, if you're suggesting we kill a herd of nugs just for existing, that's cold even for you. He considers something else, cants his head.
(He doesn't move to take the first nug from Silas; if she's comfortable, and he's willing to carry her, so much the better.)
"I'm sure Tony will be happy to hear it," he says, tone too-mild. He's not uninterested, but he is going to make Silas say why he's sharing this information.
A pause snags in the otherwise polished neutrality of his Dick’s composure; his stroking of folded nug ears slows and stills for an instant. Buffering, blue eyes eminently reasonable in the filter of dusty light through windows propped open far overhead.
“A comprehensive report would be drafted upon our return.”
He spares a glance towards the crate at the sound of scrabbling, but there aren't any more runaway nugs this time around. Their hearts aren't in it, maybe, now that it's clear that their sister isn't coming to any harm.
"And you want me to come" — our, after all — "because I'm so good at nug babysitting?"
“Yes,” says Silas, “but primarily because you’re earnest and gallant and people will do as you say.”
He does not need Holden for babysitting nugs. He needs Holden for babysitting people.
When Jim glances back up from the nug crate, it will be to find that Silas has hardly moved, save to hood his brow reassuringly (“reassuringly”) before he continues:
“I’ll understand of course if you prefer to see how I fare on my own.”
Jim’s quiet amplifies the call of seabirds wheeling around outside, the quiet, contented snuffling of the miniature nug snuggled in Silas’ arms. Silas, an expert in silences himself, sustains the break with only the knead of his fingers into weird nuggy folds.
“You would be well within your rights to,” he says, and kicks up a brow.
“It’s certainly not my fault you’re so easily swayed by flattery.”
"I don't think it counts as flattery if you didn't mean it as a compliment," he observes dryly.
Besides, it's hard to argue with the notion that he has better people skills than Dick over here. And he's not likely to say no to work, let alone refuse to help a friend.
"We're not killing them if we can help it." Acquiescence, of course. Also: this isn't a request. "We'll see what to do with them when we get them back here. I'm sure people will have ideas."
He's sure some of the ideas will be Fade-touched nug leather, but probably not all of them.
“If we can help it,” Silas agrees, a little too easily, and with the worst kind of a slant to his brow as he says so. “Though for purely logistical reasons I recommend you prepare yourself for disappointment in that regard.
“The average nug is substantially larger than these examples, and Fade-touched creatures are often imbued with unpleasant abilities. Venom, electrical discharges.”
He is still kneading behind the ears of the nug in his arms, idle affection issued over this casual discussion of murdering her larger mutant cousins.
“I’ll do my best to recruit individuals with a passion for unusual wildlife.”
"Keep trying," he says, dry, as he leans down to heft up the crate with the two remaining miniature nugs in it. They're settled, in the bits of straw, comfortable, and liable to fall asleep by the time they've made it to the Gallows. No point taking them out and disturbing them. "One day you'll figure out how to insult me."
Even if his saying so is shot through with salt. Silas chokes up the fleshy football in his arms and swans away for the door, the glitter in his eye just mean enough for Jim to rest assured that he will keep trying, thank you.
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"Well, I'm sure she'll," as the nug in queston gives a determined wiggle, "thank you later."
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Further back, she’s champing furiously on his forearm, leaving big doofy teethmarks with jaws that lack the leverage to break skin, gagged open as they are. Behind him, there’s a heavy thump, the sound of naked hide scuffling over the edge of the open crate --
Dick risks a glance in the nick of time to see an albino nug butt tumbling rosy pink over the side. Nug #3 rises up on her haunches to peer out after it.
“This is an unmitigated disaster.”
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"It could be worse," he says contemplatively, as the third nug starts scrabbling up the side of the crate. It loses its footing, falls noisily within. "Just get this thing out and we can worry about the other two."
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He hoods his brow for a Look a little too hard-edged to read as reassuring in aside.
But the wire is coming, maneuvered up past the tips of his fingers until he can curl it under a knuckle, back, up, and out. The creature vomits instantly, everywhere. Dick grinds his jaw at the sound of spatter across his boots as he drops the wire aside with its predecessor, plink.
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He says, "Please tell me that was the last piece."
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There’s blood twisting dark through the Stuff on his boots; Richard plants his gore-streaked hand across the exhausted creature’s mug and mutters an incantation in the serpent tongue he most often uses for such obligations. Holden might feel her pulse warm, weirdly naked as she is in his arms, if he’s paying very close attention.
“But we should monitor her overnight to be sure.” Maybe they can have a sleepover.
He’s produced a rag from his satchel, and is using it to mop through his fingers even as he reaches sly-like to try to take her into his arms. If he is successful, Jim will have to chase down the spare that’s currently scrabbling away through the warehouse.
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"I didn't know you cared," he deadpans, letting Silas take the small creature back.
But he isn't wrong; they do need to make sure she's okay before handing her off to being someone else's problem. There's a beat before he realizes that, with Silas holding this nug, someone has to go get the other one. He sighs again, once more with feeling, and then turns to consider the matter of the nug on the run.
Catching up with it isn't too hard, but the naked little thing is slippery, and it takes him more than one try to catch hold of it without fucking dropping it.
"Who the hell would pay for these things?" he complains.
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Is it? There’s no humor in Silas’ inflection.
The first nug, exhausted by her ordeal and healed of her hurts, has tucked her face away into the crook of his arm. She’s still, well on her way to falling asleep beneath the lazy massage of his free hand across her wrinkled haunches. It’s only very slightly diabolical; the flecks of bile drying into his arm hair really detract from the overall drama of his rolled sleeves and snappy vest in the warehouse gloom.
He trusts Holden to see the second nug back into its crate alone, as evidenced by the lack of any movement to assist. His hands are occupied.
“I’ve documented reports of a Fade-touched population on the Minanter River.”
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Which, there probably is one. But for the cursing under his breath as he walks his not-so-docile nug back to the crate, he sets it down gently, spares a moment to make sure the less mobile third is alright, before looking back up at Silas.
"A Fade-touched population of nugs."
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The wrinkly pink bottom curled in his arms nestles in deeper, but he’s focused entirely on Holden now.
“I’ve considered organizing a venture to collect them.”
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(He doesn't move to take the first nug from Silas; if she's comfortable, and he's willing to carry her, so much the better.)
"I'm sure Tony will be happy to hear it," he says, tone too-mild. He's not uninterested, but he is going to make Silas say why he's sharing this information.
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“A comprehensive report would be drafted upon our return.”
Obviously.
He resumes petting his nug.
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He spares a glance towards the crate at the sound of scrabbling, but there aren't any more runaway nugs this time around. Their hearts aren't in it, maybe, now that it's clear that their sister isn't coming to any harm.
"And you want me to come" — our, after all — "because I'm so good at nug babysitting?"
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He does not need Holden for babysitting nugs. He needs Holden for babysitting people.
When Jim glances back up from the nug crate, it will be to find that Silas has hardly moved, save to hood his brow reassuringly (“reassuringly”) before he continues:
“I’ll understand of course if you prefer to see how I fare on my own.”
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"Because you already know I won't make you do that."
Easy enough to make an offer and build in an out when you already know the answer, huh. If he sounds annoyed, it's no less at himself than Silas.
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“You would be well within your rights to,” he says, and kicks up a brow.
“It’s certainly not my fault you’re so easily swayed by flattery.”
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Besides, it's hard to argue with the notion that he has better people skills than Dick over here. And he's not likely to say no to work, let alone refuse to help a friend.
"We're not killing them if we can help it." Acquiescence, of course. Also: this isn't a request. "We'll see what to do with them when we get them back here. I'm sure people will have ideas."
He's sure some of the ideas will be Fade-touched nug leather, but probably not all of them.
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“The average nug is substantially larger than these examples, and Fade-touched creatures are often imbued with unpleasant abilities. Venom, electrical discharges.”
He is still kneading behind the ears of the nug in his arms, idle affection issued over this casual discussion of murdering her larger mutant cousins.
“I’ll do my best to recruit individuals with a passion for unusual wildlife.”
Why does that sound like a threat?
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"You know I live here too, right?"
Here, in this case, being Thedas. And perhaps in answer to that bit of ominousness —
"I doubt they'll be hard to find. I'll talk to some people."
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“Deadly optimism does make more sense than sheer ignorance,” he says. Less mild. His mistake.
“Will you carry these two to my quarters or should I hire a courier?”
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Even if his saying so is shot through with salt. Silas chokes up the fleshy football in his arms and swans away for the door, the glitter in his eye just mean enough for Jim to rest assured that he will keep trying, thank you.