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.
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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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.”
no subject
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.