[OPEN]

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Dick Dickerson and you
WHAT: Prompts built around a Research-led investigation of territory in the Planasene Forest as delegated by Dick. Additional OOC info here.
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Kirkwall, the Vinmark foothills
NOTES: Kirkwall prompts OTA, Vinmark prompts open to martial or research types likely to participate in Rift analysis and closure. CW dead bodies, a little bit of corpse mutilation/desecration.


KIRKWALL STABLES or INN

The idea was to work with others.

A lone horse clatters into the stables on another rider’s tail late one stormy night, host to a grey-faced Rifter soaked foamy and raw through to the saddle. Richard Dickerson trips in his sodden cloak on the dismount -- wrestles it off heavy into a heap on the ground as he sets to working wet straps and buckles off the still-panting horse, both of their breaths steaming in the damp. He favors his left hand, and has not said good evening or sorry or thank you to the rider he rode in after, singularly focused.

He’s been gone for a week and a half.

Afterwards he retreats to an inn, the ferryman long asleep. He’s stinking and wet, hauling an armload of saddlebags with the bulge of his satchel, the weight of his dirt and hay-sticky cloak slung over his shoulder.

There’s some debate with the innkeeper -- no room he says, over the steady drip of Dick’s bags between them.

Richard narrows his eyes, seethes in on himself, looks -- for an instant -- as if he might lunge --

VINMARK FOOTHILLS BOG (rift aftermath, 1 thread please)

With the rift fresh closed and the morning sun warming off the last dregs of (a previously quite sinister) fog, Richard is wading in black mud up to his waist towards a humanoid corpse mired face down in the muck. The figure is long dead -- cold as the ground he was interred in, with traces of bone showing here and there through rotten cloth.

Spattered dark with bogwater and demon ichor himself, Dick twists a dagger from the back of his belt as he approaches.

He has a hunch.

A scrape of his blade across the corpse’s left palm reveals nothing, but at the right: a fast-fading glimmer of acid green peeks through the decay.

VINMARK FOOTHILLS CAMP

Later, at camp, a pair of disembodied arms have been dissected from their respective corpses at the elbow, and lay drying out on a log in the sun. There’s a creek nearby to rinse off the mud and blood and bog and ichor -- a tent to change clothes in, for the modest.

Notes must be updated, strange, fast-decaying plant life sketched and mushrooms sampled.

Firewood needs to be cut and stacked for the pyres, makeshift as they are. The stink of rot lingers on the wind until the sun sinks and the pyres for two unknown Rifters are set alight. Anyone who wishes to say a few words is welcome. Dickerson does not, although he does stand by to watch them burn, the end of his joint touched discreetly to a stick he’s roasted at the fire’s edge when he thinks no one (who would care) is watching.

WILDCARD

[ trust fall ]

Comments

[nonvenomous]

“How long an anchor-bearer can go without his ilk,” is the answer, a little starchy for her assessment. Rude.

“A sound night’s sleep in the Gallows and I’ll be -- back to ‘normal.’” The break seems to be for him to reflect upon his use of the word at all. Considering.

He plants a hand flat to the horse’s flank before he stoops to collect his cloak, pushing him one step aside and sparing himself a kick to the head. The beast is rubbed raw under the saddle, here and there against the straps -- but Silas is already hissing his way through familiar spellwork, soothing blistered hide and sore bones.

“I take it I’ve missed the ferry.”

[poleaxed]

"We have," Jone says, sounding distinctly unimpressed. She doesn't imagine her scolding will matter much in the grand scheme of things. "I know a bloke lets me use his spare room in Lowtown. You can have yourself a rest before your next shite idea hits."

Okay, maybe she just couldn't stop herself.

[nonvenomous]

“Given the gusto with which we’re flung into the far reaches of contested territory, it’s practical knowledge to have.” How long after capture before they chew off their own arms?

Not much longer than he was gone for, if the twinge that drains all the blood out of his face is any indication, cold sweat sprung up under the damp of the rain. Careful as he is with the cloak gathered over his arm, it’s clear in the shudder of his breath that picking it back up at all was a mistake. It is equally clear that he is not interested in debating the flaws in his methodology.

What were they talking about? Lodging.

“If you don’t mind the intrusion.”

[poleaxed]

She can't really argue with his intentions, just- "you could've gone with backup."

But it's clear her heart isn't truly in the scolding, for how she murmurs it, the sound nearly lost under rainfall. She offers him a shoulder to lean on as they make their way out of the stable.

"If I minded, I wouldn't've offered. Just say you're a cousin back in town and not some mage from another land, yeah? Generally goes over better with simple folk." She pats his back, attempting encouragement, comfort, something.

[nonvenomous]

Rather than take the option of her offered shoulder, Silas makes use of any spare time to offload wet saddlebags and his satchel into her care. Seeing as she’s so keen to assist. A little grass snake slithers from the layers of his cloak to wind up his arm as he works, all but vanished beneath the turn of his collar by the time they’re out into the rain.

“So I shouldn’t announce to them upon entry that my ancestors bathed in pools of human blood filled with vipers,” he supposes, to clarify as they walk.

If he heard the first murmur, he pretends not to.

[poleaxed]

So she takes his bags. There are worse things. Yes, they're wet and slippery, but so's everything right now. They're going to spend the night camping out in a carpenter's basement; it's not as though they'll be living clean and glorious.

His admission gives her less pause than it should, and that's odd. Her first instinct is to think he's joking, but she just saw that bloody snake and what did he say about not being human? Some things are becoming a little clearer, bit by bit.

So she's out of her depth. When has that ever stopped her?

"D'you announce that sort of thing often? ...Leave an awful mess, that would."