At non-serious-but-maybe-serious scolding and threats of chaperones, Loxley sips his wine, eyebrows arched and smile poorly hidden.
But expressiveness absents itself as Loxley goes carefully blank in the way of someone trying to pick up a cue they aren't getting right away but are hoping they will, but when the puzzle piece clicks into place, it's not from a memory jogged. He smiles at Fitcher, apologetic, if not too much.
"Your guess will be as good as mine, I'm afraid," he says, then, to Richard, "But I've never been regaled of stories of myself that I've not lived through firsthand. Please," generously, "take it from the top."
This is a real question anchored in real curiosity, asked earnestly of Fitcher after a delay that suggests he’s unsure of where to begin. There’s an ice pick flicker in his eyes, keen in brief, prising departure from regalement. For an instant, everything else is secondary -- the rooftop, the story, Loxley’s scarf.
He would very much like to see a Thedosian octopus.
It’s immaterial, of course, and he breathes in to explain, as he works his way deeper into his cup: Mindflayers are highly intelligent, tentacled aberrations that feed on the psychic energies of their victims, not entirely unlike demons but mortal and with a penchant for slavery and subjugation over wildfire destruction. They live underground, they are very organized, they are skilled mages. They are soft and slick with a natural excretion that keeps their skin moist at all times. This particular mindflayer was undead and so divorced from ambition.
"We were many hours’ descent into an underground temple whose entire clergy had been exterminated by a death cult, having encountered nothing that wasn’t in some way irrevocably corrupted or rapidly violent, and we came upon a moldering library wreathed in darkness.
"It was far too dark to see inside, but if there were hostile creatures within and we struck a torch, we would be set upon where we might have otherwise crept past unmolested.
"Ser Loxley, being the stealthiest of our number, and the fleetest of foot, proceeded courageously into the darkness alone to scout for unseen dangers. And -- upon hearing the shuffle of strange feet some 20 or 30 meters into the chamber -- " far from any immediate help, he intimates to Loxley with a look, "he called out. ‘Hello!’"
Fitcher makes for a fine audience as she steadily drains her cup. There are grimaces and nose wrinkles in all the right places ('natural excretions'), assurances where called for (there are, in fact, Thedosian octopuses), various hmm's and oh's and yes, I see's, but best of all she lapses into the correctly rapt silence as they reach the account of the gloom-drenched library.
Listening is a skill, and she has always enjoyed a good story besides.
Her laugh is full throated, a pleasantly low and well rounded thing. She makes no effort to stifle it. There is a brief and charming flash of wine-tinged teeth.
To Loxley, "You should have tried that with your warehouse guards."
Loxley is also a good listener, fond of stories, and for a while, that really is all it is. His near-smirk fades as real interest sets in, focus steady and fascinated at graphic descriptions of as yet unmet monsters, of an entire world of them in dripping, echoing caverns, and then of the ruined temple.
His expression flickers when Richard says his name, amusement and a sort of odd surprise all at once. Yes, of course, this was about him, wasn't it. There's a smile already in place for Richard's look, getting all the fangier for it, and then a slightly abashed, if pleased, glance down at his glass for that impression, and for Madame Fitcher's laughter.
Yeah, that sounds like him.
"I might have," he admits to Fitcher, "if they'd gotten wiser." To Richard, "Habit formed from working with our half-orcian friend. If I didn't speak up quickly, she'd start swinging. How fared negotiations then?"
Richard Dickerson does not often tell stories, but Loxley in particular lends himself to them, and Fitcher makes for an easy audience besides.
“Improbably well. You explained our passage through in pursuit of answers and the restoration of the temple’s domain and the mindflayer intimated in return that he was seeking answers of his own. You volunteered my services to supplement his research,” there’s an unappreciative slant at his brows -- presumptuous of him, “called for us to join you, and here we are today. Alive.
“Unfortunately it’s unlikely he survived the temple filling with sand upon our departure. Perhaps if he was swift to teleport himself to safety.
“A half-orc,” he explains in late aside to Fitcher, “is physically analogous to a qunari, or half-qunari. Are there half-qunari?” His intrigue is in near perfect echo to his prior interest in octopuses. If not, there should be. “Most are powerfully built. They have tusks in place of horns.”
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no subject
But expressiveness absents itself as Loxley goes carefully blank in the way of someone trying to pick up a cue they aren't getting right away but are hoping they will, but when the puzzle piece clicks into place, it's not from a memory jogged. He smiles at Fitcher, apologetic, if not too much.
"Your guess will be as good as mine, I'm afraid," he says, then, to Richard, "But I've never been regaled of stories of myself that I've not lived through firsthand. Please," generously, "take it from the top."
no subject
This is a real question anchored in real curiosity, asked earnestly of Fitcher after a delay that suggests he’s unsure of where to begin. There’s an ice pick flicker in his eyes, keen in brief, prising departure from regalement. For an instant, everything else is secondary -- the rooftop, the story, Loxley’s scarf.
He would very much like to see a Thedosian octopus.
It’s immaterial, of course, and he breathes in to explain, as he works his way deeper into his cup: Mindflayers are highly intelligent, tentacled aberrations that feed on the psychic energies of their victims, not entirely unlike demons but mortal and with a penchant for slavery and subjugation over wildfire destruction. They live underground, they are very organized, they are skilled mages. They are soft and slick with a natural excretion that keeps their skin moist at all times. This particular mindflayer was undead and so divorced from ambition.
"We were many hours’ descent into an underground temple whose entire clergy had been exterminated by a death cult, having encountered nothing that wasn’t in some way irrevocably corrupted or rapidly violent, and we came upon a moldering library wreathed in darkness.
"It was far too dark to see inside, but if there were hostile creatures within and we struck a torch, we would be set upon where we might have otherwise crept past unmolested.
"Ser Loxley, being the stealthiest of our number, and the fleetest of foot, proceeded courageously into the darkness alone to scout for unseen dangers. And -- upon hearing the shuffle of strange feet some 20 or 30 meters into the chamber -- " far from any immediate help, he intimates to Loxley with a look, "he called out. ‘Hello!’"
His impression is not terrible.
no subject
Listening is a skill, and she has always enjoyed a good story besides.
Her laugh is full throated, a pleasantly low and well rounded thing. She makes no effort to stifle it. There is a brief and charming flash of wine-tinged teeth.
To Loxley, "You should have tried that with your warehouse guards."
no subject
His expression flickers when Richard says his name, amusement and a sort of odd surprise all at once. Yes, of course, this was about him, wasn't it. There's a smile already in place for Richard's look, getting all the fangier for it, and then a slightly abashed, if pleased, glance down at his glass for that impression, and for Madame Fitcher's laughter.
Yeah, that sounds like him.
"I might have," he admits to Fitcher, "if they'd gotten wiser." To Richard, "Habit formed from working with our half-orcian friend. If I didn't speak up quickly, she'd start swinging. How fared negotiations then?"
no subject
“Improbably well. You explained our passage through in pursuit of answers and the restoration of the temple’s domain and the mindflayer intimated in return that he was seeking answers of his own. You volunteered my services to supplement his research,” there’s an unappreciative slant at his brows -- presumptuous of him, “called for us to join you, and here we are today. Alive.
“Unfortunately it’s unlikely he survived the temple filling with sand upon our departure. Perhaps if he was swift to teleport himself to safety.
“A half-orc,” he explains in late aside to Fitcher, “is physically analogous to a qunari, or half-qunari. Are there half-qunari?” His intrigue is in near perfect echo to his prior interest in octopuses. If not, there should be. “Most are powerfully built. They have tusks in place of horns.”