faderift | open: a little rain never hurt no one.

"Hello hello, wait a moment—"

A voice and a series of hurried, thumping footsteps ring out from the docks, approaching the ferry which is getting ready to launch.

The rain is coming down in fits and starts, and so if one hasn't dressed for the occasion, it will make for a somewhat miserable ferry ride. Last call, too, and the night is black and chilly despite the steady encroachment of spring. Slashes of silver mist off the surface of the water, raindrops rattling like coppers against the sloped hood of the ferrymen who is doesn't care to wait a single second long in this weather, no matter who's calling for him to slow down.

The boat has pushed off by a few feet before a figure, at a run, springs into a leap, appears to easily and confidently clear that distance, landing heavily in the boat and causing it to violently pitch forwards in the water. Loxley wheels his arms out to balance, which then revert to hands of open surrender and bid for peace at the immediate onslaught of abuse from the ferrymen.

"Sorry about that," he says, cheerfully. One of his hands glows with green luminescence, and he wiggles the fingers above it. "I've a ticket, though. And a few silvers, for my tardiness."

He had yet to look to the other passenger who might be in the boat, but does now, with an apologetic glance.

There are a lot of questions that could be raised by River's presence here, at such a late hour. For one thing, she's rather young, appearing sixteen, seventeen at best (even though she's actually twenty this year). For another, this is the third round of back and forth of the ferry that River has sat here at the back of the boat for, which might explain why the ferryman says, in her direction: 'last ride, missy, you'll have to get off at the Gallows'.

The girl in question nods, brightens a bit at the Qunari who is looking around, apparently the same man who'd made the running leap (and successfully) for the boat, and shifts from where she's been more or less laying in the seats to where Loxley could sit, if he so desired.

River shifts to make room, Loxley seems to magically summon a few spare silvers out of nowhere into the palm of his non-glowing hand, and the ferryman relents with an aggrieved sigh. He scrapes this offering from the qunari's hand and gestures for him to settle.

The ferryman turns away, so Loxley's sketched bow of thanks is likely for the amusement of the girl sitting nearby. He takes the offer, sitting beside her with a creak of leathers. Immediately there is the scent of whiskey from a good evening spent, but he is clear-eyed and graceful, still. He splays his fingers, showing off a remaining silver coin he'd apparently deftly prevented the ferryman from taking by catching it between his knuckles.

"That's about as close as I've cut it in a while," he says. "Sorry for the excitement, at this hour."

"Excitement is not something to apologize for." River gives him a smile, having been openly staring at him this entire time. From his shoes to his horns, the Qunari is fascinating to her, mostly because she's rarely met one and didn't know that any were with Riftwatch. "Especially when it's not at blade's point. She's been listening to the rain on the water for three passages between Kirkwall and the Gallows; it reminds her of the better parts of being home." On boats, in the water, in the rain are all things that remind River of the best parts of Wycome.

She tucks her legs in under her and sits up a little straighter. "Where are you from?"

Open staring, in this world and another, is the sort of thing one can get used to when done enough, and the sort of thing one can pick up on the nuances of. For instance, Loxley is rather confident that there's no fear or animosity in this instance, context cues being what they are, but he'll have to divine the nature of her curiousity as they go.

Qunari are not frequent folk seen around Kirkwall, these days. And when they are, they tend to be beefier.

"A magical, far-off place," Loxley answers, sardonic without actually mocking her, perhaps only himself, "traversed from through rift, a land by the name of Tassia."

(Her manner of speech confuses, for a moment, but there are no other passengers but they onboard. And so he takes her meaning, and tries to decide if he ought to read melancholy into the news of her back-and-forth journeys, or something else.)

"Which has cities like this one, very much so. Yourself?"

There is some melancholy there. She's only just become part of the operation, and she misses home. Misses her brother mostly. But home is a dangerous place to be and she has no idea what's happened to her brother, if he's alive or not; seeking him out feels beyond her capabilities now, with the people that could have told her more about where he was just bodies littered in a pathway of the past.

So. Yeah. A little melancholy.

But now she's got a hundred and ten percent on the Qunari Rifter in front of her. That's kind of an amazing combination of words to describe someone.

She wonders if he's terribly lonely since there aren't many Qunari and she assumes that Rifters come through one by one. Knows better than to ask any of that right now.

"Wycome." A shrug. "There are boats. It rains sometimes. Have you ever been?"

The silver is vanished up a sleeve or a turn of his palm, gone either way.

"I haven't," Loxley says. "Somewhere on the coast, I take it. River boats don't move in quite the same way." The punctuation to his point comes with a grip to the edge of the ferry, a list of his body that causes just a subtle sway to it, mostly just to emphasise the liveliness of the sea beneath them. The ferryman doesn't seem to notice.

So that's something. "Otho, where I was born, was very boat-y and rain-y too. Kirkwall-y in general, if not so large."

Good with his hands, she thinks. Good at hiding things. Secrets? Magic, or maybe just sleight-of-hand, but either way. Something of note, how that silver vanishes.

She has little use for coins at this particular juncture. She doesn't want to steal his, even if she's curious as to where it's gone.

"When Tevinter is not as heavy on the Minanter, ferrying their red lyrium to and fro, you should visit. A town of revels and gamblers. You'd like it there, at least for a little while." He could make coin, or steal it from drunkards. Either way. "Kirkwall is dark. Brutal in it's history, and little need for adornment from it. It isn't as shiny." And part of her misses the shiny.

Loxley raises an eyebrow, oh would he?, about liking a town of revels and gamblers. What could possibly have given her that impression, save for everything about him, and of course she's correct enough for him to mark the name of this place for future reference.

"I'm afraid I don't take many vacations," he says, "not unless it's of the working kind. But I've seen quite a bit, that way. But as far as Kirkwall's concerned—"

He looks up towards the slowly retreating mass of urban spread, firelight, a liveliness to it at this hour. He nods in its direction. "When the moon's out, and you've sailed fair enough away, you might be forced to admit its got its own gleam. You know, from a distance. And that's not even counting Hightown.

"I sort of like it," he admits.

"It'll have to grow on her," she says with a grumble, but she does look in the direction of Kirkwall rapidly retreating from sight. "Like a mold."

River giggles, then, and turns back to sit properly in her seat. "But it'll come to her. The liking of a new city, the releasing of old fears. Over time, probably, or maybe suddenly and all at once." She shrugs. Who is to say? Definitely not her.

"Is being in Thedas a new adventure?" Or just something new to be suffered through? She's never spoken to a Rifter before, and so she's curious as to how one has adapted when they've been here long enough to say things like 'I don't take many vacations'. Shouldn't trips to other worlds be a vacation?

Should he ask? About this third-person speaking quirk? His impulse is to do so, particularly while he's imbibed a decent amount of liquor, but it does seem rude, and why shouldn't she. Still, it's kept tucked up a sleeve as Loxley resettles in his seat, tugging the collar of his coat a little to protect himself from the rain a little.

Not much, and he doesn't seem to mind it besides. The word 'adventure' gets a half-cocked smile from him. "In its way," he says. "It was to begin with, but the thing about adventures is they're supposed to end, so you can all have a good laugh about it, learn lessons, so on, so forth.

"But here we are," he says, hands spreading. "Myself and my friend, Richard, we've been here for a couple of years, now. Longer."

Everyone asks, eventually. Some faster than others, and some don't like her answer after she's been addressed with the 'why'. But River appreciates the people that take the time to listen to her, despite her quirks of speech.

"A friend named Richard." Consideration with a hum. A couple of years now, longer, means about three, she figures, but less than four. That's a long time. "Is it easier, with a friend from home?" Or just... different?

The creature peering balefully up at him through the dark and the miserable damp is Richard Dickerson, grip locked white-knuckle to the bench under his seat.

It’s difficult to tell if he’s angry.

Sometimes he just looks like this, bristly and lank in the rain.

There’d been a delayed splash upon Loxley’s arrival; Thot climbs back aboard like an eel from the chop, sneezing, spluttering, her claws sticky in old wood.

“I take it this couldn’t wait.”

Whirling on Richard sends a slight spray of water off the tail of his coat—not in Dick's direction, at least. Loxley has made no particular effort to shield himself from the weather, fairly saturated from curly head to enchanted boot, and perhaps whatever he's been drinking is helping with the warmth.

He smiles, bright in the dark. "Only because the ferry can't," he says, before then noticing where Thot slivers over the rail. His smile vanishes, oh, and he neglectfully hands the silvers he'd readied to the ferryman before ducking down to sit.

"Sorry," he says, to cat and man both. He kind of offers his empty hands to Thot, to sniff or climb or butt her face against or bite, whatever comes first. "I didn't see her, she blends in so well."

Burrowing disapproval is more easily felt than seen, something in the hunch of his shoulders in the dark, the hold to his stare. A mood, amidst the pummel and spatter of salt and rain.

He’s underdressed for the weather, stripped lean by the wet under the sheet of his cloak. Returning home had been a last minute decision for him also, motivated by the promise of a warm hearth and dry clothes to put on in the morning.

Not so deep in the bag then that he couldn’t consider the consequences of staying city-side.

“That’s the idea.”

Thot crawls into Loxley’s offered hands like a newborn wildebeest, all legs and slime-slick velvet.

The strange snaky sensation (tm) of Thot wriggling into his hands gets a laugh out of Loxley, a kind of discomforted one, but all the same. He collects her up and deposits her into his lap, limbs and lamp eyes and lashing tail, and opens his cloak partway for her to find some shelter from the rain, as much as she now smells like and drips of the Kirkwall bay.

He crooks a look across at Richard and says, "At least someone's forgiven me."

They're on their way, second thoughts regardless. Black water either side, fitful ocean and sky.

“Mm.”

A pull at the corner of his mouth betrays him, lenience borne of Loxley’s natural charm. It’s too permeating for him to brush in the close confines of this rickety boat.

He’s just very good, is the thing.

The cat under his coat twists like a leech, conforming to his side in the warmth and out of sight. Must be nice.

“Visiting someone?”

Thot settles in and so does Loxley, back curved some against the rain striking across his shoulders. Eventually, the warmth of his swift run through Lowtown and the whiskey in his blood will pull back and let in the chill, but at least he has a cat with him.

"Maybe," he says, voice dipping up and down in just those two syllables, and then a smoother, jesting clip to his tone as he says, "Reporting to the Ambassador. Very urgent, couldn't wait."

There is no universe where if that were true, he'd be saying so with a smile.

"What brought you city-side, so late?"

“We were carousing.”

Obviously. What about him would lead Loxley to believe otherwise?

Now that the danger of being catapulted from his seat by any other late arrivals has passed, Richard releases his grip on the seat to fold his arms around himself instead, wings tucked in under the windbreak of his sodden cloak.

A beat passes in silence before he asks:

“Visiting Derrica?”

Edited (ctrl c failed me) 2022-03-30 06:27 (UTC)

"That's quite the promotion, if I were."

From Project Haven to Ambassador, what a scandal. But the ruse, such as it is, isn't maintained for long, Loxley tossing his eyeline out to the dark waters around them. "She'd suit it. Probably the most diplomatic person in the whole castle. But yes, I am, in fact."

Caught, then, but not unhappy about it, awake and vibrant enough at this late hour to maintain a foolish smile all the while. He doesn't see many mornings, lately, not since the days of sleeping on bedrolls and waking at dawn are mostly gone.

"You were being sarcastic, about the carousing, but I've seen you do it. Speaking of visiting with ladies."

“A rebel mage in charge of Diplomacy?” The suggestive lilt to his otherwise flat affect is telling. Imagine the scandal.

The sharp drop off in communication that follows is telling also, a silent, mild gathering of skirts while he reflects on his own misstep. Rain snaps against the deck between them in the break, dashes itself across his shoulders, the back of his dome.

“Antiva City is notoriously permissive.” is what he goes with, confidence bolstered by logic eddying in to fill the vacuum. “The assignment was to blend in.”

Nailed it.

"Ah yes, of course, the assignment."

It's not over, says the flat, droll tone of Loxley's words. Glasses of wine they weren't pretending to drink from, jokes about how best to convince their quest-giver into affording them more time, all very incognito. He had, at that time, been wearing the scarf he'd bought for Derrica, which he'd given, and what a nice night that was.

So it doesn't take effort on Richard's part for Loxley's mind to flip back in that direction as he asks, "Do you like her?" And, you know, to clarify, because it needs it: "Derrica."

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nonvenomous - 2022-03-31 06:48 (UTC) - Expand

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charmoffensive - 2022-04-06 08:10 (UTC) - Expand

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nonvenomous - 2022-04-09 08:28 (UTC) - Expand

Edgard waits until the ferryman has become reoccupied with his duties before shooting a glance at Loxley and whispering,

"Was that on purpose? Were you trying to knock him off the boat? You nearly did!"

He leans forward toward him, mud streaking his face from the rain, his eyes wide and his face lit up. His tone is not angry at all, but excited and sends the clear message that whatever shenanigans are going down here, Edgard wants in.

Settled, apology made to the boatman via a few loose coins, Loxley looks to his fellow passenger with a ready smile at the same time that Edgard leans forward and whispers so urgently. Surprised, he takes a moment to read the situation, near-gold eyes darting over Edgard's muddy face and the delight present there.

Perhaps, a joke? They are joking? He grins.

"I know, I was so close," he whispers back. "And I reckon between us, we could row twice as fast as he could."

Edgard smiles broadly. He knew he was right. He knows an attempted boat stealing when he sees one.

"We could." He says resting a little on the second word to indicate that they still could.

"Where would we go?" Edgard's not sure if this is a joy ride or some kind of operation underway.

open: a little rain never hurt no one.

loxley.

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