open: a little rain never hurt no one.

[charmoffensive]

WHO: Loxley, Tony Stark, Marcus Rowntree
WHAT: Three awkward ferry rides. (Or more, if I get more tags, but you know.)
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: The Kirkwall docks
NOTES: Tag any of these! I don't mind double ups. This is also just a general catch all post if you want to do something slightly different, or drastically different.

Comments

[charmoffensive]

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."

[nonvenomous]

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.

[charmoffensive]

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.

[nonvenomous]

“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?”

[charmoffensive]

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?"

[nonvenomous]

“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?”

[charmoffensive]

"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."

[nonvenomous]

“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.

[charmoffensive]

"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."

[nonvenomous]

It does need clarifying; there is already a defensive knit twisting into Richard’s brow when Derrica is mentioned by name. He’s capable of orchestrating it into a look of contemplation with only a very faint tinge of suspicion for Loxley’s half-hearted buy-in. He knows when bait is being gummed but not taken.

Even in the rain, the ferryman’s lamp makes picking out the subtleties easier for darkvision.

“I do.”

It’s evident that Loxley does too.

“She seems very well-intentioned. And stable.”

[charmoffensive]

Before he can think about it or help it, the corner of his mouth turns up at this last note of approval, and then shakes his head. "Steady," Loxley supplies, or agrees. "But now we're making her sound like a well-made table, so."

So. What did he ask? Oh yes—

"I'm glad you like her," he says. "I think she'd be a good ally for us. I mean, you know," the inevitable verbal stumble, "I like her for other reasons, loads of them, but, also, tactically speaking, she commands a lot of respect and," he gestures, vaguely, "I doubt would go quietly into Circledom if the time came for that, et cetera."

Certainly, he's not planning to either. "And, she's a good person. One of those."

[nonvenomous]

‘Circledom.’

Richard sighs like a horse, a gout of steam furled out thick through the lamplight, the rain, the slap of black water against the ferry’s flanks.

“She’s one of very few naturally inclined to empathize with us as people,” he agrees, once he’s girded himself back up in the warmth of the liquor buzzing in his veins. “And she saved me from death at the hands of a sexually frustrated Chantry brother.”

So.

“Are you still seeing other people?”