catchall

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Richard Dickerson, friends, enemies, and neutral parties
WHAT: Closed starters, hmu if you want some Dick. Wildcards ok.
WHEN: Before Antiva, during Antiva, after Antiva.
WHERE: Thedas
NOTES: Long overdue for some CR building, ping me if you want to scheme out a reason for them to hang or hit me with a wildcard.

Comments

[kantikoy]

There's a denial on Adrasteia's lips — it wasn't about the sex so much as Adrasteia's concern that someone would see Sidony's frequent visitations to her room and come to the correct conclusions — but it wasn't not about that, so.

It dies there, and she blushes instead.

She could ask him a personal question, like 'do you have anyone here?' but she knows the man well enough now that she recognizes it would not necessarily be a comfortable conversation for him.

Instead she just pours him tea and hands him a cup.

"Thank you." A breath, as if she were to say something else, and then a little shake of her head.

[nonvenomous]

“Thank you.” For the tea, which he has to shift Thot over to reach out for. For tolerating him turning up in the middle of the night to rib her. For being patient and kind and -- perhaps presumptuously in advance -- for her discretion.

It’s all a lot of sentiment for one snake and he’s still deep enough in his cups to be caught up in an aimless muddle between them.

“Good tea,” he says. And, in lieu of elaborating on his permeating relief for what must qualify fully as a rescue at this hour and in his condition: “Were you going to say something?”

[kantikoy]

"Yes, I..." A soft frown, as she rethinks what she wished to say. Some sort of warning, perhaps, that Ellis would not likely become willing to initiate him into the Grey Wardens. She's not sure, anymore, if admitting that would be a good idea. Perhaps a thought best left for the morning's light, as opposed to now. "But I think it can wait, actually."

She gives a little shrug and pours herself more tea.

"I am curious, though: why do you still stay in the Gallows? For housing, I mean."

[nonvenomous]

A wary pinch at his brow marks some suspicion over the nature of whatever has gone unsaid, his capacity for insight less impaired than the rest of him. Bad news.

It’s easy to agree in this case that it should wait; he doesn’t press the issue. It’s late. He’s beat. Every part of him feels heavy against the seat he’s sunken into. The inkblot flop of his cat is palming biscuits wherever her cold beans can reach.

He breathes out, a great puff of air pressed out flat under his mustache and over the rim of his cup. This is what letting go looks like -- a physical dropping down to the question she’s asked in return.

“If there is another incursion I’d rather be in the Gallows in a position to assist than stranded across the bay.” Provided he isn’t locked up in the infirmary healing from whatever other drama. “It’s also safer there. For a Rifter.”

He sips by way of punctuation.