The breath he huffs in for rebuttal is spent without shaping itself into speech, tension screwed in tight at the back of his sternum and held there. He’s found a mark on the floor to frown at, his jaw worked and prickled and set.
“Obviously.”
The table, the lamp, the cat, the wan slant of afternoon light through the window.
“Am I to believe you’ve made headway in your research with the Tevinter Imperium crashing down upon the Free Marches?”
“Obviously.”
The table, the lamp, the cat, the wan slant of afternoon light through the window.
“Am I to believe you’ve made headway in your research with the Tevinter Imperium crashing down upon the Free Marches?”
By turn, Richard seems aware of the burdensome reality of his default recommendation. Still speaking to the ground, there is a distinctly defensive brace to his pause in suggesting:
“I could accompany you.”
“I could accompany you.”
“It’s difficult to make a case without knowing what your reservations are.”
He can guess.
He is guessing, the off-axis tuck of his chin already offended by some slight he’s imagined -- a matter of personality, or ability, or trust, as so often seems the case of late. It’s almost certainly his martial ability -- he thinks to the meaty clop of a Shriek’s blade into his thigh. Even in his dreams he’s pathetic.
It doesn’t really matter. The cold knot in his gut is the same.
“How deadly will it be for you?”
He can guess.
He is guessing, the off-axis tuck of his chin already offended by some slight he’s imagined -- a matter of personality, or ability, or trust, as so often seems the case of late. It’s almost certainly his martial ability -- he thinks to the meaty clop of a Shriek’s blade into his thigh. Even in his dreams he’s pathetic.
It doesn’t really matter. The cold knot in his gut is the same.
“How deadly will it be for you?”
Astarion is there soon enough, just as promised, weaving through the dark like a cat prowling along the edge of a railing: one foot after the other, silent as the grave— it's almost a wonder how something paler than a sheet manages to blend into Lowtown so effortlessly.
A smile's flashed when he's near enough, lopsided and unsettling. He's bid farewell to the fine leather that'd adorned him before, trading it for a simple, loose shirt with an open collar, bandages still peeking out from beneath its edge.
"Is this all you do for fun?"
A smile's flashed when he's near enough, lopsided and unsettling. He's bid farewell to the fine leather that'd adorned him before, trading it for a simple, loose shirt with an open collar, bandages still peeking out from beneath its edge.
"Is this all you do for fun?"
He doesn’t have to look to sense the confusion in that break, buttoned down as he is in a vice of personal dismay, frustration, and so on. There isn’t much buttery lamplight can do to soften the lines drawn in hard around his mouth, along his nose, between his brows.
But packing it all away still comes naturally -- a kind of psychological reflex upon recognition of how far off the cliff edge he’s strayed. All it takes is a pause for perspective to check against the dazzling flash of an impulse that’d see the table turned over and the lamp spilled and the wine bottle broken, very wasteful. And embarrassing besides.
So he’s quiet until it’s neutral on neutral.
“I could send Thot with you.”
She’s cleaning between her toes, which are splayed like Ellis’ hand over her belly. The faint fork to her tongue rasps once or twice at his wrist along the way.
But packing it all away still comes naturally -- a kind of psychological reflex upon recognition of how far off the cliff edge he’s strayed. All it takes is a pause for perspective to check against the dazzling flash of an impulse that’d see the table turned over and the lamp spilled and the wine bottle broken, very wasteful. And embarrassing besides.
So he’s quiet until it’s neutral on neutral.
“I could send Thot with you.”
She’s cleaning between her toes, which are splayed like Ellis’ hand over her belly. The faint fork to her tongue rasps once or twice at his wrist along the way.
"Not to worry, I can do much more than just that."
He follows that eyeline downwards, patting featherlight at the edges of his shirt where it gives way to wrapping, lopsidedly smiling in the most effortless reassurance imaginable.
"Shocking as it is to hear, I'm something of a vain creature. And while you've seen some of my scars, I'd like to avoid adding more to my current repertoire."
In other words, he's simply making sure those last, clinging, now-shallow little marks fade without so much as a single scratch.
He follows that eyeline downwards, patting featherlight at the edges of his shirt where it gives way to wrapping, lopsidedly smiling in the most effortless reassurance imaginable.
"Shocking as it is to hear, I'm something of a vain creature. And while you've seen some of my scars, I'd like to avoid adding more to my current repertoire."
In other words, he's simply making sure those last, clinging, now-shallow little marks fade without so much as a single scratch.
It's not exactly by-the-book, this routine of theirs. In fact, Astarion's fairly certain it's about as off the books as anything gets: Ellis sans visible defenses, strolling through unfriendly streets in order to draw out the worst the Kirkwall has to offer— and it has so much more than usual, as of late.
For Astarion, it's a gift. For Ellis, however...
"You're certain you won't get in trouble for this? After all, I...doubt it's what anyone had in mind when they sent you out here to play dutiful watchdog."
For Astarion, it's a gift. For Ellis, however...
"You're certain you won't get in trouble for this? After all, I...doubt it's what anyone had in mind when they sent you out here to play dutiful watchdog."
"Me? Worried?" Almost gasped, fingertips fanning all the more across his collarbone in a feigned show of surprise— that bleeds neatly into a dark, predatory grin.
"Absolutely."
And then, another switch flipped, his tone suddenly light. Amused.
"Because if an axe happens to come down, I'm going to miss seeing that pretty little head of yours resting neatly on those shoulders when you take all the blame, like a true hero."
"Absolutely."
And then, another switch flipped, his tone suddenly light. Amused.
"Because if an axe happens to come down, I'm going to miss seeing that pretty little head of yours resting neatly on those shoulders when you take all the blame, like a true hero."
“I’ve been without her before.”
If Wysteria hadn’t stepped in to assist him he might never have managed to fish her out of the Fade in the first place.
He sighs at the thought as he looks to her.
The shape she’s coiled herself into in Ellis’ lap is an unlikely one, feet kicked up and out, her head twisted under and around to get at them. Not quite an ouroboros, but certainly closer than any cat with a mammalian spine should be.
“I could,” he cannot quite help but needle back, claws pricked and retracted before he hoists himself back up into eye contact. Earnest. “I’d like to.”
If Wysteria hadn’t stepped in to assist him he might never have managed to fish her out of the Fade in the first place.
He sighs at the thought as he looks to her.
The shape she’s coiled herself into in Ellis’ lap is an unlikely one, feet kicked up and out, her head twisted under and around to get at them. Not quite an ouroboros, but certainly closer than any cat with a mammalian spine should be.
“I could,” he cannot quite help but needle back, claws pricked and retracted before he hoists himself back up into eye contact. Earnest. “I’d like to.”
“I have one.”
It would be magnificent if not for the scorched fur, the edges of stitched hide crisped black by demon fire, the faint stink of blood that clings coppery to the interior.
His arms are still folded, the carve of his frown preoccupied — with the logistics, perhaps. Thot pauses in her grooming to tilt her chin up after the attention her brow is getting.
“Would it surprise you terribly to hear that my name is not actually Richard Dickerson?”
It would be magnificent if not for the scorched fur, the edges of stitched hide crisped black by demon fire, the faint stink of blood that clings coppery to the interior.
His arms are still folded, the carve of his frown preoccupied — with the logistics, perhaps. Thot pauses in her grooming to tilt her chin up after the attention her brow is getting.
“Would it surprise you terribly to hear that my name is not actually Richard Dickerson?”
“Silas,” he supplies, after a sufficient enough silence to convince him that Ellis doesn’t intend to ask him. He’d helpfully suggested that the question of do you like stories is typically followed by the offer of a story if answered in the affirmative with much the same tint of put-upon patience.
Skyhold is something.
He contemplates standing and slips a slender folding knife from his vest instead. Once it’s flicked open, he can reach to take the bottle on his table by the neck.
“You’re free to leave,” he says while working steel through cork, as if he hopes it should have gone without saying. “I closed the door to argue in private, not to detain you here.”
Skyhold is something.
He contemplates standing and slips a slender folding knife from his vest instead. Once it’s flicked open, he can reach to take the bottle on his table by the neck.
“You’re free to leave,” he says while working steel through cork, as if he hopes it should have gone without saying. “I closed the door to argue in private, not to detain you here.”
“I prefer Silas, among friends.”
The cork is fiddly work and he is well-tuned into the twist of it, lest he slip and spill blood across his trousers. When the catch of it finally releases with a grimace and a muffled thwonk, he’s careful to fold the blade away again before he adds:
“But I will answer to either.” Or ‘Mister Dickerson,’ as the case may be.
He does not seem put off by his decision to stay. Even if it does mean that he’s forced to stand and plant the open bottle on the table so that he can retrieve a cup from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Thot has rolled and stretched a paw up in pursuit of Ellis’ chin.
The cork is fiddly work and he is well-tuned into the twist of it, lest he slip and spill blood across his trousers. When the catch of it finally releases with a grimace and a muffled thwonk, he’s careful to fold the blade away again before he adds:
“But I will answer to either.” Or ‘Mister Dickerson,’ as the case may be.
He does not seem put off by his decision to stay. Even if it does mean that he’s forced to stand and plant the open bottle on the table so that he can retrieve a cup from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Thot has rolled and stretched a paw up in pursuit of Ellis’ chin.
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