He brings with him the stink of expensive wine on his breath over undertones of the wildfire smoke he’s been marinating in. His cloak is black. The coat beneath it is black. The gloves, trou and vest beneath that: black.
Only his hat is a variable poff of grizzled browns, furry, flap-eared, and pulled down snug over his brow while he considers the door. In spite of his wine breath, he’s steady where he’s planted -- not so soused that he needs to lean into the frame. He stands there for a long moment before he knocks. A long moment.
But he does knock: shave-and-a-hair-cut, so she can take that as she will. ]
Someone smells like they've made a fine evening of it.
[They're not quite a matched set, but all things considered it's a comically near thing. Fitcher, standing in the doorway, is dressed almost as uniformly dark - close cut black breeches and a similarly jet shirt, the chalk markings of her costume's 'stripes' scuffed to grey smudges. The white shock of fur at her collar, the faint trace of kohl about the eyes, and residual ghosts of whisker patterns on her cheeks are the only real remnants of her Les Chats themed costumed to have survived the evening.
She is however rather more sober, or at least good at pretending for the seconds it takes to spread the door wide so he might pass into the cramped, bog-standard room beyond.]
[ It’s the whisker remnants that get him. He ChUcKLeS, and the grin lines that go with it make it all the way up to his eyes, in a rare showing of real mirth grown true from the bottom of his black heart. It doesn’t escape him that they are matching, either -- one hand raised half in mock apology, and half in mock defense in the off chance she tries to shut the door on him as he sidles by.
Justifiably. ]
If I’d known I would be spending the night here, I would’ve brought clean pajamas.
[ He’s already shrugging off his satchel, and slinging it heavy into whatever part of the floor isn’t already claimed for house Fitcher. ]
If I'd known to expect a guest, I would've paid for a room two feet wider.
[The door is crammed shut and its bolt thrown. An urge to set her hands on her hips is heroically resisted in favor of stepping wide to avoid trampling his things, threading the needle between the boozy preying mantis in her midst and the cot.
Perching (lounging) at the edge of the bed is like being out of the way.]
On a rooftop, [ says Richard. He is telling the truth.
Once she’s seated, he has room enough to turn and sink into a sit on the floor, with the wall at his back to ensure he makes it there upright. He pushes his satchel beneath her cot on the way, past her legs with a glance up to reassure her that he is behaving in that vicinity. He starts to grin again at her vestigial kitty cat make-up.
But he's really doing his part to open up the space, the cramped nature of which does not seem to phase him. ]
It's almost winter, [--in tones of, Obviously it was cold.
She settles further, hooking her heels (in stockings; her boots have been removed already and are lurking under there somewhere alongside his satchel) up onto the thin mattress. It is a simple thing to resume making herself comfortable, which for the moment equates to finding all the little dark pins keeping her braided hair up. She begins amassing a small collection.]
Tell me you didn't spend the whole evening skulking above ground.
[ Skulking is such a loaded word. The sidelong reproach he musters in return as he reaches for the clasp of his cloak is half-hearted. ]
Not all of it.
[ For some of it he was breaking and entering.
Which is the other reason he doesn’t particularly want to get caught out sleeping on a roof somewhere with a bag full of jewelry and coin. It was heavy, when it hit the floor. ]
[Her Mmmm as she lies back and continues to remove hairpins doesn't make it sound as if it was a terribly rewarding evening.]
I believe next year I will resolve to make fewer wagers. If I'm to stay in Kirkwall, it would be prudent [she says, flicking a pin in his direction] to spend slightly less of my time running up my tabs.
[Living on a literal island fortress can only keep the creditors at bay for so long.]
[ The pin pops off his shoulder and skitters down between his long legs just as he’s pulling his cloak over his knee. There’s a flinch timed with it -- mild, muted, a little resigned. It’s what he deserves.
Previously concealed beneath the snug cuff of his collar, a needling tongue flicks at his throat. Flicker flicker, and Ribbon pushes out to begin her unctuous descent down his chest in pursuit of the pin’s clatter. Black on black, save for the pale slip of her belly under her pinstripes.
You could be a cat burglar, [ Richard suggests, helpfully. ]
[ The snake finds purchase in creases and around buttons -- she’s nearly to the discarded pin when Dick relocates her into the boot he’s just slipped off. The boot gives an unhappy lurch once she’s puddled in there. ]
I usually do. [ Admission, with a token sliver of apology and a more studious look as he moves onto boot #2. Is this going to be a problem? ] She’s harmless.
[She regards him and his snake boot for a full moment, and then tips her head - an easy, dismissive quirk of the eyebrows. Fitcher turns her attention to flipping her collar up and unwinding the white fur out from under it.
Apparently, no. Not an issue.]
I'm not sure having the Guard on my heels in addition to the rest is an improvement.
[ As he’s regarded, he pauses to regard her back, awaiting a ruling one way or the other. It occurs to him that he might have to put his boots back on.
Ribbon has no such concerns, and is well on her way to cresting the neck of her boot to escape the human stink pit she was dropped into when approval is granted. Richard resumes undressing, insofar as removing boots and cape and coat qualify. ]
[ Having attended card games himself, with or without the intention of cheating, it’s clear at a glance that Richard Dickerson can’t relate.
He shucks the second boot, loses his gloves, unfastens his belt, and pauses halfway through twisting out of his coat, because he is tired. There is a vest beneath it. Why wouldn’t there be? The snake makes the most of this moment of stillness, and disappears herself up under the fit of it.
Bent back against the wall, temporarily stuck in his jacket with loose skin bunched between collar and jaw, Richard breathes. Steady in, steady out. Tres sexy. ]
[She gestures down the length of her with one hand, Ta-da.]
Magestoffelees, of course.
[Her hand returns, settling somewhere she might set her cheek in its long palm so at to be most comfortable during her observation of his aborted escape attempt.]
Should I call for a surgeon to cut you out of there?
[ Of course Magestoffelees. He closes his eyes at her offer. Just for a moment. ]
They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
[He looks, she decides, a little like a collapsed tent that's somehow made more of poles than of canvas.]
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
[ Staying still is an easy ask. Just as he’d watched her settled on the cot, he watches her pad around him-- late to clock that the blanket that drops across his knee has been deliberately shared.
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
Edited (what if i just switch formatting randomly) 2020-11-22 17:39 (UTC)
[Her hm is a low, meandering thing over the soft rasp of faintly shifting clothes and blankets as the dark mane of her hair passes through her fingers and is rebound.]
Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.
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no subject
Engel House. Round the corner from the coopers at the south end of the market district. I'll see if a cot can be spared.
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[ And he is.
He brings with him the stink of expensive wine on his breath over undertones of the wildfire smoke he’s been marinating in. His cloak is black. The coat beneath it is black. The gloves, trou and vest beneath that: black.
Only his hat is a variable poff of grizzled browns, furry, flap-eared, and pulled down snug over his brow while he considers the door. In spite of his wine breath, he’s steady where he’s planted -- not so soused that he needs to lean into the frame. He stands there for a long moment before he knocks. A long moment.
But he does knock: shave-and-a-hair-cut, so she can take that as she will. ]
no subject
[They're not quite a matched set, but all things considered it's a comically near thing. Fitcher, standing in the doorway, is dressed almost as uniformly dark - close cut black breeches and a similarly jet shirt, the chalk markings of her costume's 'stripes' scuffed to grey smudges. The white shock of fur at her collar, the faint trace of kohl about the eyes, and residual ghosts of whisker patterns on her cheeks are the only real remnants of her Les Chats themed costumed to have survived the evening.
She is however rather more sober, or at least good at pretending for the seconds it takes to spread the door wide so he might pass into the cramped, bog-standard room beyond.]
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Justifiably. ]
If I’d known I would be spending the night here, I would’ve brought clean pajamas.
[ He’s already shrugging off his satchel, and slinging it heavy into whatever part of the floor isn’t already claimed for house Fitcher. ]
no subject
[The door is crammed shut and its bolt thrown. An urge to set her hands on her hips is heroically resisted in favor of stepping wide to avoid trampling his things, threading the needle between the boozy preying mantis in her midst and the cot.
Perching (lounging) at the edge of the bed is like being out of the way.]
Where were you intending to spend the night?
no subject
Once she’s seated, he has room enough to turn and sink into a sit on the floor, with the wall at his back to ensure he makes it there upright. He pushes his satchel beneath her cot on the way, past her legs with a glance up to reassure her that he is behaving in that vicinity. He starts to grin again at her vestigial kitty cat make-up.
But he's really doing his part to open up the space, the cramped nature of which does not seem to phase him. ]
It was cold.
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She settles further, hooking her heels (in stockings; her boots have been removed already and are lurking under there somewhere alongside his satchel) up onto the thin mattress. It is a simple thing to resume making herself comfortable, which for the moment equates to finding all the little dark pins keeping her braided hair up. She begins amassing a small collection.]
Tell me you didn't spend the whole evening skulking above ground.
no subject
Not all of it.
[ For some of it he was breaking and entering.
Which is the other reason he doesn’t particularly want to get caught out sleeping on a roof somewhere with a bag full of jewelry and coin. It was heavy, when it hit the floor. ]
How was your luck?
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I believe next year I will resolve to make fewer wagers. If I'm to stay in Kirkwall, it would be prudent [she says, flicking a pin in his direction] to spend slightly less of my time running up my tabs.
[Living on a literal island fortress can only keep the creditors at bay for so long.]
no subject
Previously concealed beneath the snug cuff of his collar, a needling tongue flicks at his throat. Flicker flicker, and Ribbon pushes out to begin her unctuous descent down his chest in pursuit of the pin’s clatter. Black on black, save for the pale slip of her belly under her pinstripes.
Richard ignores her to start on his bootlaces. ]
Have you considered exploring other hobbies?
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[With the last pin withdrawn, the cord at the tail of her heavy braid is undone and all her dark hair shaken loose. Shifting back up onto her elbow--
A pause.]
You have a snake on you.
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[ The snake finds purchase in creases and around buttons -- she’s nearly to the discarded pin when Dick relocates her into the boot he’s just slipped off. The boot gives an unhappy lurch once she’s puddled in there. ]
I usually do. [ Admission, with a token sliver of apology and a more studious look as he moves onto boot #2. Is this going to be a problem? ] She’s harmless.
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Apparently, no. Not an issue.]
I'm not sure having the Guard on my heels in addition to the rest is an improvement.
no subject
Ribbon has no such concerns, and is well on her way to cresting the neck of her boot to escape the human stink pit she was dropped into when approval is granted. Richard resumes undressing, insofar as removing boots and cape and coat qualify. ]
Is it not the inherent risk that appeals to you?
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He shucks the second boot, loses his gloves, unfastens his belt, and pauses halfway through twisting out of his coat, because he is tired. There is a vest beneath it. Why wouldn’t there be? The snake makes the most of this moment of stillness, and disappears herself up under the fit of it.
Bent back against the wall, temporarily stuck in his jacket with loose skin bunched between collar and jaw, Richard breathes. Steady in, steady out. Tres sexy. ]
Which chat were you?
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Magestoffelees, of course.
[Her hand returns, settling somewhere she might set her cheek in its long palm so at to be most comfortable during her observation of his aborted escape attempt.]
Should I call for a surgeon to cut you out of there?
no subject
They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
Happy Satinalia.
no subject
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
no subject
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
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Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.