One could be forgiven for thinking Dickerson might bring more to the table than shave and a haircut rapped sharp into the wood of the front door. If that one is Loxley.
If there is a peep hole, he stands well clear of it after knocking, long and lean and dongling a bottle of wine by the neck close to his knee. A furry hat keeps the cold off his scalp; he has a scarf looped warm around his neck and conspicuously -- no cat.
The threat of snow is in the air, in the fog of his breath and the filmy haze that blots out the moons and stars.
Click-clunk-tick, and so on, as locks are unlocked. More than is average for your standard shitty Lowtown apartment, but maybe even before then, Richard might have picked out the few signs of reinforcement on both this door and a few of the others that crowd the open-air hallway above the Anvil.
"How'd you guess?" is Loxley's greeting, waving Richard in—with a mind to preserve the warmth in the room, too, closing the heavy-set door behind.
The source of the warmth can be attributed to a small iron stove in the corner, smouldering red through iron, and some vents set low in the wall that funnels in a warm air from somewhere below. A couple of indoor lanterns illuminate the room in gold, showing off a slouchy if generous bed pushed far in the corner, a trunk with a good lock on it, and a scratched up table and chairs by the barred window. Shoved out of the way is a jangle of thick fabrics and ropes that looks like it pulls out into a hammock. Empty wine bottles decorate the sill, and candles in suspiciously fine sticks are centred at the table. A tatty but clean, colourful rug protects feet from a cold wooden floor.
Still, it's chill enough that Loxley has on a rough woollen jacket over his shirt. Promias never touched a full Kirkwall winter, or even its late autumns. Off a shelf, Loxley takes down a couple of mismatched goblets.
Dick is the sort of shabby that cuts an uninviting silhouette down the alleys of lowtown -- bony and narrow beneath the bristle of bear fur at his shoulders, an undead hang to his gait. But his eyes are sharp in a glanced greeting, distinctly alive in their inspection of what Loxley’s done with the place once he’s inside, in golden light and stove warmth.
It looks lived in.
He takes off his hat, and he’s missing a notch of his ear to match the rake of a fresh scar across his cheek.
“Just thirsty,” he says, once he’s confident there’s nowhere a third party could pop out of. The trunk, perhaps. Beneath the bed. Both unlikely. “This is very homey.”
Loxley, for his part, has healed from any fresh scrapes he's acquired over the past month. Some nicks and bruises from the skeleton invasion, but nothing being good friends with at least two healers and a few healing supplies couldn't rectify. He offers to take the bottle from Richard, and fill both their cups.
A glance around as he does, as if registering the cosiness on a delay. "Makes a change, doesn't it?" he queries. "Abjurative domes of magic in the middle of a field were always so impersonal."
"Thedas, certainly, has presented me with the unique opportunity of staying in one place for longer than I can remember doing."
Which he'd hated distinctly, for a time, but nice rugs really do tie a room together. Loxley passes a cup of wine to Richard, settling down at the table. "You look well," is truthful, on account of being relative.
A wary flash of his eyes from the passed cup to Loxley’s face betrays skepticism that runs bone deep, but it’s a nice thing for him to say regardless. So Dick says, “Thank you,” before he takes his own seat and “so do you,” once he has.
A long sip hangs bitter on the back of his tongue. It takes work not to make a face at his own offering.
It takes less work for Loxley, re not making any faces at the bitter notes in the wine, and that could equally be attributed to being fairly good at deciding what his face ought to do at any time as well as the fact his taste in wine runs fairly cheap anyway. And besides, it's a gift, even when shared.
"Good," he says. "Um."
A pause, some mental pivot happening before he adds, "Keeping busy," and if this comes across somehow coded, it manages to avoid sounding like a euphemism for nonstop carousing, so there's that. "I don't suppose it's very boring in the Gallows? Even outside of terrorism and Nevarra's finest showing up unannounced."
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
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[ The curl of humour in his tone implies there isn't one. ]
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--
One could be forgiven for thinking Dickerson might bring more to the table than shave and a haircut rapped sharp into the wood of the front door. If that one is Loxley.
If there is a peep hole, he stands well clear of it after knocking, long and lean and dongling a bottle of wine by the neck close to his knee. A furry hat keeps the cold off his scalp; he has a scarf looped warm around his neck and conspicuously -- no cat.
The threat of snow is in the air, in the fog of his breath and the filmy haze that blots out the moons and stars.
no subject
"How'd you guess?" is Loxley's greeting, waving Richard in—with a mind to preserve the warmth in the room, too, closing the heavy-set door behind.
The source of the warmth can be attributed to a small iron stove in the corner, smouldering red through iron, and some vents set low in the wall that funnels in a warm air from somewhere below. A couple of indoor lanterns illuminate the room in gold, showing off a slouchy if generous bed pushed far in the corner, a trunk with a good lock on it, and a scratched up table and chairs by the barred window. Shoved out of the way is a jangle of thick fabrics and ropes that looks like it pulls out into a hammock. Empty wine bottles decorate the sill, and candles in suspiciously fine sticks are centred at the table. A tatty but clean, colourful rug protects feet from a cold wooden floor.
Still, it's chill enough that Loxley has on a rough woollen jacket over his shirt. Promias never touched a full Kirkwall winter, or even its late autumns. Off a shelf, Loxley takes down a couple of mismatched goblets.
"Hungry or just thirsty?"
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It looks lived in.
He takes off his hat, and he’s missing a notch of his ear to match the rake of a fresh scar across his cheek.
“Just thirsty,” he says, once he’s confident there’s nowhere a third party could pop out of. The trunk, perhaps. Beneath the bed. Both unlikely. “This is very homey.”
...Sounds like a compliment.
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A glance around as he does, as if registering the cosiness on a delay. "Makes a change, doesn't it?" he queries. "Abjurative domes of magic in the middle of a field were always so impersonal."
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“A different degree of temporary,” he agrees.
“It’s easier to forget, here.”
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Which he'd hated distinctly, for a time, but nice rugs really do tie a room together. Loxley passes a cup of wine to Richard, settling down at the table. "You look well," is truthful, on account of being relative.
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A long sip hangs bitter on the back of his tongue. It takes work not to make a face at his own offering.
“How have you been?”
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"Good," he says. "Um."
A pause, some mental pivot happening before he adds, "Keeping busy," and if this comes across somehow coded, it manages to avoid sounding like a euphemism for nonstop carousing, so there's that. "I don't suppose it's very boring in the Gallows? Even outside of terrorism and Nevarra's finest showing up unannounced."