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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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."