Inbox - Fade Rift

[bignasty]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.

Comments

action; vague timing

[extortionate]

Look, not like Lazar's the biggest guy around. But you get used to it, making assumptions. Assumptions like: I'm pretty big, or I've got some time to kill, and No one else takes this shift.

"Fucking hell," Dumas is a shadow to blot out the lantern. Lazar crumples pages away in a hurry. There's still ink abandoned on the table, and the tower's logbook still neatly shut away. "How'd you get up here that quiet?"

[bignasty]

“Well it’s tough to hear anything at all with your head buried in your ass, isn’t it?”

Dumas, who has somehow wall clipped onto the scene near silently in full armor plate and with a sword on his hip, looks Lazar up and down after the source of all that crumpling. Performing a sort of ocular patdown.

But there is at least one more direct means to demystifying a mystery.

“What are you doing?”

[extortionate]

"Shit-all," He replies, and does his best impression of a shiftless layabout. Well: The particular breed that doesn’t have ink-stained fingers, and a packet of parchment tucked under one armpit. "Reckon that’s why ’s so dark out?"

What with burying heads in asses. The chopper at Lazar’s side isn’t exactly regulation, but little in the armory is since Riftwatch split. There’s a tin eye clipped to his chest, had to be nicked off Inquisition leftovers, but little other obvious sign he’s meant to be here — in a guard tower — at all.

[bignasty]

How much weight can this table hold?

It’s probably been here for centuries -- of good, solid make and rich grain, leeched through deep with whatever foul magic took root here back when the courtyard ran slippery with the blood and shit of fresh done slaves.

Dumas decides to test it, perching lady-like on the corner, with one great paw braced back near the ink, and his hair crested silver with sweat. Looks like he’s been out in the heat making rounds on the wall. Smells that way, also. He pushes that back hand all the way over to retrieve the logbook.

The table gives an ominous creak.

“What’s that, ah...” he trails off a beat, train of thought set adrift while he flips the book open on his knee for a skim, “what’s that you have there under your arm?”