Inbox - Fade Rift

[bignasty]

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

Comments

[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?”