hopepainandshit | TLV: IC Inbox

I know you're stalking me.

I'm up on deck.

...no you don't.

[Busted, but not ashamed in the slightest.]

Be there soon.

[But it's nice being given directions.]

He's sitting in a chair, only looking back when Richter arrives.

"You'd be stupid if you weren't. And you aren't stupid."

Somehow Richter still wasn't quite prepared to see him in the flesh again. Like how from behind, he could almost pretend he'd get that brilliant smile when Corvo turned, that Emmaline would peek out from his collar.

The sullen, tired look he gets wipes the thought in an instant, and he just shrugs.

"Thought you deserved a few days to get your head on straight before I came and bothered you about it," he says instead.

Corvo doesn't look at him. He looks over him, past his shoulder. Because if he looks at his face, he'll see his face, he'll see himself, he'll see Emily. He'll see how much Jessamine would have loved him for the fighter he is.

He doesn't want to see any of that.

"Well, that remains to be seen. I spent six months in Coldridge, boy. I can do a few days here."

"Yeah? How long between Coldridge and here?" Because by all accounts it sounded like everything was already in motion by the time Corvo was dragged in.

He's nosy, but it's a useful comparison point.

"Three months. Two, maybe." He turns back around. "I lost count of the days and weeks."

It had been easy to do. The days just - blended together.

"Right, so. Giving you a few days seems like a courtesy that no-one else's bloody done for you," he points out dryly. "So I think you've fucking earned that."

"Good. So the first breach was fucking - terrible," he mutters. "Do they get worse, I wonder?"

"I'm not sure, that was my first, too." He grabs another deck chair as he walks closer and drags it next to Corvo's, sitting on that instead of claiming the end of his chair. "I've heard people talk about a zombie one before. Must be all sorts."

He watches him, quickly looking away.

"We have something like those at home. Or, at least what I've heard of zombies," he explains.

"I know they exist, but I haven't really encountered them myself," he comments easily, but he keeps watching Corvo with bland curiosity. "Mostly we fought night creatures and vampires. I used to hunt a little as well, when money was tight, I guess the breach sort of used that for me instead."

He does not want to talk about the breach. Not this directly. He grunts in annoyance and stares off into the stars.

"They are called Weepers, at home."

"Were they a common problem?" If you won't talk about the breach then let's talk about home, sucker! "You've said magic isn't common, so. There wouldn't be many necromancers to summon them, right? Or did they just sort of happen?"

"They're not magical. They're not dead. They're - ill. The last stage of the plague sees men and women so ill that they aren't themselves. They're aggressive, sickly, and will attack anything that moves. They - " He pauses. "They have blood running from their eyes. Hence the name."

"Jesus Christ." It sounded less like a plague and more like rabies, but - horrible, regardless. "Those poor bastards."

He couldn't agree more. "There was no cure for them, not even from Sokolov."

He stretches out his legs and slouches a bit. "I've kept two of the rats from that flood. Never thought I would have them so close, but they're useful little things. And they don't have the plague."

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