{ inbox } hadriel

[nonscriptum]

This is Nate, you know what to do. I'll get back to you.

Comments

[nonscriptum]

[ Yeah, no shit word travels. But it only travels to those who are looking for it. Rafe wouldn't know fuck-all about Nate or his exploits if he didn't ask people, because that kind of information is liable to get you killed even in an industry this far underground. People don't volunteer details without copious drinks or money, everyone is in it for something, for their own benefit. There are reasons Nate left the business behind, and they're not just relegated toward the continued use of his kneecaps.

For a long moment Nate stares at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion, feeling increasingly discomfited that whatever reputation he has is apparently still kicking years after his retirement to a normal life, a normal livelihood. ]

Like what?

[chardismastic]

[ Rafe scoffs at the question, eyes rolling in exasperation and if it keeps him from having to meet that stare head-on for a moment, well. Then it does.

Half the shit he's heard is likely puff, exaggeration, the usual distortion that comes from it being told by friends of friends of a friend. Still leaves a hell of a lot in the realm of "probably". Still so much more than any other ten men can claim across the whole of their careers. He lists them off one by one, the greatest hits. ]

Ubar. El Dorado. Shambala.

[nonscriptum]

Yeah, and?

[ They're not small accomplishments, he knows, and Nate has sketchbooks full of material on them, notes and scribbles about ancient lands, fragmentary pieces of history he pockets along the way. Things he can't sell or give to a museum for lack of provenance, things that gather dust in the boxes of his attic office.

None of it garners fame. It's not what he wants, anyway. ]

What do you care? It's not like any of that gets slapped on the cover of National Geographic.