[OPEN] falling through what's left of the fractions

[esquive]

WHO: Marcoulf & YOU
WHAT: Keeping busy and getting re-acquainted with Kirkwall's hot goss
WHEN: Early Bloomingtide
WHERE: All Over Kirkwall
NOTES: Can be before or after phylactery shennanigans.

I. JUST HORSIN' AROUND - THE STABLES

Tang! The sound of a hammer on iron rings in the courtyard.

Early on, Marcoulf had made the mistake of refitting one of the roan mare's shoes in sight of someone with a keen eye for putting new faces to work. Meaning his afternoon has been filled with putting bits of metal on an whole assortment of hooves - a number of which belong to animals not half so patient as the roan he'd ridden in on. The struggle to keep his subjects still has begun to plant an ache in his lower back and bruise the inside of his knees. The muggy pending-thunderstorm heat has the whole yard sweating.

Tang! He twists the cold shoe on the anvil horn and wails on it once or twice more, allowing himself to be purposefully finnicky over the shape. Anything to delay putting the nearby horse's leg up between his again. A moment ago the stupid animal had tried very hard to pull away while Marcoulf had been driving nails and nearly put its foot where it emphatically didn't belong. When he can put it off no longer--

"You." Yes, you. "Hold his head a moment." Marcoulf gestures to the horse with the hammer and jams a few nails between his lips.

II. GUARD DUTY - WHEREVER THAT HAPPENS

The rain falls so thick that come evening, visibility relies entirely on pools of barely sheltered lamplight. The weather's so heavy that it's surely driven even the most dedicated Inquisition sentries have retreated into doorways and into whatever shelter can be eked out of the shadow of Kirkwall's imposing walls.

Marcoulf certainly has anyway. His cloak, once waterproofed, has become sodden enough that the damp has begun to penetrate and the rain is so bad that he can't imagine anyone would choose tonight to cause trouble. No need to make themselves more miserable than necessary.

At some point, he produces a paper packet from a pocket. There's cheese in it. He offers it wordlessly to his companion. Sharing is caring.

III. A LONG LIST OF TO-DOs - MISC.

He sits poorly. Marcoulf can be found in a variety of Kirkwall's corners, quietly fussing over some task or another. He has a sword in need of sharpening, a pittance of coin in need of spending (new shirts, please and thank you), and some good old fashioned gossiping to eavesdrop on. The city's rife with talk and he intends to take in some part of it.

Need a note run? A sparring partner? Looking for an escort through shady back alleys at night? Despite what the scraggly appearance might suggest, you could pick worse.

((ooc: I'm good for whatever, but if you're thinking of something in particular that you want a starter for just shoot me a PM and I'll scrape something together.))

Comments

III

[villieldr]

Magni doesn't quite loom - she has the height for it, but not the dramatic intention. She's still something of a presence, with a giant hammer resting on her shoulder. She's not terribly talkative (an understatement), and she's walking back towards her new set-up in the Gallows when she spots someone familiar. Or, rather, possibly spots someone possibly familiar, and doubles back, swinging her hammer from her shoulder and using the top of it to gently butt Marcoulf's shoulder.

Hello, friend.

[esquive]

Technically speaking, he's in the middle of something. But as far as busy work goes, watching a handful of Templars beat away on practice targets in the muggy humidity of the courtyard is the sort that can stand interruption. Not that Marcoulf's initial instinct is to appreciate being butted in the shoulder (however gently). Mouth thinned and brow set, he twists around.

He sees the hammer first and the woman connected to it second, but the recognition sparks immediately after. Nevermind that its been some years since they did their work together - her looks are familiar enough that there can be no be no mistaking her given the combination of the heavy hammer. Marcoulf offers his hand to grip her forearm or some equally familiar gesture, his spare thumb still tucked neatly in his sword belt.

"You're some way from home, madam." There's a squint-and-miss-it wryness there, a crookedness to his mouth under the whiskers that might be good humor.

[villieldr]

Magni returns the gesture - her grip is firm, steady, before she eases. Her mouth is caught in a smile that isn't understated, exactly, but certainly isn't the wild, easy grins that some around these parts are inclined to. For all that, though, it's lacking neither warmth nor sincerity.

It takes a moment for her to speak; she does so rarely. This may actually be the first time she's said something she got here. "And you."

So verbose, many word.

Perhaps being far from home is a relative term; certainly there are enough cultural clashes between Orlais and everywhere else that she feels they are not on entirely uneven ground. Setting down her hammer, she looks over to the templars, and tilts her head in a silent question, eyebrows raised - what do you think?

[esquive]

Ah. Consider him heartened to find her so unchanged.

Marcoulf squints back to the templars sparring and sweating in the yard, pausing to consider them. Eventually: a shrug and a wobbly hand gesture. "Not bad."

He's seen worse fighting forces as of not so long ago. And perhaps it's the child in him, but even now there's some appeal to the flash of heavy armor and the shape of that sign on their shields. Maybe then he speaks more to the fact of their presence here in the Inquisition as it's stuffed on complication. The templars must be as fractious a segment as any other here. He would have to be blind and dumb not to recognize that. But at least it can be said that should something go terribly wrong as it has in Kirkwall before, that someone will be around who knows a thing or two about defending against what mages might do.

Anyway. He looks to her and raises his eyebrows right back. "You?"

[villieldr]

She leans against a convenient... something. A stack of barrels, maybe, fingertips tapping very lightly against the coarse, weathered wood before she purses her lips a little, tips her head to the side. Not bad seems a reasonable assessment. Some are better than others, of course. Certainly Templars have access to different training than Magni herself has ever accessed, or sought.

"They fight with expectations," she eventually settles on, after a lengthy pause that might have driven people who didn't have some familiarity with her to assume she was just never going to reply - and generally she would just have left it at body language, because more wasn't necessarily... well. Necessary. Pointing to one of them, she elaborates, "he swings his sword like he wishes it were an axe."

I

[coiledscales]

Alacruun is crossing the courtyard, a couple of books that he's borrowed from the library under his arm. His mind is elsewhere, considering the recent political developments and trying to figure out how to get a decent foothold in this organization. Playing the lackey is not something he enjoys. On the other hand, does he really want that much attention-?

Oh, wait, someone is talking at him. A human.

Alacruun blinks slowly and then looks over his shoulder, as if expecting there to be someone behind him.

"...I've never shod one of those creatures in my life, you know."

He hasn't moved yet.

[esquive]

Marcoulf pinches the nails between his thumb and finger to keep then from slipping as he mumbles across his knuckles: "--Didn't ask you to. His head. The headstall. Have a hand to check him if he pulls."

Juggling the hammer and shaped shoe into one hand, he demonstrates with the other by tucking his fingers under the leather band of the halter. Firms his grip there for a beat, then gives his new apprentice a look so blank it can only be called expectant. Nevermind his victim's apparent unfamiliarity with the work; surely any Qunari is sturdy enough to manage that much.

[coiledscales]

Alacruun looks incredibly nonplussed by all of this and he allows the moment to stretch out, until it really is awkward and he's still just staring at Marcoulf. Then he finally sighs, as if he suffers far too much for someone of his intellect and stature, and carefully sets his books down where they won't get in the way and strides over. He doesn't know horses at all.

So he simply grasps the bridle firmly and holds still. He is big and that counts for a lot.

[esquive]

For better or worse, the moment Alacruun has a hold on the animal Marcoulf simply nods curtly, rearranges the nails held between his lips to the corner of his mouth and then goes about his business of convincing the horse to fetch up his leg like a gentleman. Gratitude must be saved for the end, right?

The problem - indeed, the reason for the impromptu recruitments - becomes immediately evident the instant Marcoulf has the heavy hoof clutched between his knees. The horse begins to lean back against Alacruun's hand, rocking all his weight against both the grip and letting the foot grow heavier and heavier as Marcoulf doggedly hammers nails into it.

The grumbling out of Marcoulf might be cursing or it might be, "Pull him forward."

I

[justice_is_blond]

"What, his head?" Anders looks from the man to the horse and back, hands full of the barn cat he'd come down here to visit. It sinks in that the man is not going to be able to answer with nails in his mouth, though, so after a moment of trepidation Anders gently sets the cat down and comes closer.

"I need my hands, you know." How do you hold a horse's head in a way that doesn't get you bitten?

"Hello, horse," he offers tentatively before putting his hands on the horse's cheeks. This isn't a cat or a cow or even a griffon and he has no idea what he's doing.

[esquive]

Mistakes have been made.

That seems self evident from the moment the other man sets the cat aside and picks his way closer to the horse like a steel trap. Marcoulf only has half an ear for him then, already looking past him to see if there's someone - anyone - else he might trade in for.

Welp.

He tucks the horse shoe into his belt. And turns on his heel, for every appearance abandoning Anders to the horse's company. --For a second anyway. Marcoulf crosses the yard, fetches a bucket, and stuffs it full of hay from the pile heaped against the yard wall. When he returns, he passes the bucket to his assistant. Mumbling: "Keep his attention."

[justice_is_blond]

For that second, Anders is actually worried. Horses are big. Horses are unpredictable. And one that needs to be held still is probably even more unpredictable than most... but then the man comes back.

Anders takes the bucket while trying to not look too relieved, holding it up to the horse who is happy to start munching away.

"I take it he doesn't appreciate what you're on about down there? Are you putting shoes on him?" It's the best guess he can make. For all that he doesn't pay a lot of attention to horses, there are some things that can be guessed at. "...Have you done this much?"

[esquive]

With the bucket passed away and the horse happily shoving his face into it, Marcoulf fetches the shoe from his belt and fetches up the hammer-- pausing to regard his impromptu assistant and all his questions with a blank look and a definitively brief: "Yes."

Which must apply to all of the above, given the next moment he's coaxing the animal's foot up and clenching it there between his knees.

"If he pulls, rattle the bucket," he mumbles around the nails while setting the shoe on the upturned foot.

ii;

[earthbones]

Usually in the evening after she's sluiced off the filth of the smithy, Brónach heads back to the Templar tower to do some reading with Galatea, but these evenings she's too restless to inflict that on a girl. (For all that Galatea has done, she's a girl, a girl with goodness in her or the intention to it, to do something else with herself.)

So outside. Hood low. Thieves guild leathers are made for every eventuality not that they're known here and she's been curled tight to a wall for who knows how long, pressed into the shadows. She could go out. Go thieving.

Her heart isn't in it, there's no Nocturnal to nudge her here as she tilts her head to let the water run off her hood and--

"That's-- just cheese? Nothing else?" Hopeful. Maybe a little too hopeful but some people (some elves, she's a little taller than most but that left hand glows beneath the gloves) are really into their cheese.

[esquive]

Cue a low noise of apparent affirmation. As far as he's aware anyway. That said, it's clearly the cheap kind that crumbles. There are reasons why he's been keeping it in the little wax and paper packet and all of them are to avoid it turning to paste in his pocket and nothing to do with keeping the lint out.

"They've a kind with rosemary, but this isn't that." That sort doesn't belong in a pocket even if he could afford it (ha). This isn't terrible though. It certainly beats standing in the grim, rainy evening staring at the cramped through-way leading into the Inquisition's dock space without cheese.

Simple pleasures.

[earthbones]

That means there's always some sort of food when you're up shit creek and reduced to rummaging in your pockets. Everyone's been there at some point or another, surely. Even here. Maybe especially here, who knows.

"Who ruins cheese with plants in it?" Pushing the hood back as she says it gives a better glance of how her mouth curls at the idea of it because Skyrim had the decency at least to be filled with people who kept the cheese simple. Wheels. Wedges. Near exclusively from goats. "I've got--venison or rabbit, cured. No salt."

Not hard to imagine why, Inquisition stipends being what they are.

"Haven't seen your face before, new or good at keeping it out of the light?"

[esquive]

There's a cant to his head that says 'Both,' but what comes out of his mouth is: "The first. I've been here in Kirkwall before, but not for some time. Or," --with a gesture up the narrow avenue leading deeper into the Inquisition's end of the docks-- "Like this." New to the Inquisition, but no a stranger to Kirkwall; fresh to this post, but not unfamiliar with standing in the rain making small talk with a partner who is a stranger. Even the Inquisition and its strange company can't change the city so much, and one job where he's expected to stand guard is much the same as any other.

(That said, she'll have to forgive his attention for straying now and again to the sickly green glow leaking from the edge of her glove. That part is irregular.)

Marcoulf tucks a piece a cheese into his cheek and adds, "The venison would be fine." If neither's salted, he'll take that over some stringy hare.

4 caspar

[esquive]

The Hanged Man is crowded tonight. Up until minutes ago, it had also crackled with an uneasy tension so thick it might be cut and parcelled.

News of the agreements made in the wake of the mage's strike travels so rapidly as to be instantaneous. When paired with the dissatisfaction of a handful of rifters (there's no such thing as Inquisition business) and the consequential suspicion levied in return, then given a few days to stew-- well, it's inevitable that every man, woman and child in the city has resolved their opinion into a stone worth throwing. And change, it seems, is not so easily brokered in Lowtown as it might be in other diplomatic chambers. Kirkwall is a city with history and it remembers abominations and mad templars in its streets. In the hour he's been there, Marcoulf has witnessed the narrow avoidance of at least two brawls. The night is young and knives threaten to be both sharp and quickly drawn.

Avoiding dead bodies to be sorted or spiteful arson is almost certainly why a moment ago the barkeep had climbed onto a stool and ordered the tables to be cleared to the walls. In celebration of the upcoming Tourney, he'd bellowed, they'd be holding their own competition tonight. No knives, just knuckles. Winner gets drinks for a week. Trouble gets disqualified and thrown out onto the street.

A bracket is drawn up. A child is hoisted onto a tall shelf and instructed to scream if she sees anyone break the rules. And at once, the brewing stormcloud transforms itself into shouting and cheering, the smack of fists and the heavy crash of bodies being toppled to the dusty floorboards and half the Hanged Man's patrons take swings at one another and the other half hollers encouragement.

For himself, Marcoulf leans to the grossly good looking man beside him and says, "I'll put money on the big man with the scar there." He touches his forehead and draws a line that clearly indicates one of the fighters. Marcoulf then offers his hand: Deal?

responds to the horse prompt anyway

[excipio]

Caspar isn't brawling or cheering, but he isn't excusing himself, either. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, quietly tipping his drink back when the man beside him offers a bet. It takes him half a second to decide he'll take it. Because it's fun, for one; and there's no better way to make a friend than to lose your money to them in an honest bet. He holds his response for a moment anyway, giving both fighters a quick once-over.

Violent as it is, it's a graceful fix for the inevitable chaos. He's just wondering how long it'll take for the good-humored taunts to boil back into heated debate.

"Deal." He shifts his weight and uncrosses his arms, nonchalantly offering his free hand to make the deal official. "Ten silvers?"

and after I slaved over a hot keyboard for you!!

[esquive]

Ten silvers. There's no hesitation as Marcoulf takes the man's hand. Done. As if to punctuate the agreement, one of the fighters in the make-do circle takes his first, wild swing. It connects with a snap of flesh and a holler from onlookers. It's not in Marcoulf's favor, but the way the big man takes the hit is a game enough sign that he doesn't feel any need to rise on his toes to get a good look. Instead, Marcoulf tucks his thumb neatly (habitually) into his sword belt and downs what remains of his drink.

"This can't last much longer." The bout (which has quickly descended into outright brawling) or this arrangement the tavern has going. "Might as well make the most of it while the place is still standing."

hey bitch remember me LMAO IT'S LITERALLY BEEN ALMOST 2 MONTHS just kill me

[excipio]

"No." An easy agreement to the man's observation. He watches as a man on the sidelines slips past the line and gives one of the fighters a rough shove, one step away from turning it into a team sport. It's the fighter with the scar, but he rallies quickly — quickly enough to round on the audience and deck the guy who'd shoved him.

Caspar's eyebrows lift, amused, but he doesn't move. It's not rowdy enough to merit clearing the area just yet, and there's a chance his man will take advantage of the distraction to the win the fight. But if this is going to be a straight-up brawl—

"We may need to adjust the terms. Most knock-outs wins, or last to fall?"

Is he actually going to stand around to see how it plays out?? Doubtful, and there's a levity to his voice that says as much.

4 galatea

[esquive]

In the grand scheme of work done in the Inquistion's service, running notes is hardly the most glamorous. But this one at least - pages wrapped tightly inside a stiff leather tube, both its end caps sealed with wax - takes them outside the bounds of Kirkwall proper and well out along the coastline. They're to follow between the jagged foothills of Sundermount and the crash of the Waking Seas's coastline to meet with a patrol of agents with reports from-- somewhere. Marcoulf hadn't been told (in this instance, he's the muscle and not the brains) and he hadn't asked.

Granted, he'd prefer it if they were on horseback instead of trudging along through the dirt and scrub brush to rendezvouz with the scouts posted out here; but you can't have everything. No need to complain about the rest. If he started, there would be plenty else to find some fault in and who has the time?

"How much farther, do you think?"

His hand resting easily there on the pommel of his sword, Marcoulf fixes his companion with an expectant look as they pick their way alongside the sludge of the roadway. She must know this work better than he does, shouldn't she?

[kecharitomene]

About six months into her time as a scout, and Galatea is—

well, she's got a bit of practise under her belt, and some of her professional skills translate well enough, but not all. Such extensive travel is still new enough to feel novel, over unfamiliar terrain and to strange places. She spends a lot less time in basements, any more.

“Before dark,” she hazards, and it's a pretty good guess, but it does sound suspiciously like exactly what the fuck it is. She offers him a sunny little smile: “Unless we fall into the sea.”

Then, probably a while. Her boots were the sea's blue, when they set out; mud has discolored them almost unrecognizable, now, adding another job to her mental list upon return.

“Have you got a tinder box?” just idly.

[esquive]

He'd rather not go swimming (drowning). Best to hope the road doesn't deteriorate as much as all that. The tinder box though - that he can humor her with, and does. From the small bag at his side, Marcoulf produces a much beaten metal box. Its top is engraved prettily with a bird, the sides marked in a series of rough X's. He turns it over in his hand - holds it out to her, but doesn't give it over.

"Why?"

[kecharitomene]

“Not for today,” she says, waving it away—so airy, those little hands, except for the fact one of them is still wearing one of the spiked knuckledusters that had come in more useful earlier in their journey, roads and bastards who follow them looking for easy coin being what they are. “But you can take wax off carefully, with a little fire.”

She tosses and catches that stiff leather tube, raises her tattooed eyebrows at him meaningfully.

“Maybe put it on again a little clumsy. Maybe see what someone does, if they think their mail is tampered with. Not today.”

Galatea has a lot of experience in fiddling with mail, of late.