[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

[villieldr]

A nod; absolutely, to both. She'll make it high(er) priority, even.

She doesn't hold out her hand for the blade, for two reasons. First of all, the two of them are comparatively new faces here, so whipping out a sword in front of someone skittish could lead to unnecessary melodramatics. Second of all, and perhaps more importantly, she wouldn't presume to request a friend's weapon and leave them unarmed in, again, an unfamiliar and strange place with the reputation that the Gallows and Kirkwall more generally have. Strange people from beyond the Fade, Templars, the Chantry.

The forge door way is open, stone archway and descending staircase.

"They have some good runes here. If you wanted more—" A gesture, her fist closing. Oomph.

[esquive]

He follows her down the stairs without a second thought, glancing over his shoulder only to place this passage in relation to a landmark or to visible from the doorway. He'll want to find his way back here again and the squared, blunted architecture of Kirkwall tends to belie how easily lost a person can become in unfamiliar courtyards and shadowed Gallows corners.

"The sword is fine without," he says as they make their way down stone staircase. It should be cooler there out of the sun, but the heat of the forge beyond leaks outward. The narrowness of the stair is stifling. "But I've a dagger too. That could afford it if you need the practice."

Hilarious.

(No, the rapier is at it's most useful and discreet as a workmanlike blade. Best to keep it unremarkable.)

[villieldr]

Hilarious, indeed. She huffs out a near-silent breath of laughter, though it has won a smile out of her, as she pushes the door open. "I will make you a hammer. You can practice using that."

The room is currently not inhabited by other workers, and she moves over to her work station, brushing aside a couple of designs she is working on.

"Just wear, or did something happen to it?" The blade in need of sharpening, she means.

[esquive]

Is both an acceptable answer? Because that's the one.

With a flick of the wrist, Marcoulf hooks his thumb into the ornate basket of the blade and draws it. It's flipped with an able motion, then offered to her hilt first. --Where the damage done is immediately recognizable. The seam where the guard meets the quillon has come apart and been subsequently patched. The quillon itself has been pushed just faintly crooked from the additional span of metal and the the tang shoulder of the blade suffering from the tension. It's minor. But it throws the balance and asks to be broken a second time by the right blow at the wrong time.

The blade wouldn't hurt for sharpening either.

"Caught a mace some time ago. Collapsed the guard here and here." He gestures to where the looping steel has clearly been reworked. "The repair is--" That gesture turns into a wobbly back and forth tilt of the hand: 'Eh.'