[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

[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.

[esquive]

Ah. It's a sentiment that clearly shows in the proximity of his eyebrows to his hairline, and is punctuated by the flick of his wrist as he slides the tinderbox back into the kit at his side.

"I suspect I could report you for that, you realize." Though there's little tooth in the threat as his thumb tucks lazily in at his belt. Bored, is she? After a moment of slogging along, though: "You'd have to be carrying a whole packet. Otherwise the first person someone would look to is whoever delivered it."

[kecharitomene]

“Not unsanctioned,” she chides him for his (justifiable and not inaccurate) paranoia (while mentally adding: in front of you). “But they want us to scout for information, yes? Yes. It's like lighting fire to a house. They have to come out.”

This is called taking initiative. Having ideas.

And if she shares her ideas, then they have no reason to think she's using them for anything else, anywhere else. (Just like it'd be hard to tattle on her for tampering with mail when she routinely tampers with Coupe's mail, a little game until it isn't.)