[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

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

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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.

pepperidge farm remembers

[esquive]

"Last to fall, unless you're volunteering to wade in there to check for consciousness." There being what can only be described as a crowd with rapidly disintegrating patience. The child on the shelf has shouted an alarm, but for the moment the girl's shrill barking is enough to remind the surly knot of onlookers to behave themselves as the two fighters in the circle get back to swinging at one another instead of the crowd.

The peace, if it can be called that, lasts for a few gnarly traded punches. Marcoulf takes the opportunity to drain the rest of his cup, sensing in a few moments he'll otherwise be forced to forget it. Which: he's already paid for it, so unforgivable.

The inevitable happens. The fighter with the scar lowers his shoulder and throws himself into his opponent, running his backwards right into the audience participant. There's a split second of scuffling as all three of them topple to the floor. Marcoulf sets down his cup. Pandemonium erupts as the bystander's friends jump into the fray. The girl on the shelf sets off shouting, the fighting circle dissolves into a flurry of brawling, and the barkeep fetches a cudgel. Worst of all, from this vantage Marcoulf can't see whether either fighter has managed to find their feet again. Grumbling, he climbs to stand on his bench to get a better look into the mess.

"I think your man might still be on the ground."

He hasn't spotted his yet either, but whatever. Technicalities.