i declare this meeting of the midnight society [closed]

[esquive]

WHO: Merrill + Marcoulf
WHAT: Ghost stories
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: Kirkwall, Merrill's house
NOTES: N/A, will edit if applicable

It's a dark and stormy night.

No, really. It's really coming down. The gale cutting through Kirkwall's harbor is so fierce that even the industrious fisherman that might sometimes be persuaded to row out to the Gallows after the ferries have quit service (for three times what is fair, of course) can't be roused to the work. Shutters have been closed. Lamps and signposts have been taken down from their hooks to keep them from being scattered and broken on the paving stones in the night. Even the whores and cut purses have tucked in off the streets.

More to the point, it's so cold and so wet that Marcoulf has been persuaded by the promise of a fire to follow Merrill into a place he'd otherwise not be caught dead in: Kirkwall's alienage. Usually when he finds himself stuck in Kirkwall (by accident or design), he makes his way to the Inquisition's stables and makes do with the relative comfort of the hayloft. But the wind is cutting enough that he'd have to bury himself in straw and the prospect of picking it out of his clothes and beard and hair for the next week is just torturous enough to have Marcoulf almost grateful about ducking in through the doorway of her home and out of the sleeting, bitter cold rain.

He promptly sheds his cloak and shakes the water from it.

Comments

[esquive]

"I wouldn't refuse something to drink."

This, a little stilted as Marcoulf goes about hanging his cloak on the offered hook. It's the sort of thing he'd say to anyone, made somehow strange and awkward for the fact that they're in a house in the alienage. Nevermind the bizarre streak of hospitality - it seems strange and awkward to ask for much of anything here. (More to the point: would he want to drink it?)

(Probably. When has he ever been particularly choosy? Lately especially.)

[chainlightning]

"I can do that!"

Merrill almost sounds surprised by it - but then, when Hawke had visited, all she'd ever had to offer was water. There is water, but there's enough of it outside that Merrill doubts that's what Marcoulf wants. She has her Satinalia gift from Yngvi, though; Avvar mead that she hasn't touched, sitting in a slightly dusty cupboard. The bottle itself is quickly blown free of dust and Merrill sets it out before grabbing two mismatched cups.

"I haven't tried this yet - haven't had a reason to, I suppose."

But rained in and locked away from Kirkwall is as good a reason as any.

[esquive]

If there's ever an excuse to get to drinking, riding out a winter storm in the alienage certainly seems like a good one.

As Merrill chases down the bottle and something to serve it in, Marcoulf sees to the hearth. He puts his hand under chimney's opening and is mollified to find it mostly dry, which at least means that getting the fire going won't take them all evening. Which, he may not be much of a guest, but this he at least can do properly. As she putters around on one end of the narrow little house, Marcoulf does the same here: arranging dry wood from the stack nearby and fiddling with the sawdust and chips beneath it.

"This isn't much of a party. Save it you'd rather."

[chainlightning]

Thank the Creators for Nari, honestly; it had been the other elf who had helped repair Merrill's home to keep it actually dry, fixing the leak that had been present since she had moved in. The other elves in the alienage had done their parts, as well, from watching it while Merrill was away to smaller repairs. No one was here now, though; just herself and Marcoulf and Barkley, and the ever-present sound of the storm outside.

"Oh, I don't really throw parties. I've been going to more lately, I suppose, but that's more because the Inquisition is going. Or having them."

Despite her lack of party experience, Merrill does manage to get the bottle open fairly quickly as Marcoulf pokes at the fireplace. She pours a generous amount for them both and sets one of the cups down on her small table, close to the fire, for her guest.

[esquive]

Maker, what's the Inquisition bringing a Dalish elf to parties for?

--Is specifically not what he says. Instead, Marcoulf goes with the slightly more diplomatic, "Been to the Provost and Madamoiselle Baudin's wedding then, I suppose." They seem the kind to entertain strange party guests on account of being a pair themselves.

Snap says the flint and steel on repeat. After a few strikes, some spark catches. Marcoulf pokes the ember further down in under the kindling.

[chainlightning]

To party, clearly.

Merrill is entirely unaware of Marcoulf's train of thought, and instead cheerily responds. "Yes! I was going to go anyway, but then Lady de la Fontaine asked me, and I wasn't going to say no. It was lovely!"

Yes, she went to the wedding on the arm of an Orlesian.

There's no real sign of Orlais in her home, though; Merrill is fetching blankets for her sitting area and most of them are either Kirkwall in make or Dalish. Some of the blankets are woven, while others are furs. She sets a few on the chairs before wrapping herself up to watch Marcoulf work on the fire.

"If it doesn't want to cooperate, just let me know."

[esquive]

"It'll come along." He sounds certain as settles on his heels, crouched still for a moment near the hearth from where he can easily poke at the infant embers. For the moment, the spare chair and Merrill's pile of blankets is left alone. The cup though? He takes that up with his bad hand - the first two fingers all clumsy - and nurses it as his good hand manages the fire. Outside, the wind blows and the rain batters. The weather in combination with the company is an unpleasant reminder of--

A low noise, the prod of a stick in the burgeoning embers. "More likely to catch here than on that blighted island, in any case."

[chainlightning]

That blighted island, indeed. Merrill shivers under her layers at the thought of it, reaching out for her own cup.

"That place," she murmurs, tone perhaps surprisingly dark for someone who is usually so full of light, "The whole island should be reclaimed by the sea."

The weather had certainly been trying. Still- Merrill wasn't sure if the rain could wash away the darkness that had taken root in the Abbey. Even with the ring back where it belonged, there was still the blood and the rift and the horror of what had happened.

Perhaps it wasn't any better to have it in the ocean, but at least then no one else was likely to go visit.

[esquive]

"It likely will. The people will leave it and it will be forgotten as it's meant to." With the Abbey ruined, what reason was there left to be there? The fishing village had been little more than a ramshackle excuse for the people who'd traveled there for the healing of the Chantry there. Surely the sea wasn't reason enough to stay there. Plenty of that to be had in every direction. For some reason that thought, cold as it is, satisfies.

Good. No one should live in a place so grim as that. Just the thought of it makes this lean to house in Kirkwall's alienage seem pleasant by comparison.

He sets the stick aside, trades the cup into his good hand and hefts himself upright. Good enough, seems to be his official opinion of the fire.

[chainlightning]

"I hope so."

Her voice is quiet, and Merrill pulls her feet up onto her chair after a moment. She is a small elven ball covered in blankets, and she sets her cup down long enough to adjust the fabric and furs so that little more than her face and dominant hand are left exposed. It makes her look a bit like a rather fat rodent, but she's fine with that.

"Thank you for getting the fire," she says after a moment, not wanting to dwell on the Abbey and what they had found there - what they had learned there. "Much easier to warm up with two people sharing the work."

[esquive]

"No trouble," he says as he sorts himself - bundling himself clumsily in one of the furs with his awkward hand, settling into the spare chair there. It takes him a few moments to still, to relax into nursing the drink, to stretch his long narrow legs out toward the hearth. He avoids bumping the dog. Lets his chin rest low against his chest and the prickle of the dense fur.

After some minutes of being a very poor conversationalist indeed as the cold melts slowly from the room, he manages: "Have you had the house very long?"

[chainlightning]

"Oh, yes." She sounds a bit startled - either because she was too engrossed in warming up or because she's only just realized that she has, in fact, had the house for very long. At least, very long in Dalish considerations of staying in one spot. Despite the surprise, her expression gives way to a soft smile and she tilts her head to one side.

"Since... mm, 9:31 Dragon, now." She laughs a little. "Goodness, that really has been a while. I wasn't always here, of course; when I was in Skyhold or the like, the others would stay here and look after it."

'The others' meaning the other elves in the alienage, and she gestures toward the door when she says it.

"How about you? Do you have a house you're planning on going back to?"

[esquive]

He-- laughs. It's a small, crooked sound. He seems briefly startled by the question, a flicker of unease flashing in his face behind the veneer of good humor. "No, no house for me," he says. "When the Inquisition is finished, I'll see about finding work guarding a merchant train or something like it."

In theory. Until a few weeks ago and the matter of his hand, that had seemed the natural assumption. Today, with the cup balanced gingerly in numb fingers, it seems-- slightly more questionable. But it isn't as if he'd say so to some Dalish woman. It's none of her business.

[chainlightning]

If Merrill notices the unease, she doesn't mention it. She knows plenty of people with no houses, no homes to go back to. Whatever Marcoulf's story, she knows him now, likes him now.

"There's always merchants to guard," she says agreeably, settling back into her chair. "It's not as though robberies have stopped even with everything going on."

That would have been too kind.