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

[chainlightning]

Even the alienage is quiet, save for the looming presence of the vhenedahl. It creaks and groans in the wind, but so does everything, Merrill's house included. Still, there is wood on the fire and a murmur of magic to light it (she usually doesn't start a fire so frivolously, but it is cold out and staying in wet clothes won't help). There is other wood, too; small bundles of kindling and large bundles to burn and keep burning. There are a few hooks near the door, and Merrill sheds her own cloak to hang it up, letting the water run down to the floor.

"You can hang it there, if you want-" with a gesture to another hook, as Merrill busies herself with taking off other items of clothing that are sopping wet and not at all helpful. She stays dressed, for Marcoulf's sake, but it is tempting to change into something else and bundle up in furs.

Barkley, her little mutt of a dog, ignores them both, shaking himself free of water and stretching in front of the fire.

"Can I get you anything?"