faderift | [OPEN] lets say its like the sunrise

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[OPEN] lets say its like the sunrise

WHO: Flint, Wysteria, Marcoulf + YOU
WHAT: Guardian Catch-all
WHEN: Right Now
WHERE: Kirkwall, unless otherwise noted
NOTES: Hit me up if you want a specific starter!

FLINT

I. BIRD'S EYE VIEW
Somewhere in the Gallows, there is a narrow interior courtyard. It's shielded by much of the weather if not the chill by the high walls surrounding it which makes it more conducive to loitering than most. In this courtyard, a minor noblewoman from Ostwick and a merchant of some middling means are carrying on a conversation while the noblelady tosses a ball down the length of the narrow yard. Her dog, long-legged and mad from hours locked away in a Gallows apartment, races after it - digs up the winter bare planters - rolls in the ice - while his mistress is saying:

"--It could be done, of course. But the price would be astronomical."

The shape of the conversation wanders upward, carried by the cold air and the narrow walls of the courtyard to where on the balcony above, a man in a dark coat is taking some air. Flint stands far enough from the balcony's wall that it would be difficult to see him from the courtyard below. He's nursing a steaming cup of something and is absolutely not eavesdropping.

WYSTERIA

I. INDEPENDENT STUDY
There's a young woman with possession of an entire table in the library. Frankly speaking? That's rude and unfair to the six dozen other scholars jockeying for any available study space to be found in the Gallows. And yet Wysteria Poppell persists with her charts and papers and open books sprawled about her in every direction.

For the most part they're awfully boring sorts of books - natural history and long, dry examinations of the Fade. But one of the books - in fact the one that sits open over top of everything else - is at least interesting for the fact that it's so comically massive and seems to be all but crumbling under its own weight. Wysteria's isolated a section in the back and seems to be studying this book very carefully indeed, pausing frequently to make chicken scratch notes in the sheaf of papers at her right hand.

(Yes, she is technically avoiding her work for Base Operations by hiding out here. No, she'd rather not discuss it.)

MARCOULF

I. WICKED GRACE
The weather's miserable to the point that they're no point in spending any more of it than necessary out in that cutting harbor wind or through the rain and sleet slick the plagues the higher reaches of the city. Between patrol assignments along the Inquisition's harbor space and work in the Gallows, Marcoulf spends any spare scrap of time available near whatever fire is most convenient.

Translation: he's in a tavern, nursing something warm to drink with a hot plate of doesn't-really-matter-as-long-as-it's-warm while losing hands of Wicked Grace. Hemorrhaging the coin this way should bother him (it does); he shouldn't be spending it in the first place (he is).

"Ah," He makes a low noise, then turns the card he's just draw face up on the table. There she is: Lady Death. Time for a show of hands.

II. MUD WRASSLIN'
Kirkwall is no city for a horse in the best of weather. It's all miserable stone roadways and twisting stairwells, made incalculably worse by the rain and the freeze and the melt and the rain and-- All the sand and dirt pulled down into the Inquisition's stables compound and training yards have only turned to mud in winter. The creatures there - exercising fighters and unused mounts - are the worst combination of restless and caked with filth. Trying to keep anything clean and happy is a fool's errand.

But here Marcoulf is, religiously making an attempt anyway. The little roan mare keeps shifting around and stamping her feet, mud-clumped tail thrashing irritably while he scrubs at her mud-caked haunch with a stiff bristled brush. He keeps having to raise an arm to fend off the WHACK! as she swings it like a mace.

[[...or wildcard whatever you want/shoot me a PM for a starter. I'm not the boss of you.]]

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She's asleep in the stable. It was the first warm place she found when she was tired of roaming the rooftops in the night. Someone had warned her they might try to shoot her, if she continued to do this, she had mostly declared they could certainly try.

She's curled up, deep in the recesses of the rafters, her coat wrapped around herself firmly, the big hat covering her face. This is how she usually sleeps. Finds some nook somewhere and just squeezes her small frame into it like a rat and draws all the leathers in tight to keep her body heat in. It's the irritable noises of the roan that wakes her, draws her up, and then the obvious daylight wakes her further. She spends another moment longer curled tight into the foul smelling cloak of hers, daydreaming about someone dead.

Then she comes down. She looks as sunken eyed and pale as always, and she offers voice still muffled with drowsiness, "Do you need help?"

THACK! The mare's mud-clumped tail finally makes it through his defenses, giving him a solid beating where he stands. Marcoulf hisses at the impact, pinching the mare on her soft underbelly, newly scraped clean. The horse pins her ears accordingly, continues to flick her tail with irritation and simply adds the irregular, bored bob of her head to the elaborate dance she's performing. He doesn't imagine it possible to really lose his temper at the nasty little thing, but maybe he's near enough to it that the company - however unexpected, however ragged - is a relief.

Marcoulf takes a full step backwards from the mare, retreating to stand beside Anna outside the mare's range. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, a little clumsily with the bristle brush still in his grip.

"There's no helping it. She only needs her legs stretched, but getting in and out of the city in this weather is a curse." A tip of the head in her direction, head cocked just far enough to make some effort at seeing beneath the broad brim of her beaten hat. "Sleeping here, are you?"

She tilts her head to look back at him, the leather that laces up around her face loose enough to see inside. A drowsy, placid look.

"Did-- for a bit," she agrees. There's some small amount of pleasure in her tone. The horses had been comforting, shifting and huffing beneath her, great bodies of warmth. It had, for maybe a moment, taken her back to a forgotten childhood when she and her sister had huddled into the hay together when they'd had nowhere else to go. Perhaps her daydreams weren't so terrible this morning. "It was nearby."

She wouldn't want to give the impression she would be returning.

"I could hold her tail for you," at the very least. Maybe give her a reassuring pat or two.

It has been a long time since Six has deliberately sought out Marcoulf. She has stopped training with him; she had stopped seeing him, tracking him down, bothering him. The only time she allows herself to think about him is when she is tacking up or brushing down her horse, when her mind wanders and she thinks of that day when he had aided her. Inevitably, it makes her think of her wrapped up and bandaged leg, her crutch, the heartbreak of realising that what she thought was true was a lie.

It cannot be avoided forever, however; there's no way that she can dodge him until she dies or is forced home. He is there in the Gallows, he is sent on missions, they are pushed and dance around one another.

Six isn't entirely sure what their mission is; all she knows is that she's been sent to work with Marcoulf. The rest of it is a blur, her mission orders crumpled in her fist as she realises that they're going to be forced together and it is going to be awkward. Neither of them are good at speaking, neither of them are good at conversing with one another, and she has to force herself to gather her confidence. She is better than this, she thinks; she survived death. She can survive an awkward, broken friendship with a man she respects.

She goes, strapped in full armour, sword on her back, hair braided. She does not let herself fumble or falter; she stands tall, reaching to stroke her hand over the snout of her horse, resting her forehead against his before she breathes out. Waiting.

He makes a low sound - hm - that might be for her sleeping habits as easily for the rest of her offer. But after a moment's consideration, Marcoulf cocks his head to indicate back up into the loft. "Fetch some hay. She may stand if you're there and feeding it to her. Holding the tail won't do any good."

In the meantime, he knocks the thick bristles of the brush against his knee to free some of the collected mud and dirt.

"Did the cats keep you company?" In the autumn, the loft had been home to a litter of kittens. They're grown now, wandered off or swept up mostly, but sometimes he sees the piebald mother and one of her dark girls.

It isn't so complicated as all that. The work isn't anyway. They've only to ride out east along the wounded coast to meet some merchant wagons from Ostwick, the limping result of a small trade skiff run along the rocks in the high winter sea, and see them back into Kirkwall. It's all at the behest of some minor Lord or Lady whose name he can't recall, who had forgotten as soon as it was told to him because he cannot imagine it will be at all relevant. They have orders, a signed and sealed letter from the noble in question, and merely need to present the packet to the merchants before falling in with them. It's easy work, allowing for the fact that the wagons will be bristling with guards of their own, and the poor weather will keep most trouble from the road entirely.

Anyway, the company is reliable as well so even if the orders weren't simple, there would be no reason to fuss.

Which is maybe why Marcoulf seems so at ease when he appears in the barn. He's a pair of saddlebags slung over his shoulder, a heavy cloak wrapped about him and a felted hat low on his head. Alongside Six's big gelding, a roan mare is tacked up and waiting as well. She's a spry little thing, as ginger and lean as her master. Her head comes up when Marcoulf appears in the doorway.

"Good morning," he says to Six, as if it hasn't been weeks since they last exchanges any kind of real pleasantry. Without pausing, Marcoulf moves to the roan mare, pats her shoulder, then slings his kit up behind the saddle. "Are there stops you would see made as we leave the city, or may we go directly?"

"Cats?" she's already turned away to head back into the stable. "Why are people always asking me about cats?"

Maybe it was a normal topic of conversation and she just didn't realize that. All the cats had fled Yharnam. The dogs and rats and crows had all mutated as they consumed more and more infected flesh, but there wasn't a cat in sight. Not even the corpse of one. Apparently they had realized long before any others that something was amiss in Yharnam. The loss of them had not been a primary concern as more and more dead bodies had piled up in the streets.

Maybe because she seems like one, all well bundled in her tatty old clothes, making a habit of wandering in strange places and sleeping in hay lofts. He thinks it, but doesn't say as much - just scrapes the mud out of the brush and spends a few minutes scratching the roan mare high behind the ears as Anna fetches handfuls of hay.

When she returns, Marcoulf has the horse by her headstall. He's scratching her mud flecked cheek.

"Mind her teeth. She'll nip your fingertips if you don't."

"Aye," agreed with a yawn. "Lakshmi says the same about her elephant."

Anna had been in favor of euthanizing the elephant and using its bones for weapons and armor, although she had certainly not voiced that opinion to Lakshmi. She'd been giddy with blood and hadn't much cared what was going on around her.

The mission might end up being quite simple, but Six is anxious all the same. She thinks her sweet gelding can feel it too, can feel the way her hands twitch a little with nerves as she pets along his face and flank, trying to soothe a nervousness in him that isn't even there. He snorts, shaking his head, and she sighs as she forces herself to move back. There's no point getting him more and more anxious because of her own nerves; it will do no more than make the journey more awkward and uncomfortable. More than she thinks it already will be.

She almost jumps when she hears Marcoulf's voice behind her.

Turning her head, she glances at him, eyes flickering over his features. He looks relaxed, comfortable, as if their disagreement - was it even that? - hasn't bothered him in the least. It makes her feel all the worse for the sadness she has felt, as if she ought to have stopped herself from feeling the twisting mix of guilt and uncertainty all over again. How foolish she has been, to think him her friend and then feel such uncertainty about herself after.

"Good morning." Quietly, soft, gentle. Different from her usual certainty and confidence. She moves around herself, strapping on the saddle and checking everything she needs before she goes. "I do not need to stop. We can make a direct journey."

He nods curtly, tugging hard on the saddle bag to be certain of their security, and then just as simply looses the mare's tether and leads her from the stable by the reins. The little roan horse seems eager to be on her way, mincing about the courtyard like a princess fussed about the mud though she goes stock still the moment Marcoulf puts his foot in the stirrup. She's back to restless shifting and circling the moment he's seated, light on her feet like she means to run from the city.

And just like that, he's waiting on Six and her gelding instead of the other way around.

Marcoulf makes one low skeptical noise that has nothing to do with the elephant's ability to chew fingers off - a whole hand, even - and everything to do with everything else that is wrong with the creature in question. Eats too much. Shits too much. Takes up too much space. Were Anna to voice her opinions on the creature, he might very well agree with her

"I'm sure she does." He resumes the task of scraping dried mud from the mare's sides. The roan resumes the flick, flick, flick of her tail accordingly. It's a small, threatening gesture, but hasn't yet escalated back to full scale beatings. "Does Madame Bai have you working for her too?"

It's an uncharitable question - as if Lakshmi isn't allowed to have friends.

Eyes dance over him as he gets up and makes himself comfortable on his horse, and Six hesitates. Her fingers stroke against soft hair gently before she gathers herself and takes a deep breath - then she turns, climbing up onto the gelding's back and tugging on the reigns. He's still easy enough to ride and doesn't complain under the weight of her and her armour, which she appreciates; a click of her tongue and she's moving up to Marcoulf's side.

"Apologies. I am ready." Her gelding huffs another snort and she smiles at him fondly, stroking against his mane.

With some imperceptible shift of Marcoulf's knee, the roan is off: jigging keenly from the courtyard with enough enthusiasm that she has no trouble staying alongside (or even nosing slightly ahead) of the larger gelding. Her rider attempts very little in the way of conversation as they make their way through the crowded Kirkwall docks, then cut up a main thoroughfare and climb their way slowly up the long winding road that climbs up from the sea to the high road.

But if Six cares to? Well, surely there's plenty of small talk to be had if she cares for it. They've weeks since they last said much of anything to one another; in that time the Gallows has slid halfway into the void and back. Maybe her hair has grown longer. He's wearing the silver bright rapier at his left hand.

"Mmm," her own vague note of disapproval and skepticism. Rather than let the silence drag on indefinitely while she thinks about what to say, she starts with the simplest part, which is: "No." She is not working for Lakshmi.

The rest is more complicated and she takes her time feeding the horse, not paying any attention to her nipping teeth. Even when she does snip at Anna, she doesn't much notice through her gloves and through her heavy thoughts.

"I see a Hunter-- In her." She licks her teeth, still rolling the words in her mouth with reluctance. Being a Hunter is so many complicated things she isn't entirely certain she's made clear to Marcoulf, but she doesn't want to talk about it. Giving it words made it all real again. She regrets how much of it she'd spoken on when the veil had been thin. She wishes she could choke it all back down, take it back, and keep the poison buried. "I asked her... to take charge of it, should I turn."

Well. There's. That.

Six knows that he has always been a very quiet man; she had never desired to push him, to make him admit or do or say anything that he did not want to. She knows that she had pushed him to his limits on a number of occasions, in the Gallows, in the barn, on the battlefield. She was pushing him too hard and too far and demanded too much of him - she has regrets for that, for having assumptions about the nature of their relationship that could not be met.

Quietly, she takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down and relax before she speaks.

"Have you been well, since the battle?" As they have not spoken, as she had been avoiding him, as she had been taking care not to interact with him too much or make too many more demands.

It's a testament to how radically his life's shifted on assumption of his new duties that Myr isn't one of those six dozen scholars trying to find a place to sit; he has the luxury of an office to himself now when he wants to study. But he's still down here often enough--for his Chantry discussion group, to drop in on the archivist, to borrow a tome or two for that self-same study--that it's sometimes a temptation to plunk down at one of the tables to do his reading instead of hoofing it all the way back up the tower.

Today is one of those days; and given the dismal weather outside, Myr's not inclined to fight that particular temptation as he ambles through the stacks with a slim volume tucked under one arm. Old habit laid down before he could see guides him to him to his favorite table--only to find it occupied. Very occupied. Impressively, extravagantly occupied, by only one person.

One very busy person who--yes--might be in breach of library etiquette but that doesn't warrant Myr's being impolite (or needlessly surprising) in turn. He drifts to stop beside the table, smiling a little to watch her work hard as any apprentice before an exam, and clears his throat to make himself known. "Serah Poppell? You look like you've gotten down a quarter of the library to read; has the Seneschal sprung a pop quiz on you?"

It seems right - to see a Hunter in the woman in question - even if all he can parse is that the name is for something between Templar and mercenary. That's what's so infuriating and offputting about Lakshmi Bai. She's too many things all at once and shouldn't be. Queens aren't meant to be selling their swords just like people aren't meant to be falling out of tears in the world, just like--

It would be simpler if there were no Rifters at all, present company included. But he could say the same for all kinds of things. It would be simpler if Orlais had kept its peace; it would be simpler if Tevinter fell into the sea; it would be simpler if there was no war at all. But it isn't, so sort it.

"Turn?" It's a mild question, made half absent by the meandering of his own thoughts and the task of chipping away the mud.

"Well enough. Patrols and guard duty is easy work." He lets the mare pick her way through the crowded streets, hand all light on her rein. The closeness of his knee keeps her from lengthening her stride, though he can feel how she wants to go, go, go. It reflects something in his own shifting heels. When they get free of the city, he thinks he'd like to stand in the stirrups and let the mare run for a bit. It's hard to hold conversation with wind in your ears. "And your leg?"

He tips his head a little, shooting the line of her calf and thigh a glance up from under the broad brim of the felted hat. It must be doing reasonably; she'd climbed up into the saddle without too much trouble.

"I have been doing the same. It seems even the Inquisition must recover after such a battle." So many wounded men, so many people who had lost their lives, so many apologies to make. Six had been forced to make her own fair share - to Isaac, to John, to others - and she feels some disconnect from that, a kind of twisting nausea that haunts her even now. This is why she had always preferred to work alone, or with one other than she trusted; it made it easier.

Reaching out, she squeezes the top of her thigh.

"It is better. I was given time to heal and I have made sure not to push myself too hard. The loss of my ability to fight would make me entirely useless to the Inquisition."

"Mm." A low hum, mostly devoured by the noise of the street. "I'm sure Commander Coupe could find some use for you. If nothing else, you're lettered. I get the impression the Inquisition has more than its share of paperwork."

It's some kind of humor, dry and cracking as clay earth in summer, that resolves back into breezy platitudes: "But I'm glad to hear it mended. You're a fine fighter and the Inquisition is better for having you in the field."

The traffic on the road is easing now the higher it climbs - not for lack of bodies, but as it's widened considerably from its genesis down in Kirkwall's harbor. Marcoulf lets the little roan mare pick up into a trot.

"My lettering is a technicality. I was never formally knighted." Her voice is soft, almost enough that it might not be heard over the din and chatter of the people around them. "I was chosen by Saranrae, not by a monarch that granted me such a lofty title. I think the Inquisition was simply glad to have someone adept in their ranks."

Dismissing her own worth comes far too easily for Six, who breathes out and nudges her horse forward. She doesn't want to overtake Marcoulf - there's no reason for that - but she doesn't want to be left behind either. She already feels foolish enough around him, there is no desire in her to make it worse.

"I have been training again. It has been good to do something with my sword, with my weapons. I missed that."

"Good. If you need sparring partners who are able to square with you, I could recommend a few." It strictly isn't an offer to join her in the training yard. It's anything but. (He wouldn't be able to match her right now anyway.)

A pause here in conversation as a wagon rumbles by, the driver shouting loudly at the boy running alongside switching at the mule team's hocks.

"But no. I meant you've reading. We'll take a right here." They've reached the crossing at the crest of the road. With a twitch of the rein, they go East.

"Oh!" Whatever his intention might be, Wysteria jumps. It sends her hand skipping across her notes, smearing the ink over the page and-- "Messere Shivana! No, no. Nothing like that. In fact, if you see him you really must tell him you've seen me walking in the opposite direction. Toward the gardens or looking very busy with a stack of requisition requests, you know."

It's a very chipper, breezy request for his confidence, made as she blots the side her hand on a spare piece of paper.

"Are you well? What brings you here this fine afternoon? --Is it still afternoon? Spirits, I'm not even sure how long I've been buried back here."

A few hours after one particular conversation, when he's found some time to breathe and slightly gather his thoughts, Anders heads out to try to find Flint. The pirate hadn't helped the first time they'd spoken, but Anders needs something to actually do so even if this fails at least he's out trying.

He raps on the open door and comes in, briefly rubbing the back of his neck to relieve a little tension.

"Do you have a few minutes? And do you mind if I close the door?" It's probably a little more direct than he should be, but Anders has walked here on nervous energy and it's not dissipating yet.

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[OPEN] lets say its like the sunrise

marflouf

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idk my bff wildcard

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I GUESS THAT SEGUE WILL DO HUH

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EYES.emoji

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wyyyysteria! what up CR bro

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Flint, Naval Presence Office