closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Stark, Laura Kint
WHAT: Chance meetings about lyrium insides.
WHEN: Latter half of Kingsway.
WHERE: The Gallows docks.
NOTES: TBA!

He's allowed to leave, now. Clean bill of health, preliminary pocket money, and at least one legitimate recommendation for a wateringhole in Lowtown where they don't mind weirdos.

Tony has made it as far as the docks. The Gallows docks.

But he's thinking about it. There's a low wall of cobblestone that rises up between land and a sharp rocky drop into churning ocean, and it's here that he sits, boots dangling over the edge, watching the dinghies and skiffs pull in and out among the maze of piers. Occasionally, a ship bell rings out, or a sharp wind billows sailcloth loud enough for the sound to reach him here. It is maddeningly peaceful. How does anyone live like this.

He's a new quality, rarely seen, rarely stumbled upon, but right now he is luxuriating in being in a quasi-public area and no one coming up to him, needing things, friendly or not, knowing, whatever. He's decided to like it, for the minute, dressed in soft brown leathers, grey cotton, all articles native to this world from the finely stitched boots to the shirt with the lace up collar -- all except for the black shades he wears on his face, diffusing the sharp sunlight.

Not paying very much attention to everyone around him -- or so it would seem, with his loose posture, hands lax between his knees, feet dangling. The reality is he's more than a little aware. Each time someone roams behind him en route for the piers or away, he can feel tension spider-walk up his spine.