open.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree and some random happenstances personified.
WHAT: Covering off Marcus' arrival to Riftwatch, and whatever interactions may occur immediately after.
WHEN: Throughout Firstfall.
WHERE: Many places!
NOTES: Some open prompts beneath the text. I will also use this post as a catch all for specific threads so let me know if you'd like to do anything else.

THE DOCKS AND STABLE; ARRIVAL.

It's a vague hour of the morning when a man and his horse arrive at the Gallows, made vaguer thanks to the heavily overcast nature of the sky obscuring the sun's position within it. It's late enough that the frost is melted, and horse hooves impress deep tracks in the slush that's already accumulated in the path leading from the docks to the compound where Marcus has been informed are also the stables.

The horse is large, and grey like churned snow, and sedate. The stranger leading it is of a medium build and dressed in a similar palette and also sedate, though as he moves, his gaze inevitably drags back up to the hulking shadow of the Gallows proper.

Within the stables, he doesn't seek help -- he directs the large gelding towards the likeliest looking stall, unloads saddle bags, finds a secure place to stash saddle and all the rest of it, tends to feeding and watering and a brush down. He doesn't speak out loud to the animal as some might, no soothing humming or praise, but his actions are all gentle and attentive. Although Marcus does not seek interruption, nor let it stop him from going about his tasks, he isn't actively deflecting it, taking note of every person and animal that move through the stables.

THE GALLOWS; FINDING A ROOM.

[ ooc ; limited to one. and taken! ]

The fortress feels very empty.

And it isn't, of course. The sconces have been tended to and the floors seem more or less swept, and where they don't, fresh bootprints glisten on worked stone, indicative of people passing through. But the Gallows are immense in dimension compared to most constructions, and the last time Marcus was here, it was borderline crowded.

He takes himself to the mage tower without much thought behind it, but explores both it and its Templar twin as he peruses for a place to stay, taking his time. Along with his staff strapped across his back, his other worldly possessions are contained to a compact set of saddlebags he hooks over his shoulder, held in place as he walks the rows of doors.

Noting those that are taken as well as those that aren't, Marcus touches his hand to one door with just a seam showing between it and the frame, pushing. The hinges creak and the door swings and-- opens up to a furnished room with firelight, and a person in it.

"Oh," he says, standing still, hand hovered. "Pardon me."

DINING; LETTERS AND CARDS.

If Marcus eats among with everyone else, he normally chooses a time less crowded, and brings something to do with him.

Here, he has a few loose pages of inexpensive parchment, and he uses some extra implements to keep the corners down -- an empty candle holder, a heavy fork -- and writes while his food cools. His handwriting is neat and without particular elegance, and he concentrates on completing a section or even a whole page before he sets his pencil down and returns to his meal.

On another evening, he has set an empty plate aside and filled his cup from a pitcher of dark wine, and is laying out cards in front of himself. They don't look like any kind of conventional set of playing cards, with painted images in fine colours that wash out too easily under the golden light of the hearth, the candles on the table.

He offers to whoever catches his eye or is sitting at the same table, "Care to play?"

KIRKWALL; ASKING SIRI.

"Excuse me."

It's getting late, and if you don't start for the docks soon, the last few ferries will be leaving for the Gallows without you. Not to lean into an awkward second person narrative situation, but you are stopped by a voice from your blindspot, belonging to a man you may or may not recognise as a new arrival. A man pushing into his late thirties, manner calm and collected as he stands still in the bustle of the street, apparently impervious to people pushing by. Dressed neatly and warmly, hands in gloves of fine leather, and his expression is mild in some contrast to the innate severity that pale eyes have, and the squiggled scar running down one cheek.

Marcus has a quick smile ready, which resettles to fade as he speaks in an accent that pegs him as originating from the nearbyish Starkhaven. "I don't mean to intrude, but I believe you're with Riftwatch. By any chance were you heading back that ways for the evening?"

WILD CARD; THRILL ME.

[ ooc ; stock standard riftwatch mission, a ferry ride to kirkwall, requesting help to lift something heavy, trapped in an elevator, whatever you like. ]

Comments

dining.

[dutyful]

Ashen is still growing accustomed to what it means to be part of Riftwatch; he's too used to being a Warden, too used to that kind of brotherhood, and the mixture of people here is strange after being alone for so long. He's baffled by it, especially when he feels that awkward homesickness for the Avaar and Bran, hand hovering at the ring around his neck.

It's enough that he is distracted more often than not, unfocussed on the food in front of him.

It takes him a moment to jerk back to reality, and then his eyes land on a stranger.

"Play?" Head tilted, he leans forward, looking at the cards. "What would you have me play?"

Not that he is likely to refuse; he enjoys a game, as long as he does not have to risk too much. Isn't life dangerous enough already?

[luaithre]

Marcus obligingly spreads a few cards out nearer to be observed, observing the stranger in kind as he does. The images are painted and have been handled with enough care to preserve their integrity, depictions of people and environments, style over detail. A baying wolf before a full moon; a female hunter with a spear and long elven ears; a young boy with lightning emanating from raised hands. These last two have numerical indicators, with a 'five' sketched into the corner of the elven huntress card, and a 'two' in the other.

"It's named Muster," he says. "A war game, of kinds. The deck is split, and we draw nine cards each to begin with. The game is three rounds, with two new cards drawn on the second and third. We play them against each other--" And he illustrates by placing the two numerical cards opposite one another. "--like so. Here, the play is won by three."

He reaches for his wine to recharge his cup. "Rounds finish when one side decides he is defeated, or will certainly win, and draws no more cards. The victor is he who has won two rounds."

[dutyful]

The cards are handsome, Ashen thinks - the kind of thing his mother would have liked to have for the sake of having it, much like children. It makes him all the more interested in settling down, tucking his chair in and paying attention, wanting to see more of the cards and the artwork. Each one must have a story, and he has always loved stories, the nature of them and telling them, a whisper of the life he might once have had.

"It sounds novel enough," Ashen says, leaning forward, "and I would be glad to play with you, ser, even if it is just to learn the rules. My mother only dared to teach me Wicked Grace once and I believe she lived to regret the choice. I was quite the master at thieving treats from her by besting her in games."

A villain indeed, which makes him grin as he makes himself comfortable.

"Do go easy on me."