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

[luaithre]

That gets a subtle smile, keeping his eyes on the task of distributing a second helping of liquor and setting the pot back down. "I opened an interesting door," he says, as if that might be adequate enough explanation for having then gone through it.

The liquor is relaxing. It shouldn't shock most to know how many full grown adults are lightweights after spending their life in the Circles and so he is not quick to drink from his refill, sitting back and feeling muscles bleed a little of their natural tension. He glances aside, then, to the detail that had caught his attention before -- the larger boots, next to smaller slippers.

"Enchanter Julius?" is as much a prompt as it is a guess, bringing cup to mouth.

[ipseite]

“A project leader,” she elaborates, following his gaze to Julius's boots and allowing the smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth in consequence. “He oversees research specifically regarding Corypheus and the blights. He is, himself, a veteran of the fifth.”

Her gaze wanders from Julius's boots to other evidence of his presence in her life, and their shared quarters; his papers on the table rather than her desk. A cloak that from this angle might belong to anyone.

“He is a most reasonable and intelligent man. I fear I have been a terrible influence on him,” mildly, “as he did once consider himself a Loyalist. In truth, I have found that to be a lightly worn title and inevitably shed, this far from Madame Vivienne and Skyhold.”

[luaithre]

If Petrana is astute, she can likely read interest from the man sitting across from her. Curiousity, in its mildest form, as though matters of Circle politics were polite conversation to be had over tea. But they are drinking something stronger, all the same.

"Ah," Marcus says, "all the better to reach mass consensus on any given day."

Little joke, from someone having mingled with enough mages to know how tangled opinions can become. Which has always struck him has strange. It all seems very straight forward, most days, like a tangled nest of yarn that a set of silver scissors could make quick work of.

"I've not yet met a convert, anyway. Not quite so cleanly as that. I suppose the questions I'd have there, I ought preserve for the Enchanter. But I always thought it telling about that Loyalists fly one banner, and the rest have almost as many as there are mages. That's how it was a bit, anyway, at Andoral's Reach."