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]

There is a mental missed step, there, following along after her, where Marcus has not factored in further engagement with this small woman beyond getting to one set of docks, likely sharing a ferry and making pleasant conversation or perhaps sitting in awkward silence, that's fine too, but then realising that he is perhaps being hooked into some extra errand, erroneous to his own task. Where lifting the heavy thing expedited his own progress, lingering about the Gallows docks does not.

And the weather's starting to turn cold.

Nevertheless--

"What business is that?"

--as he keeps up with a few feet of distance. His boots splash through shallower puddles without much mind, and occasionally, his attention catches on something besides the Chantry sister in front of him -- usually fast movement, or a loud noise -- but never for long. He's fairly sure he could lose her easily if he's not careful.

[okayimin]

"Leeches." Straightforward and to the point. "Medical leeches. Don't like not knowing any of the suppliers and there's some in the Gallows that're the right kind. So I'm gonna get 'em tonight."

She glances back a few times, mostly to make sure he isn't having too hard a time with the big pot-it'll be a whole day wasted if he drops the blasted thing- but more when she hears the splash of water. It's in time to see her companion tromp straight through a puddle while looking over at some drunk Dusters talking loudly. "Careful of those puddles, some are deeper than they look and it's no time of year to be stomping around with wet socks."

[luaithre]

It might be nice to live your life carelessly while a dwarven Chantry sister shouts practical advice at your errors before you make them, he thinks, with a mostly private smile breaking through Default Polite Expression. He takes said advice all the same, stepping smooth where patches of road is filmed in water he can't trust.

The pot is heavy and awkward, but he doesn't complain or adjust his grip of it too much as they go, eventually given to observe his surroundings as well as possible interruptions. He's aware all these roads have distinct character and markings, but it's almost an overload of detail.

"Good of you to take the initiative," he is saying, as well. "How does one catch leeches? Bait?"

[okayimin]

She waves off his compliment, "Ain't initiative if it's my job."

If she's being a busybody, there's certainly no internal awareness of it. Now that she's aware of his habit of inattention, she adjusts her pace accordingly, keeping a weather eye out that he doesn't wander astray. There's a vague, distracted quality that reminds her of Dusters showing symptoms of early raw lyrium poisoning. If anything, that makes her more inclined to be attentive.

And he does still have her pot.

"No, you'd catch the wrong sort of leeches with bait," she says as they go, "The way to do it is to walk through the water yourself and then see what's stuck on. They fall off once they've got their fill, then you stick 'em in a pot like that one and need not worry over much since they've had a meal. Miserable task, to be honest."

[luaithre]

"Bait of a sort."

He doesn't seem particularly disgusted by the prospect, although he's most certainly imagining the Chantry sister with her skirts gathered up above her knees as she wades through the shallower corners of whatever body of water she's identified as best. Maybe she wishes him to keep holding the pot. He's proven very capable at that so far.

Cutting it as close as they both are, the ferry waiting at the dock only has a few sundry supplies loaded up onto it, and no other official Riftwatch member waiting to board but themselves. He hands off his own cargo to the ferryman, and offers a hand to Sister Sara.

[okayimin]

The ferry is both the beginning and end of her rounds. While her pot is being handed off, she scolds the ferryman for not wearing a scarf and asks a handful of questions on the status of his mother and his knee and throat. Now begins the business of maintenance, a tidy list already sorting itself out in her head. She nearly misses the hand she's offered.

Bemusement softens her normally stern face. "You ought to save that for the proper ladies, it'll do you no good with me," she says, but still puts her hand in his. Once settles she gives her companion another studying look, "Right then, what's your name?"

[luaithre]

With his intention of having done her a small service, her rebuke, such as it is, almost fails to land at all -- and when it does, a little late, and he's already helped her over the gap between dock and ferry. The corner of his mouth has turned up, but he doesn't apologise or clarify.

Hardly any need for that. He moves to find a place to sit, carefully, finding a place to best situation his staff so that its bladed end doesn't menace anyone by accident.

"Marcus."

[okayimin]

Her eyes flick to the staff, making note of it and then immediately dismissing it.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Sister Sara," she says, then in a brisk tone with no preamble, "What were you doing standing in the middle of the road before you called out to me?"