faderift | open.

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. ]

Threaded | Flat

A person—a woman—and an aging, enormous hound, the latter draped across the end of the bed (which looks as if it might be two, pushed together) and the former standing beside a desk that looks too fine to have been original furnishing to the room, her fingertips resting against a teapot, against a glyph upon it that ceases to glow when she brings her hands together and clasps them in front of herself, momentarily too startled to answer him.

And then, instinct kicking in— “Of course,” with a smile that has been practised in ballrooms and salons and has been polished so well as to be unreadable except to say that the person wearing it is very good at doing so. “I do not believe we've met, and I shall presume that you are...a new arrival to us? Monsieur?”

The accent isn't quite Orlesian; one of the hands over her heart glows dull green where the anchor-shard that embedded itself in her emergence into Thedas rests.

“Were you looking for someone? Perhaps I can help.”

She is very relieved not to be undressed, but she does feel undressed, with her hair loose and the outer jacket of her dress draped over the back of her chair where she would have tidied it away once she'd undone herself and settled in.

Sawbones is, as a matter of fact, heading back to the Gallows, though her night is far from over. At the moment she was wrestling with trying to carry a large earthen pot nearly half her size in her arms, the soft clinking of smaller jars coming from inside.

She'd very nearly bumped into the man standing in the middle of the blasted street and had to set down her burden to save it from falling. Her habit had been abandoned at some point during the day, sacrificed to supplement a new baby's swaddling, and her hair was in danger of coming out of it's neatly pinned braids.

"I am," she says in response to the man's question, returning is smile with a scowl, "And if you are as well, you best come with me before we miss the last boat."

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?

"Uh," Matthias says blearily, "that's, ye-ah--"

There's a hitch in his voice, and a sway to his steps that lingers even when he's stopped walking and tried to get a look at the man that's spoken to him. Might look like sea legs but for the fact that they're on solid ground, and for the fact that Matthias smells as if he's been dipped in a barrel of ale. Takes a moment to fix on the man's face, and even once Matthias has managed it, he can't be sure. Does he know him?

"New, are you." The pleasant tint that the abundance of drink had given the tavern has not transferred well to the open streets of Kirkwall. It's loud out here, too full of people or too empty of them by turns, depending on which street you're walking. And it smells, and it's all over gray, and damp, and now there's something talking at him. One, someone. Matthias scrubs a hand over his face, and scratches at his hair. Trying to be normal, and steady. "D'you really not yet know where the ferry is?"

[ continued from ]

'Far' is a word choice that has the corner of Marcus' mouth upturn. Like it is measured in distance, the time and distance between his first, and these rough men laying on the ground. It could be.

"Necessarily."

Marcus stands, reaching back to bring about his staff, sharp edged at one end, hefty but balanced. Some are made hollow, designed only to tear through the ephemeral barrier of the Veil and dance lightly in the hands of the mage who wields it. Some are heavier things, that could crack skulls as well as draw magic. This is one of those, even if he doesn’t quite look like the sort of man, or mage, given to a lot of skull cracking.

"Did you wish to say last words for them?" On paper, this could be some sort of near-mockery, but Marcus offers this mildly, with a polite kind of indifference. He imagines one could pray over their ashes too, but he hasn't a lot of knowledge as to how Nevarrans conduct these things. Now seems as good a time as any to find out.

Edited 2019-12-12 10:45 (UTC)

finding a room | former templar tower.

Kirkwall; Do You Wanna Catch Some Leeches~

dining.

kirkwall;

wounded coast. ilias fabria.