WHO: six, marcus, marcoulf, barrow, matthias, laura & derrica WHAT: escorting some stranded orphans back to ostwick WHEN: firstfall 9:45 WHERE: on the road to ostwick NOTES: n/a.
The children are developing their favourites. Matthias's youthful energy is inevitably a draw, as are Barrow's stories. Marcus, a quiet presence who prefers to keep his own company far forward of the group in the interests of guaranteeing safe passage, is not one of them.
But nor has he avoided his duties in guardianship. Before sundown, he shepherds his allotted group of children to his tent, inspects their hands and their faces to check that they've cleaned up after supper, cancelled appeals to stay up a little later with quiet, stern instruction, and for the most part, even the most precocious of urchin is disinclined to disobey.
It's very late when one of them is caught whispering.
Then, a few moments later, Marcus emerges from his tent, followed by a skinny boy of the younger end of the spectrum, who is wide eyed and reluctant to leave the warmth of the tent. "Come along," Marcus says, keeping his voice hushed. "Here, take my hand." There's enough patience there to sound like kindness, and so, the boy does as asked, and follows along with tentative feet as they move to the edges of the camp, past quiet tents and extinguished and cooled firepits.
And in his other hand, Marcus carries his mage staff, bladed and ornate and catching the moonlight oddly where precious metals and stone embed in polished wood. Marcus himself is not exactly prepared for battle, boots unlaced and coat left behind. The cold in the air is bracing, and the child soon shivering as they go.
"Good evening," he says, to the person on watch, headed their way.
The movement draws Derrica's attention. As quiet as the night has been, there's nothing ominous outside of the camp to worry her. It's good luck. Derrica had been worried about bandits, but so far the biggest issues they've come up against are running out of stories and song, and struggling to gets the children to sleep.
And speaking of that particular trouble—
"Hello," Derrica answers as she turns to watch the pair of them approach. She's draped in a cloak, but her fingers are bare where they hold her staff in front of her like a walking stick. Her gaze travels from Marcus to his little shadow. "Can't sleep?"
Pulling the collar of her own cloak up slightly, she refrains from staring at Marcus' staff. She has questions about the stones, about the weave of metal and the seamlessly attached blade. But instead, she prods: "You'll need cloaks if you plan to stay out very long."
The boy doesn't answer, having pivoted his attention to the treeline in a very apprehensive manner, pulling his hand free so he can best tuck his arms around himself. Marcus places a shepherding hand near the crown of the child's head while his other balances his staff, blunt end down, against the damp earth.
"Some of the older boys were telling Hamish, here, that they spied something in the forests around supper time. Eyes, I think it was."
"Glowing yellow ones," the boy chimes in at a mumble. "Wolves. I was hearing 'em."
Marcus looks back up to Derrica, nodding to her. "That's why we have guards, keeping watch. Isn't that right?"
How nice it would be to fear something as simple as wolves. Derrica's fingers twist idly in the edge of her cloak, watching Marcus and the child. He's good with them in a different way than Matthias and Barrow.
Patience and rationale are valuable, she thinks. There's something to listening and explaining as a method of placating children's fears.
"Yes," Derrica answers gamely. "And it's why there's one of us in every tent, just in case."
Though Derrica is more concerned with bandits than wolves. Hamish doesn't need to know that.
"Don't you think Marcus and I are more than a match for a few mangy old wolves?"
Hamish finally tears his gaze away from the dark tree line -- no doubt seeing glowing yellow eyes where moonlight catches on every damp leaf -- to look up at Derrica, taking her measure, the staff she holds, as if imagining what she could do to wolf. Whomp it, maybe.
Marcus had had a similar thought to Derrica, earlier, that bandits are the more likely, more vicious, certainly more intelligent concern over some wild animals that a flash of fire or a loud noise could frighten away. But he imagines, then, that wolves are the more evocative terror to a small child, with fangs and spooky howls and the like.
He'd have to have a talking to with the older ones about silly stories, tomorrow.
"But you know what isn't a match for mangy old wolves," he says, ducking down now into a crouch, staff held at a steep, practiced angle. "Tired little boys he didn't get enough sleep the night before, aye?"
Hamish gives a whine, but it's more sullen than fearful, now.
A smile twitches at Derrica's mouth. How did she measure against a wolf? She's curious to hear, but not curious enough to derail Marcus' approach to this conversation to ask.
"Go sleep, Hamish," she agrees. "I promise, sitting up is a lot more boring than you're imagining."
Not that Derrica is complaining. But she imagines there's some wailing about to happen in that tent about how dull this trip is so far. It's a little funny. Strange what these children have found to object to on their journey when all their escorts are just pleased at having to navigate chilly weather and altering the lyrics to songs.
"Besides, it's cold," Derrica continues, her constant refrain for months now. "And you haven't come out with a coat."
In the end, it's very likely that the cold is the most convincing component in this argument. Hamish seems to shiver on cue at Derrica's urging, looking back at Marcus, and when he nods back towards the tend, Hamish goes racing back to it, as if the chill in the air and wolves both might get him between here and there. But he doesn't issue the forest any last fearful looks.
Slower off the mark, Marcus gets to his feet, levering himself up with his staff.
"You'd have managed it without my help," Derrica deflects, turning her gaze from Hamish's retreating form to Marcus. "Bringing him out to see was a good idea."
With one hand, she cinches the folds of her cloak back around her body against the cold.
"You're good with them," she continues. "We'd have had a harder time without you accompanying us."
It feels right to tell him. He's a grown man, and likely doesn't care very much for her praise, but this is the truth. Marcus is capable at wrangling children in a very different way than Barrow and Matthias. There's an aspect to his presence here that tempers Barrow's bluster and Matthias' eagerness, steadies Six and Laura's uncertainty. He has some experience, Derrica thinks. She doesn't ask, because she can piece together some of his life just from assumption. He'd likely had some young mages in his care, and Derrica is hesitant to ask directly for fear that the rebellion hadn't been kind to them.
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marcus rowntree. ota.
But nor has he avoided his duties in guardianship. Before sundown, he shepherds his allotted group of children to his tent, inspects their hands and their faces to check that they've cleaned up after supper, cancelled appeals to stay up a little later with quiet, stern instruction, and for the most part, even the most precocious of urchin is disinclined to disobey.
It's very late when one of them is caught whispering.
Then, a few moments later, Marcus emerges from his tent, followed by a skinny boy of the younger end of the spectrum, who is wide eyed and reluctant to leave the warmth of the tent. "Come along," Marcus says, keeping his voice hushed. "Here, take my hand." There's enough patience there to sound like kindness, and so, the boy does as asked, and follows along with tentative feet as they move to the edges of the camp, past quiet tents and extinguished and cooled firepits.
And in his other hand, Marcus carries his mage staff, bladed and ornate and catching the moonlight oddly where precious metals and stone embed in polished wood. Marcus himself is not exactly prepared for battle, boots unlaced and coat left behind. The cold in the air is bracing, and the child soon shivering as they go.
"Good evening," he says, to the person on watch, headed their way.
slingshots extremely crusty tag into your inbox
And speaking of that particular trouble—
"Hello," Derrica answers as she turns to watch the pair of them approach. She's draped in a cloak, but her fingers are bare where they hold her staff in front of her like a walking stick. Her gaze travels from Marcus to his little shadow. "Can't sleep?"
Pulling the collar of her own cloak up slightly, she refrains from staring at Marcus' staff. She has questions about the stones, about the weave of metal and the seamlessly attached blade. But instead, she prods: "You'll need cloaks if you plan to stay out very long."
mmm cronchy
The boy doesn't answer, having pivoted his attention to the treeline in a very apprehensive manner, pulling his hand free so he can best tuck his arms around himself. Marcus places a shepherding hand near the crown of the child's head while his other balances his staff, blunt end down, against the damp earth.
"Some of the older boys were telling Hamish, here, that they spied something in the forests around supper time. Eyes, I think it was."
"Glowing yellow ones," the boy chimes in at a mumble. "Wolves. I was hearing 'em."
Marcus looks back up to Derrica, nodding to her. "That's why we have guards, keeping watch. Isn't that right?"
no subject
Patience and rationale are valuable, she thinks. There's something to listening and explaining as a method of placating children's fears.
"Yes," Derrica answers gamely. "And it's why there's one of us in every tent, just in case."
Though Derrica is more concerned with bandits than wolves. Hamish doesn't need to know that.
"Don't you think Marcus and I are more than a match for a few mangy old wolves?"
no subject
Marcus had had a similar thought to Derrica, earlier, that bandits are the more likely, more vicious, certainly more intelligent concern over some wild animals that a flash of fire or a loud noise could frighten away. But he imagines, then, that wolves are the more evocative terror to a small child, with fangs and spooky howls and the like.
He'd have to have a talking to with the older ones about silly stories, tomorrow.
"But you know what isn't a match for mangy old wolves," he says, ducking down now into a crouch, staff held at a steep, practiced angle. "Tired little boys he didn't get enough sleep the night before, aye?"
Hamish gives a whine, but it's more sullen than fearful, now.
no subject
"Go sleep, Hamish," she agrees. "I promise, sitting up is a lot more boring than you're imagining."
Not that Derrica is complaining. But she imagines there's some wailing about to happen in that tent about how dull this trip is so far. It's a little funny. Strange what these children have found to object to on their journey when all their escorts are just pleased at having to navigate chilly weather and altering the lyrics to songs.
"Besides, it's cold," Derrica continues, her constant refrain for months now. "And you haven't come out with a coat."
no subject
Slower off the mark, Marcus gets to his feet, levering himself up with his staff.
"Nicely done," he says. "My thanks."
no subject
With one hand, she cinches the folds of her cloak back around her body against the cold.
"You're good with them," she continues. "We'd have had a harder time without you accompanying us."
It feels right to tell him. He's a grown man, and likely doesn't care very much for her praise, but this is the truth. Marcus is capable at wrangling children in a very different way than Barrow and Matthias. There's an aspect to his presence here that tempers Barrow's bluster and Matthias' eagerness, steadies Six and Laura's uncertainty. He has some experience, Derrica thinks. She doesn't ask, because she can piece together some of his life just from assumption. He'd likely had some young mages in his care, and Derrica is hesitant to ask directly for fear that the rebellion hadn't been kind to them.