open.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree, Petrana de Coudoux, others TBA!
WHAT: A late night cabal of the magic kind.
WHEN: Late Guardian
WHERE: The gardens
NOTES: Early and accidental beginnings of mage cabal. Feel free to wander in and talk politics. Of most interest to mages and mage-identifying Rifters, but no one's counting.

It'll be some weeks before the grip of winter loosens its hold of the Gallows, and so many have done the sensible thing and retreated indoors. Near constant rain has ceased for the time being, which only means that puddles from earlier showers are likely to freeze by the morning.

And yet, two people and one dog are outside in the gardens.

There's an iron brazier currently crackling with flame which offers them both a source of light, and technically warmth as well, but it's not alone. Leaning against one of the stone benches is a bladed mage staff of dark wood and silver metal, with runic etchings currently glowing a deep volcanic red. It emanates heat in a peculiar way -- less the radial concentration of an open flame, but an even distribution of dry warmth that encompasses the immediate area by almost thirty feet. It still necessitates a cloak or a coat to totally defy the winter chill, but the temperature is much improved, and pleasant for those who prefer cooler climates.

Marcus (wearing a scarf and everything, although it now hangs loose) occasionally tends to the fire with a wave of his hand, dispersing smoke and letting fire run off magic rather than just the wood that it gnaws at. "I'd offer to accompany you if I didn't think my presence would cast some doubt as to Riftwatch's good intentions," is more good humoured than dour, leaning back then to search his coat pockets for something -- a pipe, and a small leather satchel.

There are more stone benches circled around. Don't mind the very big dog currently lounging nearest the fire.

Comments

[ipseite]

Come back to the Gallows on one of the later ferries, Petrana is still outfitted for Hightown's winter entertainments; heavy pale blue skirts flashing panels of gold and cream lace where her furs are pushed aside enough to warm hands nearer his staff, wearing gloves designed for parties and not for chilly air. Vysvolod, a wolfhound of elder years and thick grey coat, at some angles may blend in with those furs until he heaves great sighs and rearranges himself in prime heat-seeking position.

“It is a well-chosen group as it is,” she says, primly, in similar humor and similar understatement. “Truthfully, it is rare I venture farther than Hightown; I expect the experience to be most useful. And I have missed traveling, some. I fear my first adventure, with the Inquisition, rather soured them on sending me anywhere.”

It's been long enough now that she can laugh at it, and herself.

[luaithre]

The dry leaf he loads into the pipe is something particular to the area, likely somewhat costly during ongoing wartimes and rifts churning demons out into the countryside. The amount he packs in is conservative, therefore.

It embers beneath his fingers as he asks, "And what, pray tell, could you have done to warrant that?"

[ipseite]

“I was only very newly arrived—known to be a rifter, a witch, and little else. I did menial work, in the main, as I had not yet mastered your written word, and I did not know, when I was given an assignment that I must assume most mages would be suitable for, how to rightly explain that I was not. That mere weeks before I had been accustomed to an armed guard at all times, and expected to do little more than be guarded.” Her tone is more rueful than anything else; her own foolishness, in part, that she had been too unsure her footing to speak up.

It could have gone far worse than it did. She might have cost them success, or worse. That it is only a story to tell is certainly part of why it is a story she will tell.

“I clung to Anders like a newborn to her mother, and then when we were separated I was a sore trial to the poor Dalish mage I accompanied. Some manner of revenant appeared and I—”

at this point she straightens, sweeping one gloved hand over her breast, holding his gaze,

“—flattened to the wall like a terrified cat and burst into tears.”

[luaithre]

The breath that escapes him is only part laugh, and the air still chilled enough to turn it into steam.

"I'd make the argument that that's the only rational and sane response to such a thing."

One of those stories made charming for nothing bad having happened, and he favours her with-- well, a subtle expression, but the slightly deeper lines at his eyes probably connote a smile.

"You wanted to make yourself useful."

[ipseite]

“I did,” she owns, pressing her gloved hands together in her lap. “I didn't wish to be thought ungracious or ungrateful.” Or, worst of sins: useless. “But I endeavored to be as useful as possible within the Gallows for quite some time after that, as I imagine you will be most shocked to hear.”

No.

“I never did manage to learn to cook, though. You enjoyed the full extent of my gifts in refreshment when we met.”

Her little enchanted teapot.

I was informed that everything's made up and the tag order doesn't matter

[overharrowed]

It's certainly less informal than the last time Julius ran across them by chance, though it's hard to think of much that wouldn't be. Julius is properly bundled against the cold, either by inclination or the force of habit of being seen to Follow the Rules. Still, he hadn't planned to linger, cutting through the gardens as a shortcut until first the flames and then the voices caught his attention.

He makes his way over just in time to hear the last remark. "The Gallows doesn't need everyone to be competent cooks, though," he contributes as he walks up. "Or if we get to the point where it does, we will be in much deeper trouble."

[tender]

Having been freshly awarded a clean bill of health, Derrica arrives swathed in a thick scarf and coming from the opposite direction. There's a beat of hesitation as her eyes move from Marcus to Petra to Julius in succession before she proceeds to close the distance between them.

"Am I late?" seems a safer question than inquiring about cooking. She didn't think that was meant to be the topic of conversation, even if that's all she'd caught of Julius' rejoinder. "The infirmary is still in need and I found it harder to get away than I expected."

And it was nice to be there as someone doing the tending rather than arguing endlessly with Sawbones over which of them should actually be in bed rather than doing any tending at all.

Still, she wanted very much to make a good impression. That's not so unreasonable, considering whose company she's been invited into.

[luaithre]

Marcus nods a greeting to Julius, before his attention moves to Derrica. This isn't so proper an occasion that requires he rise to his feet at the arrival of the fairer sex, but he does straighten his posture when he spies her.

"Not at all," he says, and opens a hand to indicate one of the nearby stone benches. As Derrica enters the space, the teeth of winter dull their bite, air a touch dryer even before she nears the brazier. "And I hope you're feeling well."

Nodding to other two, he adds, "We were just discussing what makes a mage useful around these corners. This is Madame de Cedoux, and-- have you and Enchanter Julius met?"

[ipseite]

In the process of drawing Julius closer with her gloved hands (finely embroidered chamois, thick enough to dull the anchor-shard's glow but too soft and light to do more otherwise than make her fashionable), moving her furs to make room for him beside her, she looks up to Derrica's arrival with less surprise but no less pleasant affect than she had met Julius with. You really must meet, etc, etc. She reflects, briefly, that Marcus introduces her to more charming people than she has introduced to him.

(Julius notwithstanding, for the simple reason that he introduces himself, charmingly. He is rarely someone about which she must maneuver, however she might tease him otherwise.)

“He is a most useful mage,” she says, lightly, her hand in Julius's elbow giving him a pat. “It's lovely to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle; Mssr Rowntree has spoken highly of you. Please do not mind Vys, he is well-behaved if wretched.”

He groans, at the sound of his mistress's voice and his name, but merely lowers his head dramatically onto the hem of her gown and inspires a short, affectionately scolding stream of what sounds like but is not Orlesian as she tugs her skirts from beneath him.

I'm taking my shot

[windyvoice]

Soooo, normally a really formal and pro looking group of adults is like a big old Caution sign for her. Especially when some of the participants are absolutely brain meltingly gorgeous ladies (and she's already been weird and awkward around Miss Derrica enough, thanks). Jenny Lou is all set to give them and what sounds like a Very Serious Discussion a wide berth when she sees him.

Absolutely the biggest of boys. A very good boy.

And she's weak, okay. She's getting over this grip shit and feels generally gross and sad and kinda lonely, but whatever, she's coping. She would cope way better if dog though. She waits on the fringes of the group until there's enough of a lull in the conversation that she can address the woman who seems to be the dog's mom.

"Um... Hi. Can I pet your dog?"

[ipseite]

Jenny Lou is not yet a familiar face to Petrana, and so the sight of her approach doesn't immediately draw her eye—there are enough of them now gathered about the warmth in the garden that she might be drawn to speak with anyone, or perhaps simply to see why they've congregated, but the particular question does draw her out of her half-formed thought on some other topic of conversation—

“Oh, my dear, of course,” she says, surprised, pleased. “Vysvolod, up.”

Not all the way; he presents Petrana with a baleful look that is probably mostly feigned, heaving himself over to sit sentinel rather than sprawled out on his side, bringing his enormous head conveniently higher.

“Hold your hand out to him,” she instructs, “and let him know you.”

[windyvoice]

It feels kinda special to be called "my dear" by someone as pretty as this lady is, but thankfully, Jenny Lou has an excuse to focus her attention somewhere else entierly. Like the dog. Who is amazing. She doesn't try to the huge, dumb grin stretching across her face. You're allowed to look stupid when it comes to dogs, everybody knows that.

"Vysvolod," she repeats, tripping a little over the pronunciation, "That's a cool name." She holds out her hand dutifully for a sniff.

[ipseite]

Enthusiasm for Petrana's dog is a quick way to earning some indulgence from her, and she says, “It means lord of all he surveys in an old language of my birthplace that his sire's master studied. I wished to name him for the man who gifted him to me, you see,” in a light tone of confidence. “He called me pert for the doing.”

Suffice to say, the late prince's name had not been Vysvolod.

[luaithre]

The approach of the Rifter girl had been enough to snare Marcus's attention, but only in the form of an understated observation that permits Petrana to respond without interruption. He is slouched forwards with his elbows to his knees, and the pipe he's been maintaining emanates a thin ribbon of smoke where it's negligently caught in his fingers.

As Petra says this thing, he remarks, "Is that how he came around to his airs and graces?"

[ipseite]

In a way that might be reasonably described as pert, Petrana says, “That's so,” at once.

[windyvoice]

"Aww, he doesn't have airs," Jenny Lou pipes up from where she is almost entierly absorbed with the dog. Any previous shyness has vanished entierly, "He's very lordly and shit. Super majestic, huh Vysvolod."

She does a better job saying it this time and that just makes her dopey grin wider, before she applies herself to thoroughly and carefully finding his lordship Vysvolod's preferred spots for pats and scratches.

[luaithre]

"I only think that had I named my horse the Black Divine, I'd have a harder time corralling him to my bidding," is the case Marcus makes. "You've ruined him."

He sounds so understated and dry as to be mistaken for serious, but Petrana knows better.

later.

[ipseite]

As late as the hour had been when they'd met in the courtyard garden, and as the chill in the air deepened, they couldn't linger indefinitely; it is both natural (it seems perfectly so) and by design (the tilt of her head and expectant raise of her eyebrows) that Marcus join Petrana and Julius on the stairs up through the tower that most live in, and carry on all the way to their shared room.

(Vysvolod, who is a shit, trots gamely ahead of them at her merest whistle.)

When the door has closed behind them and they are getting themselves situated—Vysvolod up, at once, onto the end of the bed, Petrana removing her earrings and setting down her gloves—she says, “Were either of you aware of Speaker Fabria's particular support for the Van Markham king?” which might not have been what either of them were expecting her to ask, having danced lightly around the content of what conversation she had or had not with Flint earlier in the night.

[overharrowed]

Julius' eyebrows raised. "No. I should have been, though, that's rather large to have missed." He thinks back to Flint asking him about Neverra and feels retroactively a bit foolish. "How long have you known?" Ostensibly Petrana, but directed at either of them.

[luaithre]

Marcus enters last, and closes the door behind him.

Watches the dog get up onto the bed. Hm.

And then moves aside to find a place to set down his staff, and contemplates whether support means the same thing as favour, not that he was aware of that either. "The would be usurper," he comments, tone devoid of value judgement. From the discourse he has heard over the crystals, and in the streets, the two families seem as tiresome as each other. "No, I didn't."

[ipseite]

If there is a hint of disappointment— “Perhaps I overstate the case,” she allows, betraying her first remark for the fishing expedition that it was. “But I did mark the mild way that he spoke, and to whom he did and did not aim his criticisms, and I mark it more now knowing that the price Commander Flint asked the Van Markhams for his aid in raising themselves high enough to reach a crown was a guarantee no mage within Nevarra's borders would be forced out after the war, and recourse for mages against abuses against them.”

That is quite something to have come away from her evening in Hightown with, held tightly in her hands whiling away the hours.

“Pentaghast's papers,” she continues, kneeling in a puddle of her own skirts to fetch a bottle out of the bottom drawer of her desk and tilting it queryingly to both men. “The proof of Aurelia's Venatori dealings—they came to the Inquisition when we still were its arm, and he had made copies that were not known of. It is what Rutyer's former colleague was so vexed with him about, Julius, you remember I spoke of it to you. She wouldn't say what he had done, only that he had done it alone and against the express wishes of his fellows.”

There hadn't been much else to say, then; it had merely been interesting, and interesting that he had so soon after that sought out herself. That she had counseled Eshal against openly acting against him in turn had been good advice, but good advice chosen specifically from more options than she had allowed herself to be seen considering.

[overharrowed]

Julius turns all of this over, moving to sit in his habitual chair as he does. "I suppose it isn't so unexpected that a Nevarran have an opinion over who should rule his country, under the circumstances." After all, Anora on the throne gave Ferelden mages certain opportunities and limits. On the other hand, the country wasn't in the midst of tearing itself apart, at least so far. (No one had missed the lack of an heir, but that was a problem for another time.)

"Still... one wonders how much he's apt to continue to do on his own initiative, under the circumstances." And how it would play out for mages, especially those not from Nevarra.

[luaithre]

Hopefully the next half of what Petrana says is not so important for Marcus to hear, because there is a dull whine that fills his attention shortly after she says: a guarantee no mage within Nevarra's borders would be forced out after the war, and recourse for mages against abuses against them.

He doesn't sit. He places his hands on the back of a chair and leans there. Open surprise had rippled across his expression which now settles into faraway thought.

Questions about what Flint may or may not do, what he has already done, are given no weight at all as he says, almost rudely clipping past the tail end of what Julius is saying: "All mages?"

It almost doesn't matter, what the answer is, if she doesn't know it. It is something.

[ipseite]

Petrana points at Julius with the bottle—it is all very well and good, and natural, but that it is that opinion, particularly, interests her. Maybe it is enough that Aurelia had worked with the Venatori, had chosen that. It should be enough, certainly for a mage committed to Riftwatch as well as Nevarra.

But was it? How much weighted that mild remark? Does he know, already, what's at stake? What might Fabria be willing to do for that, besides?

She is about to speak the words—may still—when Marcus interrupts, and it derails her for a moment. “All mages,” she repeats, a beat later. “All mages within Nevarra's borders at the end of the war.”

[overharrowed]

Marcus' tone catches his attention as much as his words, and Julius gives him an evaluating look. "Quite an extravagant promise," he says, quietly, thoughtfully. It's an opportunity, he thinks; not an endpoint, but a stepping stone, at least as far as his own ambitions are concerned. But it's more than they wrung out of the Chantry, even before some of those gains were lost in the election. "Assuming the Van Markhams win, of course."