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]

“It will be the tricky part,” she admits, though she doesn't sound as if she's taken the query amiss or as if she doesn't think it's possible. “But presented correctly—consider that the sponsor of a club might not be necessarily a member. And Thedas is already rather more egalitarian than Lamorre was, where such things are considered.”

They wouldn't need to explain women being in their club, for a start.

“A society of likeminded individuals might secure the premises of an establishment for an evening, and a suitably inclined and generous patron might foot some of the cost.” She takes a drink, shrugs elegant— “If we could secure a loan from someone to establish that, we could parley the subsequent talk into a more permanent arrangement with a suitably dazzled aristocrat with a suitable smoking room. Well; these are all merely ideas, but I might pursue them and see which bears fruit.”

[overharrowed]

"Very well." After a moment, he adds, "I suppose it has been some time since a number of Riftwatch's mages gathered to shout at one another. We're likely overdue." It's lightly said, not quite a joke but not quite not.

(He's almost the last one standing from Kinloch Hold, and he's inclined to think that might be for the best, at least when it comes to keeping disagreements from getting too personal.)

"I suppose it does raise the question of which Rifters count, if we're explicitly keeping the meeting mages only. Those who can do magic? Those who've expressed an interest in how their fate is linked to ours?" Obviously Petrana's attending, but it's worth making clear in advance whether she's an exception, and why.

[luaithre]

Here, Marcus chooses to fall quiet again, looking at the cup he'd set aside like he's contemplating requesting a top up, but ultimately declines to do so. Another would likely affect his mood in some way, already a little sodden with smoke and a late meal accompanied with ale. It doesn't take much.

He thinks about the joke that is not quite a joke and not quite not not a joke. The expectation that shouting would occur, naturally, is not one he shares, and he sits with the way this statement troubles him rather than immediately protest it.

[ipseite]

One of those bleak jokes that Petrana is like to make, and swift now to sigh over: “Allow me to hope, my love, that we are some way past the worst of the shouting at least amongst ourselves.”

Surely, there has been enough of it. And, for all that the thought tugs guilt's string in a quiet part of her insides, not all of the more controversial figures who have darkened Riftwatch's doorways still do. They are low on loyalists and Anders has been gone months, now; she hopes he has found some satisfaction wherever it is they have gone with that recognizable restlessness.

Doubtless word will come in time if it's the other.

“On the matter of other Rifters—I am uncharitably inclined to expect that that way lies more shouting. Beyond that—”

Her shrug is elegant.

“The Provost should not be in attendance, he cannot be trusted with mages and has made that quite clear.”

[overharrowed]

"Nothing would delight me more than to find the meeting more agreeable than our former attempts at discussing mage-centric affairs," he says, frankly. "You are right, though, that the mixture of personalities has altered, somewhat, since the last time we tried at any scale."

Isaac was still there to glare at him; glaring wasn't shouting.

"I agree, when it comes to the Provost. Let us take a less clear-cut case: Miss Poppell, say. She has proven herself friendly to a number of mages, and actively interested in the state of magic in the world. I'm inclined to say she should be invited, if she wishes to attend. But who, in the end, shall make that decision?"