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?"

[overharrowed]

Julius had settled at Petrana's side, but half rises -- not out of chivalry, but to offer a hand clasp to Derrica, if it's well-received. "It's a pleasure. I'm not entirely sure I knew there was something to be late to in the first place."

Did he crash this party? Was the party constructed in a way he was just likely to be there? Who can say. (Possibly both of the other people present.)

"Do you normally work at the infirmary, or are you pitching in considering the current circumstances?"

[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?"

[tender]

"The honor is mine," Derrica responds immediately, kneejerk politeness winning out over the immediate and distracting impression Madame de Cedoux makes. Marcus Rowantree has spoken highly of her? Derrica knows instinctively it would probably be rude to ask specifics. It takes her a long beat to lift her eyes from Petrana to take Julius in and shake his hand.

She is reminded very viscerally of being among the senior enchanters. Belatedly relieved that she wore her best woolen tunic and braided her hair properly this morning, she directs a small bow to Petrana and Marcus before sitting on the bench adjacent to them.

"I normally volunteer my time there, when I finish my assignments from Commander Flint," she answers. "It just happens that it's more necessary than before."

And she'd been stuck in quarantine anyway, so she'd might as well be useful. She looks back to Marcus.

"But I don't want to take up your time with stories from the infirmary," she finishes, a little questioning.

[ipseite]

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

[luaithre]

"Don't let the madame's pretty dress fool you," Marcus says, quietly, allowing a note of humour to thread through his tone, smoke escaping through his teeth as he speaks. "She's a witch of like enough experience that I thought it good if you were to meet. No need to be nervous."

Because it always helps nerves when you point out they are visible. Anyway.

He does, at least, have sense enough not to just churn up that which Derrica shared with them in front of them both. It's not his story, after all. Instead, he says, "That is the trick of mages. Even the ones from worlds beyond have a little in common with the ones from this one."

[ipseite]

“We are collecting Vysvolod from Marcus,” Petrana informs Julius in an aside that sounds distinctly like having only this moment decided that collecting her dog must have been a two person operation after all, and giving said dog unwarranted primacy in this impromptu gathering. But that is a brief moment and then she's offering Derrica a warm look she must hope is reassuring,

(The last time she tried to reassure a young mage in Riftwatch she had inadvertently struck dumb, his soul left his body a full five seconds instead. Outlook not so good.)

“I would call my experiences prior to Thedas—a complementary perspective. For instance,” with gentle good humor, “I see from my vantage point what it takes to dredge up a compliment for my pretty dress. I will have you know I fooled a great many with it, this evening, witch that I am.”

[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.

[overharrowed]

Julius gives Vysvolod a friendly ear tossle once his knuckles have been inspected, though how much he was actually needed for collecting even a large dog remains debatable.

To Derrica, he says, "She got me in trousers once for an occasion and now she makes a small face whenever I reach for my robes and we're leaving the Gallows." He's exaggerating. Mostly.

[tender]

Even with what she assumes is a trio of attempts to put her at ease, this meeting feels slightly surreal and still anxiety-inducing. It is impossible not to shoot a second, wide-eyed look at Marcus, even though Derrica is certain she's gotten all the help she's going to get from that corner.

She's never thought of social settings as a weakness, but this is very, very far from the scene of her usual social outings.

"I can't imagine how you'd hold up against her," Derrica posits after a moment, before questioning Petrana : "Can I ask who you were fooling?"

It's possible to make a shrewd guess. Derrica certainly has never worn anything as lovely as what Petrana is wearing now, but she recognizes finery and it's purpose. Something likely related to whatever goes on in the Diplomacy tower, and out of Derrica's sphere of duty.

[ipseite]

Shooting Julius an amused, sidelong glance—

“I retain certain connections in Hightown,” she explains, tugging her gloves loose of her fingertips as she speaks to remove them, warm enough now to have tired of the restriction. “Beneficial to Riftwatch,” and to Petrana, “and necessary to cultivate. Many of them, relationships that I began as ambassador when Riftwatch was merely the Gallows outpost of the Inquisition—it would be impolitic to decline too many invitations, and find I no longer receive them. Occasionally, I accompany other members of Riftwatch on such outings—I crossed paths this evening with Commander Flint, though not by design.”

She is rueful: “I suspect he thinks much of my work frivolous. But that a rifter witch might do it at all is significant.”

[luaithre]

"Soldiers believe diplomacy has its time and place," Marcus offers. "And even more so, the other way around."

He eases back the pressure of his attention from Derrica, content to smoke his pipe and monitor the fire. Again, now, he raises a hand and turns it, and sparks and smoke suddenly gutter upwards in fits and starts, twisting towards the sky, never coming near them. The fire it leaves behind roars on effortlessly, brighter than before.

"It's a strange time, that mages see opportunity to do both of these things, frivolously or otherwise. It will be a stranger time, the day we won't feel so obligated." A glance to Petrana, as he adds, "To make ourselves useful."

[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.