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WHO: Tony Stark, Loxley, Marcus Rowntree, and your fine selves.
WHAT: Tony works a forge, Marcus trains, and Loxley invents sunbathing.
WHEN: Covers off Solace.
WHERE: Around and about.
NOTES: Probably just a couple replies per prompt would make my life easier. Select the man of your choosing. Feel free to convert to action spam style tagging, I don't mind nor care. If there is something specific you want to do, let's wait a week, big AC-related wink, or hit me up in inboxes!

tony stark;

Clang. Clang. Clang.

These are the familiar sounds coming from the smithy, where it is almost unbearably hot. The air tastes of smoke and metal, thick with the occasional cloud of steam. The forge is burning with colours of bright white and yellow rather than gold at what Tony approximates to be probably 2800 F, maybe hotter. It's at his back with his attention paid forwards at the anvil, on which he rests a glowing-hot length of metal held secure in tongs in one gloved hand. The other hand wields a hammer, bringing it down onto soft metal with almost trance-like consistency. Embers spark and catch on his wrists, his arms, but only occasionally.

He almost looks the part. A coarse leather apron drapes down from his waist, and he's wearing a sleeveless jerkin of similar material, keeping arms exposed to the warm, fire-flecked air. The stand out difference would be the goggles he has fashioned himself at some point -- round, tinted lenses, secured with a strap. He flips whatever he's making around as the heat begins to leech from the iron, and Tony Stark resumes his meditative assault of hammer falling upon metal. He's been doing this for a while, now, arms soot-streaked and slick with exertion, muscles tense even where he grips firm the tongs, from wrist to shoulder.

As the iron turns from bright white to fading orange, he turns to shove the potential sword back into the furnace, and, pulling off his goggles, brings his forearm up to wipe his brow. Not necessarily in slow motion.

marcus rowntree;

It's getting late into the morning, the sun creeping towards one of its rare clear sky zeniths. Marcus Rowntree has the space mostly to himself, so it would seem, and who can blame anyone. It is hot as shite. But he has used this excuse all week not to do much of anything, and so he has summoned himself out into the training courtyard to roll through the motions of combat. Exercises, mainly, a collection of stances through which he moves his heavy, bladed staff through the air in swoops that are both powerful but controlled. Restraining the easy urge to let gravity and momentum wrest precision from him.

It's nothing they taught in the Circles. In his Circle, anyway. He came to all of this quite late.

Anyway he is also shirtless.

And when he is done, blade hitting the ground in front of him with a flicker of fire scorching the earth, he is breathing harder than he had been before, and drops the staff into the dirt beside him, runic incisions on the metal flashing hellfire orange for a moment before dimming. He is already walking directly to the barrel of water left out for this purpose, and at first, hovers his hands over it. A glimmer of blue light dances off the murky surface, cooling the water within just a little. Marcus picks up a bucket, matter of factly submerges it into the water, and brings it back up, full, to tip over his head, flicking wet hair out of his face as he does so.

loxley;

But all of that sounds like a lot of work, doesn't it?

Loxley is opting for leisure, when he can find it, and with a natural resistance to fire, has never feared the potentially damaging effects of prolonged exposure to the sun. Back in Tassia, when his hue was a bronzed-gold, he tended to darken up quite handsomely, and he's noticed, now, the qunari grey actually has some pleasing undertones of silver when it's in a certain light. So he is reaping the benefits on a lovely afternoon, having found an area of the island coast unbothered by deckhands and ferries and the like, and, after laying out a woolen cloak he has brought along for this sole purpose, lies upon it like a lizard beneath the open sky to sun himself. Quite a few pieces of clothes have been set aside, his weaponry resting atop of it, down to just a light pair of shorts and some dark-lensed glasses that the Research academics had been developing some months ago.

He is on his belly for a while, and you'd be forgiven to think that he might just be fully asleep, until he rolls his lazy way to lie on his back, positioning an arm under his head.

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( when petrana seeks marcus out,

she is not expecting to find quite so much of him. though, of course, the heat is oppressive and she is perfectly aware that he is a man of particular physicality, so it should come as no surprise—there is absolutely no cause for gawping at him like a green chambermaid—she had opened her mouth to speak and as she can't recall what she intended to say, she closes it.

in a timely fashion, she will console herself later. )

Am I interrupting?

( her laces are far too tightly wound for this weather. she will have to rectify it. kirkwall is so humid. )

[ Marcus is about to draw more water to splash all over himself when he senses the presence of another, turning his head. His first thought sort of veers towards the knowledge that proper ladies don't tend to visit upon men in these particular habitats and activities, but it's quickly dismissed as nonsense, knowing Petrana's own personal history.

His second is that perhaps he should put a shirt on.

But Kirkwall is so humid, and he settles for not dousing himself a second time. The shirt he uses to wipe his face for now, and he shakes his head for 'no'. ]

But I'd've been glad for it, if you had.

[ He moves to go collect up his staff from the ground, the wear of his workout making his motions a little slower going, lazier in the heat. ]

It is quite the day for this, ( a smile hinted at in the quirk tugging her mouth sideways, glancing up as if illustratively toward the—sky? weather? and not simply away from marcus's everything presently. ) I am almost loathe to make my request,

( he will have to put a shirt on for it, )

but is your afternoon otherwise spoken for?

[ Staff collected, Marcus moves closer as she speaks, coming to stand at a conversational distance that would be perfectly polite if he weren't also half naked. Nothing else about his manner reads like this is some deliberate imposition, however, in the way his deliberate impositions tend not to. A fine line, between rudeness and guilelessness.

He balances the end of the staff on the ground, the near-black metal not quite gleaming, coated in patches with a fine sheen of dust. ]

No. If you'd care to lay a claim.

[ Maybe that is neither rudeness or guilelessness. His expression is interested, dimly curious. ]

( it is perfectly ordinary on a particularly hot day for a man at the business of physical pursuits to be so undressed, and indeed this is not even the first time he has been undressed in her presence, nor the most undressed he has been. there is nothing irregular in it and she behaves accordingly.

(as if she can't see below his collarbones, that is.) )

I have business in Hightown, ( she elaborates, ) and I had thought you might accompany me, if the Gallows doesn't have pressing need for you.

Leisure sounds lovely.

Athessa is out walking, looking for a spot where she too might lay out and bask, though her motives are rather less about sunning herself and more about the curious desire to get high outdoors. She's not usually picky, opting for a low roof or the gardens at the Gallows, but today she wants a beach. Sandy, if there is one, to save her the discomfort of pebbles digging into her bruised shoulder.

When she quietly approaches the spot where Loxley lay, she clucks reproachfully.

"Tsk tsk," shaking her head, and coming to stand by his set-aside affects. "Leaving yourself open to attack, with your weapons juuuust out of reach. What are we gonna do with you?" Her smirk tugs at the edges of the bandage on her face, but so long as she doesn't break into a full grin she won't have to do any wincing. (No grinning around Loxley? She's doomed.)

Every now and then, this happens. Tony's need to volunteer information, unasked for, unprompted, to someone he is reasonably confident will be interested, or even not. Definitely the bartender or tavernkeep or whatever has heard a few stories, like the one about the fighter jets that one time, sometimes a litany of relationship hypotheticals in pursuit of advice about a girl in another dimension, and all that guy had to do was nod along and not ask too many questions.

Tony is pretty sure Ellis is always interested, or good enough at faking it. Tonight, at a watering hole located between their path to Hightown and the docks, and as they sit with ale by the open window that might have a chance at catching cooler winds, he's circled around to a thing he had mentioned in passing. "I mean, the 1940s were basically Thedas," Tony says, and maybe Ellis can tell from tone if not context that this is probably not perfectly true. "And not just the hideously destructive, extremely expensive ongoing warfare part. But he was dug up out of the ice like eighty years later, and they wound him up, slapped some stars and stripes on his ass, and sent him off to go do the thing. Save the world, punch the bad guys, you know. Hero stuff.

"And he uses a shield," he concludes, lifting his tankard. "So, you're basically twins."

Over time, Ellis has become adept at interpreting certain turns of conversation. Tony invokes a fair amount of things Ellis has no concept of, and he's rarely inclined to break the flow of Tony's recitation to ask for definitions. It's often the shape of the description that carries the most weight.

The winding flow of discussion has turned to a person Ellis doesn't know, will never meet, but is likely a better man than Ellis has ever been. He tips his own tankard slowly back and forth, waiting for the stab of discomfort to pass before he speaks.

"I wouldn't say twins."

The mildest of objections, maybe something that shouldn't have been said at all. Ellis could let this all pass, but there are moments where he feels a spark of conscience, some discomfort at their perception of him. He thinks of Richard, spitting compliments at him as Ellis confiscated his wine, and sighs.

"There aren't many who would say Wardens are heroes."

Passing over those who would say Ellis in particular is not a hero. Somewhere, Teren looks up from her paperwork and clutches a knife closer.

"Yeah, he's modest too," half-muffled by tankard.

There are a few worlds of difference between Steve Rogers and Ellis, not even just this one, but it's one of those personality quirks that stands out keener to Tony than the rest. Not modesty, but being, like, a good person as if it came easy. He didn't love it in Steve, like it was just hiding something else. He likes it well enough in Ellis, maybe 'cause it seemed like it made sense with the everything else, like it wasn't hiding much.

Except--

"Why not?" is a little sharp, a prod of a question.

There are moments in conversation with both Wysteria and Tony in which Ellis has the sense of stepping on a trap. The question is akin to the little warning creak of some mechanism giving way between his boot. The pause in reply is Ellis ruminating on how to shift his weight without springing an explosion beneath him.

"Some thought we are failing our purpose," Ellis says finally. "And we have made mistakes, of late."

Ha.

"Like joining a mass suicide pact in the desert to summon an army of demons for the bad guy? I mean, who hasn't. Ever hear of Burning Man?"

But he is niggled, now, and maybe it shows in a slight shift of energy. No longer lazily reclining into his own storytelling, but sharper, looking forwards. Tony refills his cup.

"Are we talking about Wardens, though? I thought I was talking about you."

Those words in Tony's mouth are a shock. Not even Teren had spoken so plainly about what had happened at Adamant Fortress. Even capped with an invocation of a man Ellis has never heard of, the summation lands like a blow.

As Tony sharpens, Ellis stills. He doesn't look away, but it is if he is holding his breath, bracing himself.

"Isn't it the same thing?"

A non-answer. Shifting his weight, feeling a spring beneath his boot and knowing whatever comes next will be painful.

There are other sins. Tony has come glancingly close to this one, the most recent, the one that cost him so dearly. Ellis quietly sets down his tankard, draws a deep breath. Waits as if in anticipation of a strike to dodge.

Tony tops up Ellis's cup too. Why not. Just dudes being bros.

There's a second to feel like kind of a shit about that first thing he said, but just that. His mouth twitches to the side at a question for an answer, and he sets the pitcher down.

"Nope," he says. "Or it is? You tell me."

Ellis declines to reclaim the tankard.

It seems that he might also decline to answer. He thinks of repeating himself: It is the same thing.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," is what he settles on. A poor dodge. He is hamstrung by his unwillingness to lie outright, to say the kinds of things that would divert the conversation. This is not like the light conversations he has had with Wysteria. The only way out is to get up from the table, but what does that solve? Tony would ask again after this.

Loxley barely moves, only twisting his neck to peer up at Athessa from his prone position, arm bent back under his head, smile automatic. He acknowledges where his weaponry lies with a glance as he parries, "Mourn my passing, by the sounds of it."

Now he reaches to his face to tug the glasses down enough to peer at her over them and up at her.

"Haven't seen you in a bit. What's that you have?"

[ He nods. Alright.

'What business in Hightown', 'when and for how long', those sorts of questions should naturally follow, and maybe he'll ask them on the way. Instead, Marcus offers out the staff at an angle, keeping the blunt end balanced on the ground so as not to expect her to hold its weight fully.

Because he is offering it to her, and saying, ] Hold this a moment?

Helpfully, Tony kind of organises the table setting a little while Ellis thinks of what he wants to say and says it. Placing Ellis's cup closer to him, drawing his own nearer, shifting a candle out of the way. Fidgety energy, a little compulsive, in the ways that he isn't when the stakes are a little lower.

Irritated, maybe, but aggression seems to thrash about under the weight of giving a shit. He laces his fingers together on the table. "Then explain me how you're a Warden," he says. "Why not quit. Because it doesn't so much sound like you have a tonne of friends in the ranks, and I don't get it."

And not getting it is the worst.

Oh—of course—

( a little gingerly, in taking it, but it's hardly the first time she's handled a weapon for one reason or another. (rarely the intended purpose thereof.) she gets a better grip, then, so that she's holding it steady by the time marcus lets go—

they are so unique, each mage's staff. she studies it, now that it's in her hands. )

I used to enchant swords, ( she says, her fingers light over the runes. ) To burst into flame when wielded a particular way.

Is it a relief that the topic shifts away from what exactly Ellis has done in his life to why he chose this particular occupation?

No, not really.

The questions are intertwined. The answer to one leads the another. Quitting still almost lands like a joke. It startles a bark of laughter out of Ellis, though he sobers immediately after.

"Why is this important now?" Ellis asks. His hands are clammy. There are points where his body seems to forget how to function, where breathing becomes a labor and his ears ring. He focuses on the grain of the table, stretches his left hand open and closed.

The convenient thing about having traveled almost exclusively with Wardens for so many years: no one ever asks these questions. He'd thought if he ever broached these topics, it would be under different circumstances. Or not all.

"Mm," she nods and crosses to his other side to arrange the blanket she brought to lay on. "Been on mission in Orlais. We had to be undercover for a while."

With a little sigh she sits herself down beside him and addresses what she assumes he was referring to: the blunt roll of elfroot she only planned to smoke half of. How convenient.

"Elfroot," she says, and offers it to him to hold while she kicks off her sandals. "It makes everything feel nicer."

"Including whatever you've done to yourself, I'd wager?" he says, with a nod at her that's meant to indicate the bandaging.

But Loxley is rolling to lie on his side, propped up on his elbow. Now his back is to his weapons and everything. Hopefully Athessa isn't one half of a murder attempt or something. He takes the joint, rolling it between his fingers as she settles.

"That sounds very exciting. Undercover in Orlais. You ought to regale me."

"Well it's important the whole time, Ellis."

Tony also isn't drinking, or even using his tankard as a prop, or a distraction. He does skate a look aside to half watch without really seeing the milling clientele, the storybook picture of dudes in studded leather and dudettes in shabby corsetry, the elf-eared musician in the far corner tuning his lute or whatever that is, the candles in their holders.

Easier than watching Ellis squirming, or the stoic and unmoving equivalent of. "Remember the Crossroads? Our stroll through the labyrinth."

[ The runes do not activate under her touch, although perhaps she has talent enough that she could, and bring about the unearthly red glow she's seen them take. Even minimal study will indicate they are there for augmentation, with an additional minor enchantment to warm up the immediate vicinity with a thought. Nothing they would be good for, right this moment.

Marcus steps back, and now sets about tugging his shirt on, pulling the collar down around his neck. ]

That's a talent I wouldn't mind learning, [ he says. ] But I was a poor student, when I was one. This, [ and he nods to the weapon, slow to take it back from here as he refastens his sleeves ] was gifted to me.

Is that a skill you've carried into Thedas?

"Oh, very exciting, undercover as a servant," she says and rolls her eyes. Her fingers take a detour on their way to retrieve a match she managed to find to gingerly prod at her cheek. "It's one of the only roles I can have in Orlais thanks to the ears. Oh, don't worry, I didn't get this while pretending to be a servant, this one has an exciting story." A disclaimer, in case he might've thought it was something awful like being beaten for being an elf.

The match is one used to light the fireplaces in the Gallows, far longer than necessary for Athessa's purposes, so she uses the dagger on her hip to first cut it shorter, then begin to split it from wood to tip to turn one match into two.

"Three of us on reconnaissance, three on infiltration and recovery. A magic artifact. But: something went wrong," The match splits clean. "The infiltration team got captured, subjected to torture, so the rest of us have to hatch a plan--" She strikes the match, then plucks the blunt out of his fingers like she's airlifting it. "--get them and the artifact out before the Venatori find out too much or they kill our friends," The match breathes life into a fresh, glowing cherry, then shakes the flame out, leaving smoke trails in the air. "And get out without a trace."

Loxley was quite serious in his invitation to be regaled, because he listens intently, with the same interest of someone who likes a story.

"Is it that last part that got fucked?" he asks. His tone is light, but not so jaunty that he sounds like he's making fun out of a job where people were tortured. Just several degrees removed and feeling around the edges. "It usually is, with a group."

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loxley

different kind of thirst; closed to ellis.

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