[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Wysteria, Miriam, Cassius & You
WHAT: Catch-All
WHEN: Post-dreams, nebulously Guardian-ish
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Warnings (if any) in subject lines.

((OOC NOTE: Anything in bold is closed to one thread, though group threads a-okay.
Feel free to turn this into action brackets if The Spirit Moves You.
Wildcards welcome, bespoke starters available upon request.))

Comments

[revise]

She is tiny, isn't she? All the wiry muscle, the most serious expression in the world, and the aggressive shape of the hammer ended mage staff can't successfully detract from that fact. Not up close, anyway.

"I wouldn't go revising your opinion just yet," Miriam says, all dour. The air tastes like something sharp, all the hanging wet air gone crisp as the snow slouched against a series of row houses peels back toward the center of the icy roadway. It's a little like folding back a series of stacked blankets. Under the thick sheepskin lining of her coat, sweat is beginning to prickle at the back of her neck.

"I do birthday parties too."

[noonrodeon]

Noon's laugh is a low rumble.

"A true lady of talent. You could enchant a whole band of instruments and put the bards out of business." Enchanting is a thing all mages do, right? And he can't have his small friend here doing all the work, so he gets back to his lot. Guiding the snow off the steeply tipped rooftops isn't nearly as pressing a job as helping dig folk out of their homes, but it'd prevent any future tragedies and Noon was well tall enough for it. He uses a rake, which not nearly as impressive.

"Don't know how this magic stuff works-" In case that wasn't clear, "But holler out if you need a rest, aye?"

[revise]

That's not how that works, she doesn't say. Because her focus is engaged elsewhere. Because it doesn't matter. Because it's bitter cold, but not an unpleasant day and why lash it to the anchor of Tranquility?

"Aye," she says in agreement, broad Markham accent all flat around the word.

The snow drift unpeels like layers from the top of a flaky pastry, or the unmaking a bed.

[noonrodeon]

And Noon for his part is happy to return to his work. He moves a little slower than she does, both from lack of magic and his habit calling out a greeting to passersby who stop to watch the spectacle of peeling snow.

"Oi, Dunn! Don't think I don't see you there, friend. You keep standing there, I'm chucking you on the next roof to push down the snow." He is a large, cheerful presence, nonthreatening in a way that is perhaps a bit pointed. "Mornin', Porter. Hell of a storm, eh. How's the missus?"

[revise]

They continue on in the fashion for the length of the street—her with her studious quiet cleanup of snow barricaded doors and buried windows, and him with his gregarious good humor as he knocks snow from slanted rooftops. It's only once they reach the crooked end of the lane that Miriam draws up. She's a little pale under behind her dark fringe; a prickle of sweat shines briefly on her upper lip then is rubbed away on her sleeve.

She glances in his direction.

"You seem to have your fair share of friends in Kirkwall. Have you been with Riftwatch long?"

[noonrodeon]

Noon stops when she does, leaning his rake against one of her tidily folded snow drifts and ambling over to her. His demeanor doesn't change, just shifts from the loud, pointed friendliness to something more loose limbed and relaxed. He pulls a flask from the depths of his coat, uncaps it, takes a swig and then offers it to her

"Nah, some of them gawkers are just trouble makers," Noon says easily, "But I been around Kirkwall not yet ten year now. Used to sell game in Lowtown. Did some escort and scout work for the Hightown types before that. Just signed up with Riftwatch not too long ago.
You?"