open and closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree, Valerius Hildebrand, Tony Stark, Loxley
WHAT: Some open starters, some closed starters. Hit me up in DMs or plurk if you want to do something!
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Location
NOTES: TBA

Comments

marcus rowntree; open.

[luaithre]

It's easy to fill your days with labour, under Riftwatch's employ.

For Marcus, such work is normally conducted in dutiful silence and business-like exchange, but some may be able to crack open such interactions for more substance. He is at his most interested during mage combat training amongst the foothills a little beyond the boundaries of Kirkwall, where they've space enough (and permission enough) to mark up the rolling landscape without objection from those that own this land, courtesy of one Wysteria Poppell. It is, most times, a bright day amongst rolling green

Such training, depending on the agenda for the day, varies. Ordinary duelling with staves, the loud clack of wood and iron connecting, the occasional thump of blunt force connecting with padded body parts. More arcane rituals, such as bolstering defensive magic with the run-off elemental attacks of companions, or drilling the motions behind Barrier casting until it becomes muscle memory.

He can be found supervising, participating, or exhaustedly getting his horse ready in preparation for the ride back.

It is also, if you try hard enough, just as easy to find moments of leisure.

For instance, walking Petrana's wolfhound, and while some days he's content to do so just around the island of the Gallows, or Kirkwall's docks, sometimes he opts for far longer excursions, out into the local wilderness. Catch him not on such trails, but in returning to the Gallows, and more specifically, at the bottom of the tower stairs that lead up to his shared room with Madame herself.

Vysvolod is a giant creature who has currently decided he has had enough walking today, and is laid down flat at floor of the stairs, doing his best impression of having died, save that he is panting heavily. His leash is left to lie on the floor, and Marcus is nearby, seated at the bottom of the stairs, and giving Vysvolod as long as it takes for him to finish his current cigarette.

Which he does, the stub dropped and crushed out beneath his heel. "Alright," he says, more to himself than the dog, getting to his feet. He tugs the leash with a sharp whistle that the dog doesn't respond to, and after a small montage of trying to encourage Vysvolod onto his feet in a normal way, smashcut to Marcus standing over him, trying to get his arms around him, and haul him to his paws physically.

Hhh.

bottom of the tower stairs

[acreage]

Oh, it's this guy.

But actually — he sees Vysvolod first, then the man trying to pull him upright. Holden's familiar with the animal from an outing with Petrana, which is another way of saying that he's never seen Vysvolod put up such dramatics.

"Having some trouble?"

[luaithre]

Oh, it's this guy.

Carefully, Marcus lowers Vysvolod back down from the few inches he'd managed to raised him, the rangy canine settling back comfortably, tail thumping against the ground at the appearance of someone new-familiar, although not exciting enough to compel him to his feet.

Marcus straightens up, but doesn't immediately move from where he is standing over the wolfhound, a slightly undignified stance but nonetheless— "No," he says. And adds, "He does this."

mage training adjacent

[okayimin]

She is ostensibly there to oversee the practices in case anyone gets grievously injured. She's aware that her presence in Chantry red and whites lends some legitimacy to anyone that happens to be passing by. Likewise, she's aware that the Chantry would doubtless prefer her to be keeping careful notes on the various capabilities of Riftwatch's mages.

Both involve spending a great deal of time sitting around waiting for someone to dislocate something, so she ends up foraging along the edges of the encroaching woods. She ends the day covered in sap and grass stains and looking wildly pleased with herself. "There's arbor blessing growing in the tree stand on the far side," she informs him as he saddles up, "Blasted stuff wasn't there last year, I'm sure of it. You look like shit, here."

She holds out a glass vial of something viscous and green and a handful of tiny strawberries.

[luaithre]

Marcus is listening, probably, just without looking, focused on buckles and straps, until she then tells him he looks like shit, and so he casts a sideways, downwards glance. Excuse me.

He finishes off the buckle he was working on before turning to her properly, gathering the offered items up in his hands, the berries in a loose open hold and the vial between his fingers, rolling it between them to study.

"What is it?"

mage combat training.

[poleaxed]

Jone arrives late to the scene, because she isn't a mage. She heard about this by accident, really, and she reckons she wasn't supposed to hear about it at all. It is what it is. Things seem to be wrapping up, which is just as well; she doesn't seem tired by the trek.

She doesn't know Marcus, but she's heard of him. He's in charge of... mage things. "Oi, er, Enchanter, ser."

So, clearly not a mage.

"If you've a moment, like to talk to you."

She extends this request with an offer of her own, taking hold of the nearest bit of heavy equipment and hefting over her shoulder. She's not going to bother him without providing something in return, at the very least.

[luaithre]

Marcus is tugging his coat back on as Jone approaches, watching her with the kind of blankly inscrutable expression of someone adept at keeping their thoughts to themselves and who also doesn't think resting neutral face could be construed as, like, unfriendly. She hasn't been invited out here, but they also share a Division, she's not interrupted anything, and she immediately makes herself useful.

Points in favour. So he tips his head to the cart nearby to direct her that was brought out to carry equipment as well as some supplies, such as a couple of small kegs now drained of their fresh water.

"I've a moment," he confirms.

mage training ish.

[hornswoggle]

To live in the Gallows is to become passingly familiar with the routines of the other occupants of the towers. There's always an element of variation, allowing for missions and misadventure, but if there's someone in particular being sought out, it's not impossible to have a general sense of their comings and goings.

Ergo, John has a sense of about the time he'll find Marcus returning to the stables towards the end of the day. Yes, John knows about the combat training sessions. No, he isn't inclined to join them. That's not what this is about.

"I think it's time we spoke."

[luaithre]

Marcus is on his feet, leading his horse, a big speckled-grey creature that ghosted his dreams too. Both iterations. He looks tired, but only the kind of tired that a satisfying day has brought on, where his ambitions for however long it will be until sundown is a meal, a long soak in hot water, making sure that the only thing that comes to bed are warm bodies and not handfuls of last minute letters and paperwork.

These plans stall out in his momentum as he's addressed by John Silver, any sense of surprised absorbed instead by looking him up and down. Then, "Aye," simple agreement, and he continues his way towards the correct stall to start offloading his horse.

marcus; closed to petrana and julius.

[luaithre]

There's an open market square in Hightown, a sprawling space with expansive enough dimensions that there's little in the way of crowds to bustle through or against, even at its busiest. There are stalls draped in silk that boast wares of fine craft and exotic origins, bolts of textiles, jewellery displayed in frames, slim volumes of popular writings, even cages of chittering birds of spring colours leaping to and fro in tall cages.

Beyond them, the space is ringed in permanent stores, tailors and cobblers and bookshops, some selling arms and armor across from neat little eateries and teashops. In the centre, a fountain. There's a fountain in the Lowtown market too, but unlike that one, people only admire or sit by it, rather than wash themselves in it, or drink from it in mouthfuls.

One would imagine that running errands with Marcus would be a brisk affair, or at least, there'd be a businesslike completion of necessary tasks before doing something more enjoyable. The reality is that he is susceptible to distraction once he's in the city, peering curiously at just about everything. Under his arm is an old book wrapped in cloth that he's taken in to get repairs at a recommended shop somewhere around here, but has instead stopped in front of a stall with twinkling sets of cufflinks pinned to plush white displays.

[ipseite]

It is Petrana, in fact, whose inclination seems more to the briskly efficient — an impulse more noticeable to Julius and Marcus who know her so well, and less so to the people that she curbs it for, making familiar conversation with vendors who've become accustomed to and friendly with her, asking after families and plans and newly arrived stocks. She isn't impossible to divert with some interesting thing she hadn't expected to see, but it's clear that her meandering is to purpose and that if she hadn't that purpose or their company she might easily complete her necessary tasks and be on her merry way.

Granted, quite possibly not to anything more enjoyable than her office.

Since they are here, however, she studies the display of cufflinks until she sees one with a violet stone that she thinks might be amethyst or something similar, “If we are set upon attending Miss Poppell's upcoming nuptials,” she ventures, “these might look very well for them. I had thought of getting down my riding habit,” the ostentatiously lovely velvet thing in royal purple that she's not worn in literal years, yes, “as it strikes me as quite appropriate to her theme.”

It isn't her very finest clothing — she'd not wear that to anything advertised as camping, no matter the occasion or cause — but it had been a bold assertion of status once and it is a lovely, finely made thing. She's avoided purple all these years since, developed something of an aversion to the colour that Marius had made much of her in; the prospect of matching them to her in it, instead, holds some appeal.

She isn't certain if it holds the same connotations in Thedas — she thinks not — but who is going to mind if it does, at this wedding, in this place?

[overharrowed]

"If," he says, lightly, resting his hand on Petrana's shoulder. "I wasn't aware it was still a question."

Julius, left to his own devices, tends to inevitably multitask his errands with strengthening social ties in town, so they're seldom rushed. He leaves plenty of time for conversations, planned and unplanned. But he doesn't tend to let himself linger over things that catch his eye. The change of pace is pleasant, even if it is evidently taking some adjustment. So far he's more drawn to whatever Marcus is looking at than anything for himself.

"I, for one, think Vysvolod would be deeply disappointed if we canceled."

tony stark; open.

[propulsion]

It's at an odd time of day when the explosion goes off.

And you'd probably have to be meditatively unbusy and situated somewhere around the bottom floors of the central tower, but still, there emanates an unmistakable, bassy boom from the dungeon's lower levels, rattling the foundation of the building.

No smoke, no one running out caught on fire and screaming, just silence after.

But sometimes Tony is in his office, too, usually bent over huge swaths of paper with diagrams and schematics in fine-lined pen, cooling coffee in a jug on a desk that has mostly been purposed towards holding his things. Sometimes he is also not doing that, and he is sitting in a plush chair, tossing a wooden puzzle ball up into the air, catching it, miles away.

Or you might have been dragged out for a field assignment, locating rifts, wrangling them closed, killing the demons they regurgitate. Depending on who he's with, Tony might be standing forty feet away and wielding a strange arcane device, all dials and brassy clockwork and flashing runic inscriptions.

Other times, and without much prompting, you'll find him in the thick of it, and it's not wildly stressful to behold, unless you're Ellis, appropriately adorned in pieces of custom armor, gleaming with Fade-touched silverite, dark leathers, chain mail, and fine looking gauntlets from which one emanates green light of the same quality that the rift glows with.

From his hand comes a line of wild looking green lightning, forking off and scorching the earth as well as the floating sadness demon or whatever it is he was aiming for. Don't get to close, you might get zapped too.

[obdurata]

Joselyn's knuckles rap sharp against the edge of his office door, which she has already thoughtfully opened to save him the trouble of getting up to do it.

“So, I heard an explosion yesterday.”

— and she just assumed he's involved. Or, more charitably, that the research division head would probably know about it and be able to satisfy her curiosity, but honestly: it's probably the first one.

[propulsion]

"Yeah?"

Tony is located in one of the plush chairs in the corner of the room, near the big windows, reading a series of loose sheets of paper that he has to tip down to look at her over. "Sounds irresponsible," he says. "Of you, to wait for today to tell me. Sounds like someone needs their pay docked."

His affect is very dry, negligent, bringing his papers back up to read which also interrupts their eyeline.

office hours.

[heorte]

There is a chair that has migrated around the room, largely charged with holding papers, books, spare parts, and only rarely a person.

Presently, Ellis has cleared the detritus from the seat, dragged it across the room from the door and set himself into it. He's attempted to choose a point well out of the way, but near enough at hand to observe over the pages of the book balanced against one knee. Tony's working, and Ellis is content to simply be present. He's not as adept a sounding board as Wysteria or Fitz might have been, but he's at least honed instincts to a point where he can divert a line of thought before it gets away from them both.

"You're getting close to knocking over your coffee," Ellis says eventually, glancing up at the increasingly frenetic rustling of papers.

[propulsion]

Tony casts a restless glance towards said cup to see that, yes, it's quite near the lip of the table, and yes, he could conceivably thwap it the rest of the way over with a misplaced shuffle of his pages. He reaches out, catching his fingers at the edge, and seems like he might be flicking it off on purpose.

But he sneaks his little finger through the handle, snagging it up into his palm as it tips with a, "Oh, the humanity," where he holds it safely, bringing it up to sip. Ostensibly, not too much left. "Good looking out. Need a refill, though. Any left in the jug?"

office

[youwonscience]

The door's open, but she knocks on the frame anyway. "Hey, boss? You interruptible right now?" She's got some papers tucked under her arm, but her demeanor doesn't suggest anything is actively (or metaphorically) on fire. That, and her leaning halfway in the door with her feet still in the hall, gives her the air of someone gauging whether or not she's picked her moment correctly.

[propulsion]

"Mhm."

Tony doesn't look up, bent over sheets of very fine parchment weighted down at the corners, handling a copper drawing compass to lay down fine-lined curves over a half-finished schematic of some description. It doesn't look extremely interruptible, this moment, but he did say mhm, so that must be something.

"There's coffee if you want any," he adds. "Pour me one while you're at it, will you?"

valerius hildebrand; open.

[beidhander]

You can find Valerius Hildebrand exactly where you'd expect him to be.

The Diplomacy offices.

He is a big man who seems to own nothing worn that would not be out of place in either a full scale battle or a training yard. Not full plate, or anything, there are a lot of stairs involved in getting up here, not that that would be a problem, just very clanky, and he is considerate, but his boots are travelled scratched, his leathers heavy and pungent, bracers on his wrists, a heavy belt wide enough to protect some vital areas from axe swings and the like. Visible scars include one striped across his skull over his ear, several on his face.

Currently, he is seated at a desk and chair, frowning over a series of reports. He has taken it upon himself to familiarise himself with The Work. He doesn't look up when people enter, in full concentration, hands holding his head up as he tries to absorb all these fancy sounding names and places he's never been.

So it's really a matter of survival that he also excuses himself to the training yard. A little like a kid still unsure of who to play with, Valerius stands near the collection of training weapons and watches the goings on, his own truly gigantic sword balanced against a shoulder.

training yard;

[clawings]

Erik has arrived on the scene with his new sword, complete with a fire rune; he's gone to the training weapons area to try and find something that's got the same amount of weight to it, so he can practice without setting all and sundry on fire.

Look, he knows this fortress is stone and held mages (whom, presumably, could wield fire or at least some of them) but the last thing he wants is to accidentally cause some kind of incident playing with a new toy.

He spots Valerius standing there and gestures. "Wanna spar?"

loxley; open.

[charmoffensive]

Out in Lowtown transpires a scuffle.

A scuffle in an alleyway. Three figures, surrounding a fourth, all of which are quiet large. One shadow shoves another, rammed into a wall, but the fourth doesn't stay there for long. He twists in place as if to use that momentum to bounce away and dart through an opening, but there isn't an opening, and large hands coming down to grasp the back of his coat and drive him into the range of another.

The thump of bony fist against clothed flesh, but not so well padded that the fourth being struck doesn't let out a wheeze. Then, light: green flame streaking through the tight knot of bodies, following a dagger that slashes out. It goes out again with a wink and a trail of smoke, steel clattering on the pavement. "I got 'im," growls a voice.

But for a less accidental meeting, you can also find Loxley where he calls home, an apartment atop a less than successful tavern called the Anvil. He doesn't normally drink there, but comes down in the morning for breakfast, parting with a copper for a full plate of food and a pitcher of beer.

The way up to his apartment is a series of rickety stairs along the outside of the tavern, out of view of the street, an ordinary door left unlocked during the day leading into a hallway, and then heavier-set looking doors braced into stone wall, oddly intimidatingly secure for a series of rooms above a tavern, but fit for some kind of purpose.

Anyway, there's no secret password, just knock.

knock knock

[tender]

"I think you're keeping the Anvil afloat," Derrica tells him, having climbed the rickety stairs with two mismatched mugs for the benefit of Loxley's company.

She would like to ask what prompted the move, but instead, her question is—

"What's it like, having a place of your own like this?"

The closest Derrica has ever come is her little room in the Gallows. It's not exactly the same was what Loxley has here: a place separate from all their work, and wholly his own.

lowtown - lmk if you want any adjustments

[sohighandwild]

Normally, Ket might be hurt that she wasn't invited to whatever preceded this, but in Loxley's defense, she's only recently returned from Antiva and her arrival might not be common knowledge yet. She was truly out for some light parkour, not planning to be down on street level at all.

But she never has had a sense of when to leave well enough alone.

She jumps down lightly as a cat, behind the voice that spoke last. She's in dark, nondescript clothing that makes it easy to move, her hood up. It's a Marcher accent that says, "Not very sporting, three against one." The long stiletto blade in her hand is Antivan in a way her speech isn't, but that may be easy to miss in the shadows.

wildcard.

[novokribirsk]

It's a quiet moment in the dining hall.

Zoya savors it, drinking from a streaming cup of fragrant tea. She's found her way to some of the nicer stuff, clearly, and takes her time with enjoying it. Nearby, though, lies an assortment of papers; closer inspection would find them to be maps, of the Free Marches, and Orlais, and Ferelden, Nevarra. The green glint at her bare palm adds more evidence to the notion of rifter, as much as the way her gaze catches on him when she notices him enter.

She's seen a lot of things, but the realm of non-human races isn't one she has much experience with.

Frowning slightly, she says, "I've never seen you before."