faderift | open and closed.

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.

"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.

It's a small space, but he's kept it clean. The main room is also a bedroom, with the bed itself pushed into the far corner and made recently. Random items have found places on a shelf, on the top of a scratched up dresser. A couple of empty wine bottles 'decorate' a windowsill, one of which has a sprig of some dried out, previously flowering thing.

The table and two chairs they occupy nearby the window don't look out of place from the Anvil itself, knife marks and burns and old wine stains in the wood, which is heavy set and hard to, say, flip over. There's a candle holder and lit candle, and a plate of cookies.

Because like Derrica says, which he'd chuckled at and hadn't disagreed, he generally takes his meals downstairs. "Nice, mostly. Not as quiet as you'd think," he says, in answer of that question, listing back in his chair. "But I don't tend to turn in early, anyway.

"How's the Gallows?" he adds, lifting mug to face to drink from.

"Unchanged," Derrica answers, drawing up one leg to tuck beneath opposite knee. "It might be quieter here than it is there."

A brief smile at the glancing mention of the hours he keeps. Maybe misinterpreting it as a different kind of carousing than what Loxley's actually doing, but—

"But there are some newcomers settling in that make things..."

She trails off, dipping a hand in the air between them. Loxley is intuitive and kind, but Derrica isn't so sure how much the concept of "Templars and Chantry faithfuls have shown up" is going to register with him.

His head tips, a sign of interest. As she trails off, he suggests, "Sexy," raising an eyebrow, or perhaps, "Exhausting? Slippery. I'll land on the right one, given enough time."

But Loxley doesn't continue his wild stabs after the correct adjectives, and instead lets a bright and mischievous smile dim a few watts as he says, "What sort of newcomers?" as he sets down his cup.

Try him.

The small grin Loxley's guesses had sparked up fades by degrees, turns thoughtful rather than frustrated.

"Devout," is a diplomatic descriptor. "Templars and Chantry brothers. The kind of people who think mages shouldn't be free of Circles."

There's no cause to think they'd drag any of the mages here kicking and screaming back to one, but just their presence—

It made her skin itch to be near to them. It can't be helped.

There's a subtle shift to Loxley's expression that indicates not complete ignorance about the subject. In an odd way, it's easy to forget about things like the political existence of mages, the looming spectre of the Chantry, and the ways in which his friends all fit within that bigger picture. Or, correction: he's made it easy.

"I'd say it's a good sign they're willing to work with mages outside of them," he says, "but I don't really know if I'd be right about it."

The chair creaks as he adjusts his sit. "Are they there on their own accord?" And not, say, as representatives.

"I don't know."

It seems so, but there's always the consideration that maybe—

Suppose they write back to their leaders. Suppose they bring down the scrutiny of the Chantry and all the consequences of it onto Riftwatch?

It's an old worry. She'd been thinking of it since she'd sought out her phylactery.

"Templars are meant to be on the Divine March, not here at all. So maybe it's their own choice, and maybe it isn't," Derrica says, resting an elbow on the table and her chin on her palm. "I wish I could be more optimistic about it."

Except not really.

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.

The synergy of the group is interrupted with a voice that they hadn't factored in. Under the ambient light of indirect street torches, and her own eyes accustomed to shadowed places, Ket can make out where Loxley has his armed locked and twisted by another, broader-shouldered scoundrel, and where another has a rude clasp around one of his curling horns, head back.

A clasp that is loosened in this moment of distraction as Loxley... yes, alright, rams his head back towards that man's face, clocking him across the mouth with the broad bend of one horn.

The third, who'd turned fully to Ket, only twitches a look back, but otherwise focuses on this stranger while the struggle behind him renews. "Neither's three against two," he says. "Move along."

She makes a brief show of considering this suggestion. "No," pleasantly, "I don't think I will." And suddenly the off-hand that had been empty a moment before is throwing a smaller blade squarely at the shoulder of the tough holding Loxley's arm. (She might have aimed elsewhere, but it seems the quickest and least risky way to help when the third figure is still between them.)

She doesn't wait to see if it finds its mark, though, already moving to close with the one target not already engaged. She's at a stark disadvantage for size, which is why it is a good thing she was absolutely not trained to fight fair. As late as she can reasonably leave it, she swerves, going for a long, bloody cut along the thigh, where her opponent hopefully prepared for an attack above the belt.

Many things happen very quickly, which is sort of the way it works when you have two quick knifey people involved.

Ket throws her blade; the tough cries out, and the one nearest her turns instinctively. She's made her mark very well, in fact, so much so that the blade sticks into the meat of that shoulder, only to be torn out when Loxley manages to get a hand free, bringing it around in a tight arc to score it across the face of the other. Green flame briefly flares, a ribbon of it that curls around them both, but only catches on the two men.

And then blood, spattering, as Ket drags her stiletto over thigh, and the big man bellows and swings a fist, a haymaker that someone with speed on their side can see coming a mile away. Whatever its outcome, Loxley is suddenly at his back having slithered out of the grasp of the two others, burying Ket's smaller blade into the general mass of him at his side, all bared fangs and flashing golden eyes.

She ducks the haymaker, though it does mean she has to concentrate on that long enough she can't get the second attack she'd planned in before Loxley is there, burying the blade into the man's side. There's only the briefest moment for a well, that works facial expression before ducks out of the large man's reach, turning to see what's become of the two who had been holding Loxley before he got free. She doesn't know enough about the green fire to know what its effect was, so she's prepared for them to be still up and advancing.

The green fire is, unfortunately, a mere flash, leaving behind only tendrils of smoke issuing off burned clothing, flesh, hair. But the green fire is, fortunately, magical, which isn't extremely favoured in this dimension.

They back up, in short, without yet running, one clutching his bleeding face and the other glancing over a shoulder for an exit.

The big one in the centre of it all is not quite down and out, rage and adrenaline landing an elbow against Loxley's chest, moving around then in an attempt to grab at Ket, anything—hair, clothing, limbs. There's an opening for her to strike, and it's mostly faith that she will take it that has Loxley taking the second to disengage while still getting his breath back, ducking around the bulk of him, lurching away.

Time to go.

Ket takes the opening, punching her blade into the meat of the man's bicep. She'd like to disable the arm, but she'll take pain and blood if it's the best she can do. She doesn't wait to see which it is, dodging away out of reach and falling back toward Loxley.

Lower, though still in the Marcher accent, she asks, "Are you in shape to run? I know a back way we can likely use to lose them, but we're going to be on an open street for maybe 50 yards." If he can't sprint, she's already working on a new plan, but this one would be ideal.

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."

"And I've never seen you before."

Loxley stands at the door, hands caught on the strap of his satchel, midway through scouting the place before Zoya hooks his attention. His accent sounds perfectly in keeping with much of Kirkwall and the surrounding Marches. Well, maybe it has a little more flare. Who's to say.

He clocks her rift-hand, and the moves towards where the keg of ale is set up, some mostly-cleaned tankards nearby, and goes to help himself.

"Did you fall through a rift, or get struck by one?"

"Do I look like I came from this world?"

The very thought. Her voice lilts not-quite-Russian, much like her apparel; a glide of smooth dark blue silk, embroidered in silver at her cuffs and elsewhere. She wears it as naturally as he might his shirt, or a queen might her crown, for all that it's one of a kind in Thedas. It had taken a lot of talking the tailor through the job, and she isn't completely satisfied with the results, but it's much better than being without.

A Grisha's kefta, after all, is one of their most precious belongings.

Loxley glances back at her over his shoulder, in case he missed something, and he supposes she means her clothing, in lieu of anything else obvious. He fills his cup.

"In most respects," he says, a slant apologetic. "But I'm not terribly familiar with all this world's fashions."

Who knows—maybe such fine garments could look at home in the corners of Antiva, or whatever other country exists far from the Free Marches' fondness of pragmatism and poverty. Articles of his own clothing aren't native to this world, but aren't a wild departure—a long leather coat of golden-brown, tall boots of particularly fine make. It would take more than a passing glance to note their runic embellishments.

He turns back to her, making an approach without all the way inviting himself to sit just yet. "You don't look like you're from Kirkwall," he allows. "Which is a compliment."

She tosses her hair, a loose cascade of shining waves, and says, "I've had better."

Compliments, that is. She seems less offended than providing a statement of fact; has she mentioned yet the man who would've signed over one of his estates, only to watch her step in blueberries?

(She'd refused, naturally. The estate wasn't anywhere nice.)

"How long ago did you fall through a rift?"

He isn't, after all, familiar with all of this world's fashions.

open and closed.

loxley; open.

knock knock

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lowtown - lmk if you want any adjustments

perfecktion

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Wow, definitely thought I tagged this

wildcard.

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