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

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.

[poleaxed]

Jone, not truly expecting to be taken seriously, feels the smile pull at her face. It's not the prettiest thing, but who fucking cares; this isn't a salon.

"Wondering if you've any tips," he says, "on training mages."

[luaithre]

He's collected up his own canteen, and without looking, looking instead at this rather imposing woman addressing him, he writes a small and understated pattern in the air with his fingers. Chilling frost makes a very temporary layer across the leather item in his hand, quick to melt and form into droplets.

"To do what?" is also taking her seriously.

[poleaxed]

Jone can't help but watch with a little bit of awe, taking a half-step back on instinct. She's never seen magic used so casually. It makes perfect sense, of course, but it's also new and new things... Jone doesn't enjoy surprises. Not those kinds, anyway.

(Does her brother, a mage far away, do those sorts of things? If he's still alive.)

"I'd say, to be less of a knob, but I know that's beyond your powers." A joke, testing the water with a man who, though he doesn't look it, could rip her apart without much thought. This is the world they're in now. She refuses to fail to meet it head on. "He needs training in what that ain't magic."

She holds up her fist-- loosely, as unimposing as she can, looking how she is-- to paint a clearer picture.

"And if it works for him, reckon it could work for the rest of you lot."

[luaithre]

The joke barely makes a ripple, borderline unacknowledged while he waits for the real answer to his question, like a stone sinking quick through the surface of a placid lake. But safe to say, at the very least, its intended spirit is recognised, Marcus lifting his canteen to drink from. The liquid inside is sharp and cold.

He glances at her fist, back at her, a twitch of a raised eyebrow.

"Not all mages are cut of the same cloth," he says. "There are those from Circles that marched them to the frontlines of the Blight, and others that kept them cloistered in sunless libraries day in and day out. What would work for one won't, the other."

But it's not a refusal, Marcus nodding to her as he caps his canteen. "And of magic, do you fear it?"

[poleaxed]

Jone nods, trying to take this in. Trying to show she is. Accustomed to being disregarded, she's now of set mind and dogged temperament not to be. Which means paying attention, not swearing, being careful. It's hard, relying on that organ that's never been of any use to her, but it's about time her brain started doing some of the bloody work.

"I don't like being burnt," Jone says, choosing her words with care, "but I don't swear off cooked food. Like any weapon, magic is. What it does depends on who uses it. But, no, I won't pretend it don't spook me, at times."

[luaithre]

It's a careful kind of answering, but does not read to Marcus as a lie, as inauthentic for its care. She does not strike him as someone very skilled in fabrication, anyway, which is fine. Neither is he.

"Some fear is good," he says. "In that if you were holding a sword, I'd keep my distance, a little. But I wouldn't fear that you'd attack me, only because you were holding it. I wouldn't, necessarily, assume that your wielding a powerful weapon, and the mastery you have for it, would turn you mad, and try to destroy me with it for no reason."

A beat, and he adds, "That is the way most common folk fear mages. If you're to train a mage in martial practices, you'd need to be sure of yourself that you trust that mage completely."

[poleaxed]

His frank manner inspires the same in kind; while he's so rigid it borders on frightening, she can't allow herself to be shamed for it any longer. And being shamed is how she thinks of it; backing down is lethal. She'll see this through.

"Me brother was a mage. Used to play with fire in his hands behind the old warehouses, before..." She shrugs. Before. She doesn't need to elaborate.

"There's naught stopping mages from picking up a sword, or daggers, or at least knowing the right place to stab or hit. That might end up keeping them safer. Know it would've for the mages I known."

She didn't always feel like this. She does now. That's all that matters.