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

[charmoffensive]

"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?"

[novokribirsk]

"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.

[charmoffensive]

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."

[novokribirsk]

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.