faderift | open and closed.

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.

Edited 2021-04-26 04:22 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2021-04-26 11:43 (UTC)

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?"

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.

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.

Edited 2021-04-27 01:55 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?"

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.

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?

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.

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."

"Bitter herbs mostly, little bit of elfroot to ease pain. I take it when I got long rounds and vigils. Works good for fatigue, but it tastes horrible." Which is clearly what the berries are for. "Don't know if it helps any with magic drain, but I figured Colin has you lot covered for that."

"Since when?"

— it's never been said that James Holden is much of one for things like subtlety, whether the topic at hand is a war or some social nicety. He stops not far from Marcus and the dog, near enough to talk and theoretically offer help.

But he at least has the grace to clarify, "Mme. de Cedoux mentioned that you take him out for walks, but I imagined there was more walking involved."

"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."

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.

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."

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.

"I've some lyrium with me," Marcus confirms, as he unscrews the vial. He holds it under his nose, confirming that faint scent of elfroot in the rest of the herby mixture. His mouth twitches with a small measure of reluctance, but takes his medicine in the end.

Wow, that texture could be improved. He twists some of the leaves off one of the small strawberries. "Do you know your poisons as well as your potions?"

Since when gets a frown that Marcus doesn't bother to suppress into something more neutral, and he steps aside so that he isn't still crowding over Vysvolod. Bends to take up the the leash again.

Winds a short length of it around his hand as he considers Holden frankly, in a manner that is a little apart from what they're talking about.

"Then she failed to mention our walks take us out into the wilderness, not simply up and down the stairs," and the obviously is pronounced silently. "What else do you speak of with her?"

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.

There's a fair enough that he considers, because maybe he is being a little overly critical here and it's not like he knows Marcus to have a sense of humor --

but his eyebrows lift at the question, wrinkling his forehead, and his spine straightens incrementally.

"I don't see how that's your business."

Is what he'd say to anyone, really, asking that about a significant other. Naomi would never have the patience for him if he were the type to make that ask.

There's a dream reality where Holden's denial would probably get some sharp reply, something brittle and cold and impatient. It has been long enough since that it's not Marcus' instinct in the moment, and the shift of his expression is probably difficult to read in its subtlety. It isn't, however, anger, or even disapproval.

He nods, once. "So it isn't," he concedes, and glances up the stairs where he would be going if a giant dog he has put himself in charge of wasn't keeping him trapped here. In this interaction.

Vysvolod lifts his head. Progress. It's mostly to twist a look at Holden, like he isn't certain why someone who dispenses attention to him, a Vysvolod, is still just standing there and not dispensing attention.

open and closed.

marcus rowntree; open.

marcus; closed to petrana and julius.

bottom of the tower stairs

tony stark; open.

valerius hildebrand; open.

loxley; open.

mage training adjacent

mage combat training.

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office hours.

mage training ish.

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