faderift | O1 ♚ I'M IN NEED OF AN ANSWER

He boosts himself up, dark fingers on a narrow ledge, the coarse cut of his boots finding purchase somehow on the concrete. The first wall he scales is a low one; they probably used to stable horses in this building, single-story, rotted wood and blown-in bricking bearing little resemblence to stalls but failing to form much else, either. He trips over tiles on his way to the adjacent block. Three stories. Looks up.

Jumping it would be easier, but he doesn't. He's been as judicious about his powers as he can be, of late. Hunting itself, every two nights, represents enough risk of exposure and raw need that he knows to be pragmatic about it; a baby vampire in tow hardly makes things easier.

But were he to be entirely forthright, none of this is very difficult, by his measure.

At some point, he makes it up high enough that the masonry under his feet lends its function to not to horses or homes or any other recognizable function, but it looks to be braced against the sky itself. There's a tower not far away, small windows cut into the stone; he can hear ravens talking inside, their voices reverberating off of metal cages. The wind picks at his clothes, and he looks down into a courtyard that sprawls between him and the next he isn't going to make. He steps down over the stone, and his boot shifts a palm-sized fragment of -- tile? Glass? He isn't sure.

But it topples down, and he thinks to say, "Look out!"

The courtyard was something of a refuge for Ariadne. Surrounded by so many strange and different things, there was one constant for her: Plants responded to her gentle touch. Even if they were plants she didn't recognize, she still had a marvelous talent for making them grow. And as of late, the strangeness of Thedas had been getting to her. It was no wonder, then, that there was constantly dirt beneath her newly Human fingernails.

She was kneeling beside a bed of flowers that reminded her of Valerian violets when she heard a warning called from above her. Instinct kicked in long before thoughts of subterfuge.

For a slight, skinny girl who couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, Ariadne was quick. Agile too. With what looked like almost no effort at all, she threw herself into a barrel roll, spiraling under a nearby tree. She didn't even need to look up to know where the lowest branch was and she grabbed hold of it, swinging her entire body up into a squat on top of it.

Only then did she look up, brushing the fringe of her hair out of her eyes to see the debris crash down where she'd been kneeling.

...well. After Ariadne's incredible acrobatic display, really, the impact of falling rubbish is actually pretty darn anticlimactic. It's just a little hardened mud, maybe a few ounces of tile, tumbling off dusty and brittle into empty air. When it lands on the ground, the condensed dirt mostly vaporizes on impact, disintegrating into a fine dust that turns the shiny green leaves of Ariadne's plants matte and slightly brown.

Maybe a couple leaves get bruised, and that's it. Of course, by the time the literal dust has settled, Marcel doesn't even have a little bit of attention invested in the vegetation. No, his eyes are fixed, instead, on the girl in the tree, tucked into her mighty crouch, the branch steady under her surefooted weight. Humans do not move like that, at least not in his world. It's the vampires, the werewolves, the occasional spelled witch. It's the wrongness that comes of improvement on the original design.

"Sorry about that."

He pitches his voice across the distance between the elevated concrete and the tree below, and he has a voice that carries well in the brisk air. By sorry, one should note that Marcel doesn't sound like he's about to slit his wrists about it, but his voice is warm, and that passes for sincerity in most circles. Marcel cocks his head, shading his eyes. "I take it you're all right. Ma'am."

She recognized his voice before she looked up to spy the gentleman that matched Marcel's self-description. He had a pleasant, handsome face. One that definitely stood out in the strangely monochromatic world of Thedas. But really, it was his eyes which drew her attention. They seemed kind. A little sad, maybe. But it was wrong to read too much into someone's face.

Ariadne relied more on scent to understand people.

Curiously, she grabbed a branch over her head and pulled herself up, climbing up in the direction of the rooftop.

"Lord Marcel?" she asked, her voice light and innocent, like a child's, in spite of her decidedly woman-shaped body.

"Marcel. Don't think I can justify that... honorific," he says, even though he had once rather loudly and unironically announced himself king, and went to war over the power that he thought that held. That was at least a few years ago, at this point. Marcel hasn't yet figured out who all the Kings of Thedas are, but the world is sufficiently feudal that he suspects they and their squabbles exist somewhere beyond the concerns of interdimensional sky holes, demons, spirits, the Rifters caught in between.

A slight squint furrows his brow for a moment. Nothing serious, merely patching voice to face, remembering talking to her over a magic crystal once. The disparity between the way she sounds and the way she looks is mildly jarring, but considering he's fraternized with all sorts of people and creatures. "I spoke to you before, didn't I? Ariadne. You like gardens." He steps a little closer across the roof shingles.

Expertly, she perched herself on the higher branch, offering him a pretty, little smile. "That's right," she said mildly, pleased to be remembered. For someone who looked the way she did, with her wide gray eyes and long braid, she could easily be lost in the background.

It was how she'd been trained.

She tilted her head to one side, birdlike. "What are you doing up on a rooftop?"

Marcel looks around at the rooftop he's on, as if he'd forgotten where he was. Actually most definitely not the case; it's a Hell of a view, and a lady, fellow Rifter, with clever feet can honestly only improve upon it. "Oh, this." He shrugs, makes a joke out of it. Out of his own memory and decidedly peculiar behavior. At least, peculiar unless you happen to be some form of a cat.

"Exploring. You remember what it's like, right?"

And then he takes a running leap. His boots scratch off stone, and then he lands-- hard, impeccably, on the ledge twenty feet down. It's impossibly narrow, the strip that he hits with his heels, but his calculation is perfect. Not only physically. At this point, he sees little facility in people seeing him entirely as a mundane human being. Marcel snatches a hand on the grooved wall behind him for balance. They're nearer to each other now, a story or two for difference in altitude. He grins at her. "Being new."

She did little to disguise her surprise at his sudden display of physical finesse. A move like that was common enough among the Alastrians. But he still had the look of a Human to her eyes.

Just a little closer, she supposed, and she'd be able to catch his scent, perhaps.

There were Darucs who could do something like that with equal grace.

For the time being, though, she let her lips curl into a little smile. "It sounds vaguely familiar," she replied, inching up as far as she dared to move along the branch. "Although it seems to me, you're not exploring any more. You're showing off."

The wind goes the other way, stealing from Ariadne her chance at his scent. But the mountains are high, and climate a little fickle; it'll be only a second or two before the air changes direction and brings her something for her query. In the meantime, Marcel's presentation of openness is pretty convincing, for a stranger who climbs walls and journeys between dimensions.

He smiles warmly. "I'm meeting new people," is his answer, not arguing, but asserting a point-- that he deftly turns to a compliment. "It's a different kind of adventure.

"And sometimes you gotta show off your best side, right?" He has the deftness of a billy goat and just as little fear, stepping sideways along a ledge that's only half the length of his feet. Doesn't even bother looking down, studying her instead. "I hope I didn't kill your plants."

He was a little like a pirate. Ariadne had met a pirate crew once, while spying on one of the shoreside kingdoms. Very charming and very dangerous at the same time. She'd learned a lot from them.

"I hope so too," she replied, standing up straighter, her balance steady in spite of the way the narrow branch creaked beneath her feet. "They're very pretty. I was hoping that they would cheer up the refugees a bit, you know? Nothing can do that quite like flowers."

Sadly, that part wasn't an act. She genuinely meant it.

"But I don't think you will. They're a lot sturdier than people realize."

Also true.

Lightly, she ran her fingers along the curves and crevices of her braid. "Be careful, though. I wouldn't want you to fall." And that was more of an act. Somehow, she doubted he would.

"Aw, shucks." Marcel would have made a good pirate.

As it was, he was certainly the sort of King who left villages burning, who engaged in raids and rarely provided more than a single shot over the bow before he opted to collect heads. He had not thought himself cruel. Charming, maybe; dangerous, probably. He smiles at her, and there are an awful lot of teeth showing in high contrast to his complexion. The next moment, he swings down again. Transfers his weight from foot to hand, his fingers somehow finding purchase on the thin edge of stone. He only hangs up enough of his weight to slow his descent, though.

And it is a descent, deliberate, a drop rather than the fall she pretended to be worried about. It places him near the foot of her tree, reversing their difference in height and then some. And it's then that the wind changes direction, and the flurry of his movement enhance the riffle of air besides. He smells—

human. But faint. Too much so to be human, as if the exertion, the gathering of dust from days of walking, the passage of food and water, was less for him than it would be to sustain an ordinary man. He smells mostly human but very faint. Unmistakably too, he smells of blood. "That's a nice thought," he tells her. "Flowers for refugees. I hear they're getting fed. After that, what could be better?"

The two of them could have fun trying to outdo one another in athletic maneuvers. Seeing the way he moved made Ariadne yearn--not for the first time--for the company of others of her kind. Which made his peculiar scent all that greater a contrast. It was like she was smelling him through a thick, cotton sheet. Her senses muted. It wasn't a feeling she enjoyed, but the aroma of the flowers and the grasses beneath were as strong as ever.

So it was him.

Interesting.

Ariadne dropped down to a lower branch, landing in a neat squat. "I could think of better things," she admitted, hooking her knees around the branch and dropping so that she hung upside down, the tip of her braid almost pooling on the ground beneath her. "But flowers are all I can provide at the moment."

Gripping the branch, she pulled her legs out from under her and lowered herself down to the ground, offering him a little curtsy with a quiet 'ta da.'

"Well look at that." Marcel's smile goes all the way up to his eyes. He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a step closer, cocking his head to look her over. His senses aren't quite as sharp as hers, but it's not a dramatic stretch to tell that she isn't human. For one thing, there are the ears. Even setting that aside, though. "Where I come from, people who can do that make a killing joining Cirque du Soleil." A beat.

"Or maybe killing people for governments or huge quantities of cash. Turns out there are wars in every world." Once he's close enough, he opens a hand toward her, offering a clasp in salutation. If she takes it, his hand is dry, not incredibly warm. Not so cold, however, as to seem out of place with the way he was running the rooftops.

"Nice to be able to put a face to the name." Up close, the smell of blood is stronger still. Everything else remains oddly muted. There is perhaps a dim but distinct quality of something else underneath the bright penny taste, but difficult to put a word to; if at some point she meets Elena, she'll find it links the two of them. "I take it they still haven't let you near the more sensitive herbs and all?"

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Climb high enough in Skyhold and the world melts away, only the wind howling down to drown out whatever racket there is in the courtyard or within the buildings. The scenery isn't much in her opinion but she's never seen the allure of a mountain before and she doesn't now but still, it's peaceful, tucked up on a rooftop an empty diary she's studiously filling in when she hears the shout and tucks it away.

Someone else is up, about as high as her and she clambers down, a concerned frown pinching her features as she comes to a halt. The clatter has her wincing, even from this height but when she doesn't hear the horrified screams of someone being injured, she continues her descent.

"All is well? The masonry has seen far better days." An advantage to being on the small and light side of things is that unless she really botches it, most of the stonework doesn't seem to protest to her climbing up it.

Marcel is waving his arm at whoever he cleared out down below. Checking they're all right, confirming nobody's-- going to get him in trouble too, although that's a secondary concern. Despite many warnings about the stigma that Rifters face, Marcel remains confident. Or overconfident, if you cast him in a certain light. It's less out of an expectation that his fellows will be reasonable, and more because he's so accustomed to having trouble to survive that the lack thereof hardly feels like living, sometimes.

He hears here before she speaks, but doesn't turn until she does. His dark eyes brighten slightly when he registers her voice, which is dimly familiar, although he doesn't correctly assess where he's heard it before right away. "All turned out," he answers cordially. "Be unfortunate if I made a first account of myself dropping concussions on the unsuspecting. I can't say I was expecting company up here, but you seem familiar, somehow." Marcel is somewhat more careful, this time, when he starts to approach her. It's not obvious, though. He enjoys grace inherent to his kind, and it looks effortless, the way he picks his way nearer across the stone.

"Do I know you?" he squints a little, as if he couldn't see her perfectly well from where he was. He's already extending a hand to shake, light flashing telltale from his palm.

“It would only add fuel to the fire that some of us are wicked things and not to be trusted,” she smiles as she says it though because it still sounds so utterly ridiculous to a girl who didn’t know about anything like this until her rather abrupt crash course. As she moves closer, she keeps up on her toes, away from some of the bricks she only really trusts when she’s pulling herself up and over.

Introductions then, before anything else though she misses the bow today on account of Skyhold falling apart further. “Araceli Bonaventura, I prefer using this way to get around instead of nearly having people run right over the top of me. We might have passed each other then. Or in the tavern maybe?” She’d remember, surely, if his was a face she’d gambled with because that’s why she’s good at cards and dice, her eyes always on more than just the hand dealt to her.

With a smile though, she shakes his hand, still excited from meeting another rifter that actually knew what a gun was.

A handshake. Just like home. Of course, not the first one that Marcel has enjoyed since coming through the Rift, but it's nice to know that the similarity transcends his world and Thedas. He closes his hand around hers, his palm dry and firm, answers the gesture with one like in kind. He lets her go afterward too. "I believe we spoke on some magic rocks," he offers, quirking his eyebrows. "I recall I was talking about coffee and ballerinas. And you mentioned having a friend among the Qunari.

"As well as some insight into the stigma we face here." It's a little arrogance, that Marcel imagines he made enough of an impression that that will jog her memory. But he leaves off now, smiling widely, appreciative now he was then that she had settled in, has knowledge to spare. "But I have made friends at the tavern. Maybe work, too. It seems the best spot for a Rifter gathering." Exploring has been well and good. On rooftops, for particular entertainment. However, Marcel isn't really one to sit and talk without an agenda, a few moves planned out in the future, and he prefers his future to involve other enterprising minds.

She's met the type. You get 'dudes who are into networking' in every world.

"I was so annoyed that I didn't get your name then, I spoke to another one like us and realised I didn't know who you were, I was so angry with myself!" So maybe she can chalk most of that up to being upset about what was going on in Skyhold at the time but it was the first time she'd let herself forget something so important and it had annoyed her right up until now. "Korrin Ataash, and Vashoth, not Qunari, they're all very big and none of them here are actual Qunari, I would hate for one to take exception, though the biggest I have seen is fortunately a very gentle soul.

And it was one of them who called me demon." So a warning. Even if Marcel is absolutely taller than him because few things can have the unpredictable tempers of teenage boys, as most of her duels have shown her. "Fortunate then that most of my nights end there too, though I don't know if I can count gambling as work though one hears plenty of chatter from those newly returned or just about to depart." Here the secrets are at least kept within the organisation but it's handy to have things she can use shold she need to with people with a real rank beyond running around teaching climbing for the most part.

"I wonder then, have you met Church too? Or spoken with him? He mentioned something about a gathering and the tavern would seem less formal with anyone skittish, unlike having it somewhere in the main building." And honestly, even if it's just getting to know each other and offer advice, she'd welcome some time where she's being stared at a little less.

Marcel laughs. He isn't actually conceited enough to believe that failing to get his name is worthy of real upset from a new acquaintance, but it's a flattering little token, and besides. Good to know that there's room for Rifter solidarity, and interest in that. They are certainly a minority.

He sobers up immediately when she starts to explain about the Vashoth, however. Head tips forward slightly, dark eyes sharpening attentively. Giant horned shiny people are as odd to him as the whole bit about demons and pointy-eared Frenchwomen, but he isn't about to dismiss the details out of frustration with his own ignorance. "I'm going to have to remember that," he nods. "Not the least if I ever get a chance to meet your friend." Korrin. Friend to the Rifters, or at least-- friend to a Rifter.

"But I have spoken to Church, yes. I invited him to a get-together that I've yet to completely set up." His eyes twinkle; he's being self-deprecating about his arrogance, which somehow fails to look either humble or overly confident. "By friends, I mean I just started working for the barkeep. Fetch and carry. I'm stronger than I look." He crosses his arms over his chest, grinning. He knows that he's a decent size for a human, but when you do have the Vashoth running around, and the war-faring types regularly run about with swords two-thirds as all as themselves, there's a different standard. "But I made some noises about getting the room for a night. We should be in the books next month.

"I'm glad you think that the venue sounds good." He folds up a fist under his chin, properly pensive about it. "Less formal, that's right. And probably familiar to plenty of us, at this point. Do you think it'd be trouble, if we advertised across the sending crystals again?" Marcel cocks his head, genuinely interested in her feedback, and sensibly so. She's certainly seen more anti-Rifter sentiment than he has.

But it's not an accident, that he says we. It's not an accident that he's as warm and eager to listen as he is quick and confident to assert himself. Animals like Marcel are politic without thinking about it, every new acquaintance a prospective ally. You don't have to be insincere about your quest for power.

"So long as you don't say anything rude to her or about mages or what she is? She should be fine, I think so long as you're a decent sort and don't do anything shady, Korrin won't judge, unlike an awful lot of folk here." Or Templars. Or rather what she keeps hearing about Templars and the southern Chantry though she's trying to keep in mind the number of mages she counts among her friends compared to any other faction. When the opportunity presents itself she can get to know some of them better and get a real picture of things to feed back to the rest of the rifters but the mages have defintely made her feel more welcome than others.

"I might have promised that I'd show him a few card games, an icebreaker if you will." Not strip poker because he took entirely the wrong end of the stick witht hat one and there's getting to know someone and there's getting to know someone and honestly she can live with just knowing what makes a person tick for now. "An official job in Skyhold? Congratulations!" There's no hint of her being facetious, she's genuinely pleased that someone has settled in so well though her own skills mean it's best she acts more as an instructor for her fellow rogues and anyone else inclined when they feel like it. "That's perfect, gives enough time to put up a notice or two on the board so the word spreads around, I don't even know how many of us there are, and only one so far is native though she might not come. She's not much of a drinker."

Araceli plans to fix that but a bunch of strangers possibly getting drunk and swapping tales of their homes might be a bit too much for Sina, she's a delicate girl.

"People might be curious, the Templars especially when it was one of their commanders – thankfully gone from here now – who first accused us as being under suspicion but I think we have to be respected. We have a unique experience here, and if the mages get a council and the Templars can be together, they can't deny the same thing to us without turning themselves into hypocrites." Things are better now since some of them went to the Fallow Mire and proved they could fit in but she's still not entirely sure of the reception they're going to get. "I hope you're prepared for at least one or two people just 'happening on by' or something equally transparent."

Part of her job that isn't common knowledge here involved going to taverns and listening in so she knows all the tricks by now. You want to learn more you're already there and a part of things or you're one of the people invited to the table to join in; she wants to know more about them for selfish reasons too, because even if she's sincerely interested, there are some things you can't stop yourself from doing.

Marcel listens attentively. Araceli has already proved herself a wealth of information, and he's not wont to let her help go to waste. Some of it is the explicit facts that Araceli shares so freely, about Thedas and its peoples, the structure of society and the social and political mechanics likely to work for the Rifters as much as against them. All of this is important.

But the subtler cues, too. That she's surprised he found himself honest work-- it makes him wonder what exactly it is that she does. Marcel might guess, from the ease with which she navigates these less-traveled rooftop 'roads' that she's of a certain disposition, but he'd rather not presume. Back home, the kinds of people who inhabited the physical upper tiers of society tended to be monsters, drunk in college, parkour enthusiasts, or wielding sniper or surveillance equipment. She could be any one of those things. She could be something else altogether.

Whatever she is, she's clever and useful. Marcel's jaw squares, the moment before his mouth pulls into another smile, thoughtful. "Thank you," he says. "It's good to know the worst case scenario to expect. Be a pleasant surprise, if it all goes smoother than that, eh?" He'd prefer real secrecy, of course, but that was achievable with the resources of the vampire king of New Orleans, pet witch at one hand and the loyalty of his kind at his other, all the money he could think to steal and spend. He has less in Thedas. He's wont to be more flexible, and knows himself to be lucky that other Rifters are willing to provide guidance.

Perhaps after the life he's led, Marcel should be more paranoid, less trusting, but for now they are in it together. Her heartbeat kicks steady in the supernatural reaches of his hearing, and he isn't even trying, really, to listen for deceit.

Marcel cocks his head a little, looking over her face, pleasantly curious. He shifts his weight onto one foot, casual, and the stone underneath does not protest. "I think it'd be really good for all of us if you brought your girl friend and your cards along. I can probably foot the bill for for some starting booze, but I'm not sure I can afford to commission a deck." A beat. "And now I'm just curious about the suites in your pack."

There's no true harm in sharing, not when most of this is what she can pick up in a book because if more of them fit in and seem to understand, there's a chance it'll pay off for all of them. It's too easy to stand out here and when you do, bad things seem to happen, keep your head down, help, ask the right questions without seeming to pry too much. There's not the same security she's used to though she might be getting close to have people she can fully trust with her back.

Sussing out a fellow rifter poses more of a challenge than the natives because all they have to go on are what another says, another reason to only say she's a thief which leads her to believe he's not one. Almost ten years as one and she can spot her own quickly, surely she would be able to tell and thieves aren't proud so openly, it's different, quiet in the streets and loud when they're somewhere private to boast. Assassin flits through her mind too but seeing as those she knows are specialised, she can't be sure she'd know what to look for if any of them have some sort of 'type'.

"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, always shoot straight. Or stab, a bow is less discrete than what I'm used to." And that still manages to wrinkle her nose, used to the weight of a pistol on each hip but only Church actually knew what a gun was when she said that word, both of them acting like giddy children over something so simple. Not that she anticipates any real violence but any sort of tavern with people drinking has the risk of everything going spectacularly wrong, she's pulled herself out of enough trouble both on and off-duty over the years.

Still, Korrin tagging along isn't a bad idea as she weighs it up, twisting a bracelet round her wrist as she considers it. A native, former mercenary and a Vashoth mage, perhaps enough to deter some who might think even a gathering of rifters are an easy target. "I'll do all in my power to charm her," it won't take much, but sometimes you have to build yourself up. "The suits are the same, it's the queens that tend to get a reaction." From inside her coat and one of the many inner pocket she manages to pull out the cards, mindful of the wind as she hunts down the queens in the deck, presenting them with a smirk.

If all it takes to make a thief is having stolen, Marcel would certainly qualify. He'd gone into orchards and come back out with fruit that he didn't own. Tried for a chicken when he was eight, but his mother's old friend had stopped him, afraid, and knowing that much worse consequences awaited than the sharp whipping he'd get when they found an apple core.

In a strange but rather real sense, he stole himself too. Slaves being more like things than people. Legally, his father had had him dead to rights.

But she's not wrong. He has pride in spades now, and it's in the way he stands, how frank his stare, the magnanimity with which he accepts help and the forthright confidence with which he approaches strangers. It's not exactly humility that makes it so easy for him to acknowledge his ignorance, but a certain lack of self-consciousness. It's a certain kind of a man, who falls through a hole in the sky to a different dimension, and retains his can-do attitude.

Though for a moment, he's just looking at fish titties.

"That's some impressive artwork," Marcel says. "I can see why the reaction." His eyes twinkle, laughter that doesn't quite reach an audible chuckle. "Considering there's so little -- artwork for viewing here at Skyhold. I don't think I've missed that, exploring the fort."

Steal a way back home and she will make a legend of you Marcel by telling every captain she has ever known who will tell everyone else they know in every port they visit in turn.

"It does leave a lot to be desired of when there are so many guests but so few allies, no? This isn't the sort of place or organisation that has the reputation yet to get away with not putting their very best face on." Though it's not exactly her concern, doing things for the sake of appearance is familiar, putting on a show and dazzling the people with power and influence. "Impressions can be crucial, half of what the nobility has in a house isn't even because they like it, it's about showing off their money, their connections, often both."

Resources should of course go to the people that need help but sometimes you spend money to make money and there are times, heading into the main hall, or even instances like this where the brickwork collapses that she could cringe. People can be shallow, more worried about what the thing they're associated with and what it will do to their reputation and this? This isn't going to have them flocking to send help.

Marcel inclines his head in agreement. He doesn't know a lot about the Inquisition yet, but enough about it and war in general that he understands why the absence of nice decor. Too busy fighting invading demons, and the erstwhile Tevinter evil lord of evil apparently sponsoring the influx. At some point, and soon, the war is probably going to become more real for him than that, but while he's kicking around the home front, he's mostly just glad to be in good company.

"Money and connections," he says. "Maybe someday that'll be us. And a clubhouse." A sinewy forefinger curls through the air, taps down on the mermaid that she's holding in her hands. Not stealing; he'll save that for a way back home. "We might could use your aesthetic sense if and when that all starts to happen for us."

It's subtle because he's so offhand about it, but she probably catches it. The way he says when instead of if.

"Is this an aquatic mythology theme for reasons, or you hiding a tail under those clothes?" It'd probably count as a lewd remark, but Marcel's still grinning genial, remembering that her eyes are up here, companionable in his demeanor. And she was frank enough about the reaction that her playing cards tend to get from people who haven't had the privilege of playing games in her homeworld.

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gdi i suck at picking up cues, i will do scent things next tag

No worries!

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