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

"Why would I lie about coffee?"

Most of the jobs he's found thus far have been what he's looking for, insofar as he's been looking for jobs where you pick things up, carry them, put them down again. His reputation precedes him, the deeply inaccurate this and that about the Rifters' speculative demon heritage, but he does not flatter himself in knowing that he enjoyed worse back home, and when he was considerably more vulnerable besides. Maybe it makes him cocky.

But it gives him enough to talk about, and he's particularly shrewd about approaching Cabot. After all, he corresponded with another surface-dwelling dwarf lately who led him to understand that they tend to be a little less nervous about Rifters and than anybody else in Thedas. "That's just cruel," he says. "But you want to know what's really all the rage back home, and maybe you can use this. Infused cream. Infused syrups. There's a group called the Illuminati who came into power selling that stuff, and their coffee doesn't even taste like it anymore."

Mostly, he makes Cabot laugh. But he pays for an ale, and he's generous too, about looking a couple stools over and saying, "And for me friend here, too, who's--?" It's the kind of question you're supposed to answer with your name.

He's not here for company, or a good time, or to laugh and make friends. Normally he would be. Normally, that's why he comes here. A quick smile, an easy laugh, he'd join right in. Since the first of the new year, he's just felt dull and tired.

He blinks, head swiveling to the left. He'd only been half listening in on what was happening next to him, hunched over his drink, when the man leaned in. "Um, what? Oh. Salvatore."

Edited 2016-01-10 05:27 (UTC)

"Salvatore," sounds Italian? By now, Marcel is well-aware that some of the European cultures back home map onto Thedosian nations, and it's of interest to him, a little, these connections between realities. Nonetheless, he thinks better than to launch into his quest for knowledge immediately. Salvatore looks rather out of it, and it's somewhat difficult to predict if he's going to be one of those more paranoid about Rifters or friendly, after the haze burns off.

Or, you know. He could just keep the haze going.

"You look like you could use a drink." Cabot looks toward the young man expectantly too, to see if the Nevarran is inclined to accept the offer.

He huffs a humorless laugh. "Yeah. I could." He swirls the last bit of ale at the bottom of his mug and swallows it down before giving Cabot a nod, and another to Marcel. He turns on the stool to give the man a better look and more of his attention. It's only polite. "My thanks, ser...?"

Marcel nods in return, equally polite. He has a rather direct regard, usually, but he's well-mannered enough not to stare at this fellow who seems to be in an unhappy mood. "Marcel." He isn't inclined to be so careful, however, as to go through real lengths to disguise the mark on his palm. He offers Salvatore a handshake, and it glows, the seam of greenish light that marks his connection to the Rift. Not all who have it are Rifters, but then he goes ahead and adds:

"I'm not from around here. You?"

"Obviously not." Without hesitation, he takes the offered hand. He never really bought into the superstitions about the Rifters, and maybe they're demons, or maybe they're spies. Maybe because he's always felt a step and a half ahead of succumbing to a demon himself. Or maybe he just trusts that they're unfortunate strangers who need a little help.

"I'm from the Perendale Circle. In Nevarra. It's ... North."

Edited 2016-01-11 04:56 (UTC)

Marcel places that in his mind-- somewhere. "Across the sea North?" he inquires. He nods at Cabot when the man provides him his own pint, and then makes a generous gesture at it when the second vessel lands on the bar-top close to Salvatore's hand. "Or on this continent? Your name sounds like one that's pretty common back home, actually.

"I'm wondering if there's a parallel there." He picks up his cup but doesn't drink yet, his expression warming with curiosity.

"Across the sea. Ah..." He drags a wet spot on the counter out, roughly the shape of the Waking Sea and points to one side of it. "We are down here. Hop over the sea, and here is Cumberland in Nevarra. This is actually where I was born. But!" He moves his finger farther and farther away. "North" and a bit "West". "Perendale is somewhere way up here." He takes his own drink, leaning in, his interest sparked. "There are names like mine where you're from?"

Marcel looks at the drawing taking form on the bar-top, his eyebrows going up appreciatively. That's interesting. He appreciates the attention to detail, anyway; he is slowly getting to know the lay of the land and he needs help for that. "Right near the Tevinter Imperium," he identifies, with a smile. He's picked up a few things. "Hope that's worked out okay for your people."

But the similarity of names and places is probably easier fare for conversation, and he falls that way the next moment. "Yes. From a country called Italy. We also have Bernardos, Emanueles. I don't know much in the language, but a few words. Buon pomeriggio," he offers. "Means good afternoon. Does that sound familiar?"

"Mm. Fairly close." He offers a shrug to the other comment, not entirely sure what was meant by "his people". The people of Nevarra, or the the people of Perendale? Or the mages? Whatever the case, he can't recall anything happening in the time he lived in the Circle - nothing that would have concerned him. It was true the mages of Nevarra enjoyed more political leverage than those in other regions, but he figured that was a Nevarran trait, not a result of living close to the Imperium.

He shifts forward in his seat a bit more. "Italy?" He tries the name out, repeats it. That's fascinating. Brow furrowing, he shakes his head slowly. "It's ... maybe I've heard something similar, but, no. That sounds like something you might hear farther east, maybe? I'm afraid I'm not well-versed in languages and their regions. I've spent most of my life indoors."

(OOC: Been trying to figure out what Nevarra is based on. I have found nothing~)

Marcel watches, thinks, and observes that his understanding to Tevinter tensions has slightly missed the mark this time. It's not the end of the world, obviously; better to err on the side of sensitive than the opposite, where politics are concerned. He supposes that will take more learning. It's nice, though, that Salvatore has a similar sort of humility, makes Marcel feel a little less ignorant.

Most of his life indoors?

"Sure," he says, nodding. "If you don't mind me asking, what kept you inside so long? I figure if you were sick, you probably wouldn't be up here." Marcel gestures at the doorway, the expanse of mountainside just outside the tavern doorway.

Unfortunately, Salvatore's political knowledge is greatly hindered by how much he absolutely detests politics. Dozing off through most of his classes and only skimming through the books on the subjects didn't help. He's only now starting to pick up a vague interest, but still finds himself drifting off during council sessions.

He laughs a little. "No, no. I wasn't sick. I'm a mage." He brings a hand up to reach behind him before remembering he hadn't brought his staff with him. "Do you know anything about the Circles? It's a bit of an explanation."

"Circles with a big C? I don't think so," Marcel answers, cocking his head curiously. "But I know there's a Council, and some category of Tevinters. And I've seen some of what you folks can do."

A beat.

"I probably should've asked Sam more about it. Or is that a Nevarran thing?" he drags his drink closer to himself. "The Circles, and uh." Being imprisoned or otherwise restricted from the outside world, he means, but he isn't sure how to put that in a way that sounds non-judgmental. Nothing in Salvatore's demeanor suggests he's angry or particularly dogged by the experiences of his past.

He nods. "We've formed a Council here. There is a Tevinter among the mages. Not on the Council itself, but vocal. And honestly, if they're here to help, I don't care where they're from."

A shake of the head. "It's a Thedas thing." Though he thinks Tevinter also has Circles - just not in the same way. "Most countries have one. Or more than one. Nevarra has two, in Perendale and Cumberland. Some were better than others. Perendale wasn't a terrible place to grow up. The mages and Templars got along fairly well, I think? There was a sort of balance. But..." He shrugs uncomfortably, gaze shifting to his drink. "No matter how you dress it up, all the perks and training and books and education... It was still a prison." He sighs, smiles a bit as he looks back to Marcel. "Not every mage will agree. There are those who are for the Circles, would even like to see them restored."

Right at the end, Marcel's eyebrows hike all the way up. Surprised. Not as raw and unfiltered as it might be under different circumstances-- he's being careful, and very little he's doing is unpremeditated. Still, a grain of sincerity always sells the facade, and for him, this is more than a grain. He once bought his freedom with thrown stones and a near burning at a stake.

"How about a toast?" he asks instead. Willing to keep it light. Salvatore looked uncomfortable when he walked in, and he doesn't look much better now. He raises the tankard. "To freedom and-- you pick something."

He relieved, and it shows, though he tries to cover that with a smile as he lifts his mug. There's sometimes no telling how some people feel about mages and Templars and Circles and all the issues surrounding them, unless they come right out and say something. And who knows what people have been telling the rifters, or what their own experiences with magic are like?

"I'll drink to freedom. And a long life to enjoy it."

O1 ♚ I'M IN NEED OF AN ANSWER

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