O1 ♚ I'M IN NEED OF AN ANSWER

[slaveking]

WHO: Marcel Gerard & you
WHAT: A vampire chillin' in Thedas gets a log with both open and closed starter options. Running on rooftops, hanging at the tavern, murder practice, the usual.
WHEN: December
WHERE: Various throughout the fortress Skyhold
NOTES: Up to PG-13 for language, will note more in subject headers as they arise

See comments for starters!

Comments

i love them

[rathercommon]

"You're quite mistaken," Kitty responds wryly. She doesn't even try to sell the lie; instead, her voice is quite cheerily sarcastic, and she plucks up the page he's drawn for her without even hesitating. "I'm a titan who's suffered a terrible accident. - This is interesting. I can't make a great deal of sense of it, but it's interesting. I can pass this along to other people who'd know more than me?" And then she looks up at him, meeting his eyes.

She has a sweet face. She's a respectable-looking girl, to be quite sure: simple clothes, well-maintained, hair cut to her shoulders and shining with good health, expression bright and curious. An observant eye might notice just how intent her stare is. She studies Marcel's face with a gaze that lingers a little bit too long to just be friendly - there's some information she's seeking there - and her glance flicks very quickly to his hands, his belt, his pockets, sizing up the money he has, the weapons he has and the frequency with which he uses them. His shoes and how worn down they are - because you can often tell the state of a man's life by the state of his shoes. Up to his face again. But there's never a flicker in her sweet smile.

"I assume you're Marcel, by the way. If not, then you're one of the other people I have coming by to show me fantastical technologies from other worlds."

me too X(

[slaveking]

Marcel's clothes are telling. At least, insofar as that he hasn't lived a very exciting life since coming here, and the fabrics are clearly secondhand and reasonably well maintained. The trousers are of particularly solid make, actually-- and there's a telltale scorch mark near the bottom of the left leg that suggests that they belong to a ferrier. Which, despite the degree of interest his chickenscratches pose to dwarves such as herself, Marcel quite clearly is not.

He's unarmed. Or only has something small, maybe a knife in his boot. However, he moves with the perfect balance of somebody who has trained to have it upset by some form of attack for a long time, and a great deal of confidence besides that. He watches her watch him and smiles through the whole thing himself.

"Guess I skipped the line," Marcel says, wryly. But her rejoinder is friendly enough that he makes the move to pull back the next chair, set himself down in it. "I've gotta say, you're not making me feel too special. Even if that was a joke. I know Rifters are a dime a dozen out here, and there's a guy you might've heard of--" Marcel fails entirely to look threatened, sitting back in his chair. "Who's flown out to the stars. But you got me. Marcel Gerard, at your service."

[rathercommon]

"Oh, I don't mind having you one bit," Kitty says with a smile. She likes his wry humor, she decides. She likes the way that he doesn't seem to talk down to her - there's still time for him to get all facetious and irritating, no question, but he hasn't yet even though he isn't accustomed to her or her people and she likes that. She doesn't know much about the Rifters. She doesn't know whether they're good or bad, trustworthy or not. But she knows she likes him.

And so she drops her teasing air to speak with a bit more sincerity, for just a moment. "Are you doing all right here? All things considered. As all right as you can possibly do, being even more of a refugee than the rest of us are."

[slaveking]

Marcel pats his hands lightly on the armrests on either side of himself, appreciative of solid craftsmanship. Also of libraries in general. As of his last year in New Orleans, his aesthetic really tended to run the way of jazz clubs, candelabraed courtyards, Bourbon street, historical graveyards. Less in the way of libraries. It reminds him of being in school. Or at least, being tutored by an ancient psychopath with a weird personality, during some of the most nostalgic years of his life.

"I'm doing as well as can be, considering I miss my home," he answers. "I'm pretty adaptive, although I like to keep my eye on the prize. Speaking of which, it looks like I'm stuck here awhile. I don't know how closely you were listening to the talking... rocks," super good terminology here. "Still haven't turned up an omnipotent wizard. You haven't stumbled on a good book about that, have you?"

[rathercommon]

"Omnipotent wizards?" The corner of her mouth lifts in a slightly incredulous, but rather charmed, smile. He really doesn't have any notion of what things are like around here, does he? Wizard is a turn of phrase she's heard truly infrequently, but he seems unaware or uninterested in the proper terminology. Talking rocks, too, is both endearing and inexplicable. His foreign way of thinking, manifested even in his choice of vocabulary, is odd, to say the least. But - interesting, too. She likes people who break away from the norm.

"Well, you could always turn to the Chant of Light. The Maker is about as close as you're going to get." She pauses a moment, then shakes her head at him - "Don't repeat that joke to anyone, by the way. It's pretty heretical. You could definitely piss someone off saying that sort of thing. Anyway - Is the omnipotent wizard supposed to get you home?"

[slaveking]

What, a scandalous joke. Marcel arches an eyebrow at that, the corner of his mouth curling, a little bit wry, more than a little curious. "The Chant of Light is beginning to remind me of some religions back home," he says, shaking his head. "Thanks for the warning. I'm gonna keep your dirty jokes to myself.

"Heresies aside."

There's a shift of his tone. He flicks the corner of the sheet of paper he'd delivered, almost absent-minded, although his question is decidedly less formal than some of their earlier banter. "I was also wondering if you knew about any vacancies at the Tavern. Seems to be the place to be, if you aren't going to war." He cocks his head a little, eyes crinkling. "Or maybe if you're multi-tasking."

[rathercommon]

"Oh - really? You want to work in the tavern?"

Huh. He seems a little bit too...clever? Accomplished? Something. He speaks so beautifully, like someone educated and possibly wealthy; Kitty had rather assumed that he was someone who worked a prestigious job. Especially given his level of education that lets him get her things like this.

Still. He seems smart. He's a good conversationalist. He's straight-up gorgeous. Who's she to say no to him? If he wants to work with her, then by all means.

"Do you have experience with that sort of work?"

[slaveking]

"I spent most of my youth in the service industry," Marcel says, something a little sharper in his face for a moment. Not hostile to the girl, naturally. A beat. And then he wags a brow. "Slavery joke. Hard to punch upward when the company doesn't have context. Anyhow, my family was pretty invested in bars and taverns as I was coming up.

"I think I could make myself useful." She's not wrong. Marcel is dreadfully well-educated, and he certainly plans to use that to his advantage as time goes. For now, though, he'll settle for getting his hooks into the only place he's aware of where Rifters could congregate comfortably. He grins at her, lets it linger. Not trying particularly hard to be subtle about it, nor to press. "It'd be good to get to know the lay of the land, and what it's like living here, before I look at fighting demons."