open and closed.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree and various.
WHAT: Activities.
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Mainly the Gallows
NOTES: Some open prompts in the comments, but also works as a catch all for planned things. Let me know if you'd like to do something specific, or if we have CR, feel free to just hit me with a wild card honestly.

Comments

open.

[luaithre]

He is more familiar with the Gallows now than he was before. Before-before. Different memories begin to paper over older ones, and he sees more of it too, from new angles.

Guardwork affords him such opportunities. By day, he can be found at the Gallows docks, or posted at the ramparts over the gate, or even higher than that, now that they know to watch the skies. By night, he is in all these places too, but also walks quiet patrols through empty courtyards and hallways and thoroughfares, seemingly un-bored with these dark and quiet hours. He remembers when these routes were walked by men and women in armor that clanked, boots that scraped noisily over wood and stone. He is a quieter presence, nice shoes and a nice coat and a not-so-nice bladed staff lashed to his back.

Encountering others usually just elicits anything between a subtle nod through to blank acknowledgment (or even less), but he can be lured into a more meaningful interaction more easily when there's nothing else to do.

Training is another occupation: for himself and others. The early mornings are usually spent in the Gallows training yard, going through repetitive drills with a more simple wooden staff than his iron-boned battle weapon (which rests to the side, in case he wishes to practice with it), either on his own or with whoever wishes to join him. Occasionally this involves magic, leaving behind scorched divots in the earth, or shattered stone.

Sometimes he just watches, seated or leaning nearby. If there are mages on the field, he might be prone to offering unsolicited notes. If they are melee, there's no commentary, only observation. Whether it's welcome or not doesn't seem to matter.

He might approach a lone swordsman, if there happens to be one.

Leisure is normally a solo operation. Sitting by the fire in the dining hall and being slower to finish his ale than his dinner, reading or writing something in the gardens, tending to his horse and bringing him out to ride around the island.

Trips to Kirkwall are consistent enough that getting trapped on a ferry with him is all too possible, but for strangers, it's a safe bet that Marcus will be happy to endure the whole thing in a silence that is only awkward to you and not him.

Guardwork

[helpinghidinghaunting]

The ramparts are still this night - or they were still, at least, with few interruptions to the dark and the quiet. It's a nice place to think, a nice place to listen, a nice place to breathe.

Cole is perched on top of one of the ramparts, high up, kicking his feet over the side. A little careless, perhaps, but he isn't afraid of heights. He's sure and solid where he sits, solitary and serene...or as serene as he gets, anyway. His tattered leathers and overlarge hat make his silhouette stand out, casting a strange shadow.

When he hears the mage coming, he freezes up, hurriedly letting his powers hide him once again.

But then a fragment of stone comes unstuck from his boot, and rattles to the ground below him, a beacon to his presence. He holds his breath and waits to see what manner of company he's going to have. Getting used to being seen again is difficult, and he needs to ease into it.

[luaithre]

Marcus moves with slow intent, senses attuned to his surroundings and attention direct, but after enough time, his mind does wander a little. He might try to look and pick out the rooms in the towers where his companions are likely working late, still, or replay some scrap of conversation, or think to a reminder of a task left unfinished—and then a noise, in the silence.

And all that focus hones in to a sharp and deadly point in that direction. He pauses his patrol, and listens. At his back he carries a mage staff, and it's one that's clearly intended to do harm, iron, bladed sword shining at one end past his shoulder, but he doesn't reach for it. His expression only hardens, but doesn't shift.

He moves, quietly as he can—which is not very—to the edge of the rampart. He places a hand on the stone edge, a silver ring on one finger decorated with a glass gem, and he carefully leans over to look in an attempt to see what he can.

[helpinghidinghaunting]

Focusing on keeping himself unseen, Cole stands very still, even as the mage comes close. It isn't that he's even doing anything wrong...well, not really. He imagines that Riftwatch would prefer for him to stay where he can be seen, be kept track of. Many people still don't trust him, after all. A spirit, let alone one who could come and go and affect minds?

He swallows hard, and lets out a shaky breath.

One that can be heard, right next to where Marcus is leaning.

training

[voidtransport]

He should have asked for some sort of description of who to look for, he thinks with a yawn as he looks around the training grounds. He doesn't really prefer early morning training, but he hasn't encountered Marcus otherwise so far so he is awake to make an attempt. Part of that includes wearing a simple shirt he'd been given upon arrival that is a faded blue color, as he had mentioned his preference for the color when they spoke before.

His eyes scan the training yard, squinting a bit in the morning sun when he happens to see someone with a staff on their person who, if he thought about it, looks perhaps the way he sounds. To be sure though, before he even takes the time to walk over and approach, he appears to cast a spell if Marcus is looking in his direction.

It is a decent opportunity to give it a try and see if he can use it, he thinks, so he does. He is still not particularly used to using the staff as a spell-casting focus so he can only hope that it works.

'Are you Marcus?' a familiar voice asks as if he were standing right next to him. 'If you speak out loud, I'll hear your answer - the spell will send it back to me. I wanted to try and--' And then the message cuts off before he finishes his sentence, and when he realizes that he's spoken over the word limit, the free hand not holding the basic staff he'd been given covers his face in embarrassment.

[luaithre]

Thump.

That's the sound of one end of the staff he's holding striking the packed earth to rest, and Marcus turns in place in an attempt to view whatever's speaking to him. But the direction that voice is coming from only shifts with him, and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. It takes a further moment than that to actually replay the words back to himself and grasp their meaning, tension taking its time to wind taut through his shoulders.

When the message ends abruptly, he scans the area until a tall elf in a simple blue shirt comes into focus, and Marcus takes in a breath as if it might bring him more patience than was burned away just now. Remembering the instruction to speak in reply, he—

You know what? No.

He just beckons Allumin over, standing with a hand wrapped around a similarly basic mage staff balanced against the ground. Likely, this is the right person. His voice hadn't implied a young man, closer to forty than thirty, and there's individual strands of grey shot through his hair, bound back from his face. He is not extremely tall, clocking in some significant inches less than the rifter he's hailing, but solidly built, and seeming not to notice any disparities, here.

[voidtransport]

Allumin is a bit worried when instead of receiving a reply via Sending he is waved over, but it is at least confirmation so he heads over towards him with light, moderately paced strides. He tries (futilely) to tell himself that it's fine, just be confident, no reason to be insecure or embarrassed because practice makes perfect after all.

He's still nervous. Especially after forgetting to count his words.

Don't bring it up, just move on, don't bring it up, just move o--

"Was there something wrong with the spell?" It's out of his mouth before he can stop himself, coming to a halt in front of the older mage. His hand shoots up to cover his mouth again as his face turns red. "Sorry - you don't have to answer that. Hello - good morning?"

horse party.

[tender]

Once, in a dream, Derrica and Marcus came across each other in a stable.

However, this is not a dream. And there's no reason to think of it, beyond a passing flinch of a memory that fades quickly as she leads her mount through the main doors and down through the stalls.

"How is he doing?" she asks, as the chestnut mare she's leading nickers softly in Kevin's direction.

read this as 'house party' like wait-

[luaithre]

"Restless."

The big snowy warhorse is used to all kinds since Marcus came to own him, horses and people and circumstances all, although probably did not himself participate in the dream so much as get himself dreamed into it. He swings his head a little, ears twitching, by all accounts unresponsive to Marcus patting his hand against his neck.

And by all accounts not very restless, although Marcus insists, "I've been more judicious in our riding out on the outskirts, lately." And at least one of them will miss following the winding trails for hours at a time.

college au go

[tender]

Guiding the mare into a stall, Derrica is free to cross over into their direction to greet Kevin. A soft pat to his shoulder, tipping around so she can smile over at Marcus.

"Have you been busy elsewhere?"

The impulse to offer her assistance comes and goes. Could she handle Kevin? Maybe, maybe not. Kevin's a formidable horse. Another, light pat, before she returns to her own mount to begin unsaddling her.

this might be a short scene: ferry

[nonvenomous]

A peripheral blur, a whump and the splintering crackle of claws scrabbling wood marks the arrival of a sinewy black creature wriggling herself over the side of the ferry’s hull and onto its deck. The creature is a cat, long and lean and velvety sleek, with an arched nose and wide green eyes that goggle when she sprints the boat end to end to pivot alert at the prow. Frisky is the word.

Back on the pier she launched herself from, another lean figure has slowed from a brisk trot to an uncertain walk.

Richard Dickerson is tall and ginger and familiar, in the way coworkers who work on different floors in different departments can be. His eyes on Markus are clear with recognition over the high turn of his vest's collar, his beard tidily trimmed. A glance across the bay marks the approximate time via the sun’s hover over the horizon. He takes a cool step backwards before he turns to retrace his steps. Very smooth.

Maybe he’s forgotten something.

a vignette.

[luaithre]

Marcus is settled, seated, cigarette between his teeth as he leans forward to locate the little fire runestone in his pocket. Getting into the habit of its use, as much as he has no compunctions about piercing the immaterial fabric that divides two planes of existence in order to draw raw power from one to the other, and then use it to light up. But the ritual is nice to do.

And he's about to give up on it after all when there is sudden, scrambling motion, and his focus shifts. And fixes, tracking the frenzy of feline.

Looks, in time, to see Richard turning away.

Maybe the cat will see it, the mage straighten a little, some expression cross his face where he might say a thing, call out, all subtle shifts that only a decent amount of insight might really track, especially when he doesn't. Decides not to, and looks to the cat, watching what it does next. Sets the cigarette back between his teeth, and summons a flame between his thumb and forefinger to light it.

[nonvenomous]

The cat has frozen where she’s hunched, bat ears fanned at alert, the rabbiting of her little heart bright in eyes. Her fangs poke. The cord of her tail lashes just once, bone flopping dense against the deck.

Marcus is between her and the pier, now; she’s fixed her full attention on him and the spark of flame at his fingertips.

Further down the dock, Mr. Dickerson has stopped to look back. The grumbling, shuffling, leaning push off of the ferryman at the rear of the boat obfuscates his view. He’s too far away. She’s on her own.

closed to cassius.

[luaithre]

When last Cassius noted, if he noted, Marcus was by the far corner, with a mostly empty plate at his elbow and a cup in his hand, angling some pages to read by the lantern. He hadn't looked up.

It's some minutes since then that the scuff of boots of someone approaching signals that this is no longer the case. The dining hall is less bustling than it was when Cassius had first arrived, but there's still the murmur and chatter of conversation layering over a friendly kind of ambiance, and maybe this approach is friendly too. There is something distinctly sociable in the way Marcus sets down his cup on the other side of the table, and invites himself into sitting down.

He didn't think to refill a pitcher and bring that over too, or anything, but does greet Cassius by saying, "Evening," and with the pages he'd been reading stowed away, all his focus is forwards. And it is focus, a kind of squaring up of Cassius that is less cursory than momentarily passing through shared hallways and that.

[satinet]

It would be difficult to tell from a distance or maybe even from up close, but technically speaking (and Cassius does so love technicalities) he is working. The seasonal gossip rags out of Orlais and, not to be outdone, Cumberland are printed on cheap accordion folded paper which when laid flat extend to invade the table space of the seat to either side. While they may not appear to be vital Riftwatch business, rest assured that the contents are all very relevant to the Diplomacy division. And if for some reason they are not relevant to the Ambassador's interests, then there are certainly kernels here are there which are deeply compelling to Cassius'.

And really, is there such a remarkable difference between the two? They are all more or less fighting for the same thing, yes?

That is not a conscious thought he is having in this very moment. If it were, he might casually redact it with, Well, maybe not all of us the moment that Marcus Rowntree sits down across from him.

Instead, Cassius looks patiently up from his Marquis this and Vidames thats and thinks very little before saying, "Why, if it isn't the man himself. To what do I owe the pleasure, Senior Enchanter?"

[luaithre]

There is a faintly confused flicker around the eyes for the flourish of that greeting, like not being wholly sure of what to make of it, before setting it aside. Yes. It's the man himself, then.

"Marcus," he supplies, reminds, "is fine."

He quests a look over the pages laid out on the table, noting them, neutral, then back to the other enchanter across from him. "I wished to know how you're finding your time here," he says. "Now that you've some seasons behind you."

[satinet]

With a flick of the fingers and a glint of the anchor light in his palm, the topmost pamphlet is folded over. Does he particularly care to hide the contents from his newly acquired company? Certainly not. If Marcus has some interest in the state of the Orlesian courts, and this only by approximation of what has become so tawdry that it warrants writing down, there is more printed on the reverse side. No, this is a show of benevolent good will more or less equal to—whatever this is.

"Maker, has it been that long already?" It has, and he has in fact been keenly aware of every day of it. "Well. I'm certain we must all have our complaints, but I will say that I've been pleasantly surprised by how ordinary all the work has been. Not at all like the hive of buzzing would-be scoundrels that certain rumors in Skyhold might have someone believe."

And then, more with the air of a confidant because why not we're being friends here, yes?: "I do miss the council. I'm surprised the mages here have organized no equivalent."

mild card, because we discussed it first.

[cozen]

They have been small things, since the first incident with the misled abomination. A few delicate letters seemingly lost in transit, a few successfully delivered but since mislaid, a few times the Chantry's luck seemed too good and theirs too poor, and now a mage contact in Orlais drawn into a meeting with "Riftwatch" from which he never returned—as Marcus tells it.

Bastien has listened, crooked in his chair, caught at a quiet hour with his sleeves rolled and a few buttons and ties looser than they might have been if he'd expected company. The paper and pen he'd gotten out to take unnecessary notes (to look more attentive; to give him something to do with his hands if he got bored) have been left untouched after all.

"It could be someone outside of the Gallows," he proposes. Not because he believes it. For the sake of turning the stone.

[luaithre]

There's trace discomfort in Marcus' manner, hands folded together and sitting back in his chair. It's likely not personal to Bastien, exactly, so much as some source of tension held the way one does when anticipating some sort of negative response to the thing you are saying, even of a minor kind. But he is regarding the other man quite seriously, occasionally flicking a glance to pages that have remained blank.

He decides, in a truly Herculean (whoever that is) demonstration of good faith, that it's a good sign, and not a bad sign.

"It could be," he grants. "But the Bloomingtide '46 letter made it all the way to Kirkwall before it disappeared." Imagine, if you will, a clerk wringing his hands and trying to decide if he should be sending for his manager while Marcus pulled down heavy tomes of dusty records from a shelf only reachable by climbing on a creaking ladder. "It was anticipated. And to hold a forged correspondence between the leadership and those outside of it, without us knowing, doesn't feel like a ruse that would hold on the outside."

Insistent, but measured. It'd be easy for the work he's managed to do between his real job to get dismissed for paranoia, for all that paranoia is a fairly kinetic force.

[cozen]

"Right," Bastien says, nodding once and then again, while his eyes slide to the middle distance off to Marcus' side and he sorts back through the details. "C'est ça."

It would have been nice, is all, for it to have been someone outside of the Gallows.

After a moment his eyes return to Marcus' face, smiling in the particular way—small and crooked, eyes concerned above it—of someone who just smiles as a reflex, even when they're taking something seriously.

"Someone working in the Chantry's interest, against mages. It is not you. It could be me," is in deference to Marcus' perspective, not a supposition he might have blacked out and betrayed everyone, "but I was gone during the time someone would have needed to be here to interfere with the contact in Lydes."

Maybe Marcus knew that; maybe that's why he's here.

Now he's making notes: lines down the page to divide it into columns, with M. ROUNDTREE and BASTIEN added to one of them.

"Is there anyone else you are sure we can eliminate? Or anyone you suspect, if you would rather work forwards."

[luaithre]

There is a hint of near-humour for Bastien's deference, borderline undetectable to the naked eye, and Marcus otherwise allows both this speculation and the following ruling out to go by without comment. He watches Bastien write, his focus not so unlike a dog judging whether a human putting on shoes will mean anything to him in the short term.

At the question, he looks back up, hesitating. Mages, as per elimination, feels simplistic, so instead he opts for the other thing,

"You recall Barrow," he says, "who went with us after the Abomination. He also participated in its execution. Until then, I don't believe anyone knew he was a Templar, and this concealment of his status could indicate involvement on behalf of the Chantry. I don't know his skills in forgery, but any man can act as eyes and ears inside a place of interest."

side quest

[unshut]

The work itself had been straightforward enough. A coalition of Ansburg villages just east of Starkhaven had requested Riftwatch's advice and assistance with the very basic training of a farmhand militia. Marcus had been sent as someone both with some familiarity of guerilla tactics and, candidly, the ability to swing a mage staff (which far more closely resembled the various quarterstaffs and machetes that any farmer was likely to produce); Fitcher as a quasi-recruiter of eyes and ears slash diplomat, cheerfully familiar with village politics and willing to smooth over the discomfort of being taught combat tactics by a mage with a scary scar.

None of that however is particular relevant to this moment:

A polite rap of knuckles at the door of the room where Marcus is lodging. They are three days on the road, having left their little burgeoning farmhand army under the continued guidance of a quick witted blacksmith who had cottoned on to every idea with admirable speed; as Fitcher refuses to sleep on the ground, this crossroads inn had been the only alternative for the evening.

She doesn't knock a second time. But she does say, "I'm coming in," before opening the door. (Locks? On the doors of a country inn? Don't be ridiculous.)

Her traveling kit is slung over one arm and her mottle blue cloak is already thrown about her shoulders.

[luaithre]

If you've seen one interior of the private room of a country crossroads inn, you've seen them all. Marcus had entered and, without really looking, ruthlessly made himself at home. Travel bag swung into the corner, boots discarded by the door, food eaten quickly from the plate he'd brought with him and dishes abandoned on a flat surface by the window, bedding flung back to check for vermin, coat draped over the back of a rickety chair,

and so by the time Fitcher enters, you'd almost think they'd been staying here all week.

Marcus is surprised to see her, standing from his half-recline on the bed, sending crystal disappeared into his fist. He glances her over, sees that looks like she's ready to leave. He looks like he's one or two articles of clothing away from going to bed after a long day's riding.

"What is it?" doesn't sound annoyed, though, just direct.

[unshut]

"A few old friends of yours just arrived downstairs," she says, all good spirits as the door is shut behind her. She breezes farther into the room, helping herself to fetching his coat from the back of that suspect looking chair. "Unless you've a particularly strong desire to visit with a few old Knights of the Order, I might recommend we be on our way. I can't say that they sounded particularly agreeable from what little conversation I overhead."

Is a lie; she knows for a fact that Bernhard, the tall lad with the face like an axe, is a perfectly charming and would be delighted to make conversation with any old friend. Which is precisely the issue.

[luaithre]

Marcus' expression is unchanging for this first thing, patient for clarity to arrive— well, maybe a slightly disturbed flicker of a glance, tracking her as she fully enters his lodging and collects his coat, both for the motion itself as well as what it must mean. They've leaving, clearly, or such is the action he is being shepherded towards.

But there's a hardening at the edges of further elaboration, a certain quality to his stillness. As if his standing in place reflexively becomes more rooted, stubborn. He wants to ask what she's talking about when she says they don't sound particularly agreeable.

"How many?" he asks, instead.