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.

[luaithre]

Marcus' posture immediately stiffens, drawing a step backwards from that sound. Light blue eyes catch what light there is to see by, gaze darting over the empty space, while one hand drifts backwards with the intention of putting it in range of taking a hold of his staff.

It isn't anything to do with latent hurts or psychic things when the breeze shifts, and Cole might detect a scent of smoke in the air, as some part of Marcus, whether consciously or not, draws a little power out of the Fade. Just to have.

But rather than use magic, he uses words. "Who's there?" he asks, Starkhaven lilt compressed into sharper syllables. Quiet, though.

[helpinghidinghaunting]

The song of the Fade thrums in his ears when the power is pulled - it's familiar and terrifying all at once, home and hostility. Briefly, he considers running away, dropping and running, making the mage miss him....

But then there is speech instead of an attack.

Drawing a breath deep in, Cole lets it out slowly, gradually shimmering into view. He holds his hands up in a placating fashion, frown trembling, head shaking from side to side. His blades remain in their sheaths, zero intention to fight evident in his demeanor.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, widening his eyes. "I'm sorry."

[luaithre]

Marcus sketches a step backwards as the young man appears. He notes those empty hands, that sign of supplication, but remains guarded, expression closed. A person who can hide invisibly in plain view and reappear could do all sorts of things, after all, even if it doesn't escape him that such a person would probably have done all sorts of things while invisible.

"Your name," he asks. "And your business in the Gallows."

Beyond a quiet awareness of how close his staff is to his hand, he is also thinking of his sending crystal slipped beneath his collar, but both things remain as they are. Curiousity lances through the once over he gives the youth in front of him.

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?"

[luaithre]

Marcus' expression

doesn't really do anything, stoic by force of habit and difficult to read, and he is silent through the disjointed switch between query and greeting and question. Studying the rifter, undoubtedly. There's a jag of scarring down one side of his face that doesn't make him any friendlier.

But when he speaks, it's fairly patient as he says, "I don't know that spell, so I can't say if there was anything wrong with it. What I will say is you'll want to anticipate an averse response to it, in people of this land. Even other mages.

"Did you feel it fit to use magic on me, because I'm a mage? Or would you have done, even if I wasn't?"

[voidtransport]

Oh, he has made a mistake and that is very clear.

Not with the spell at least, he can guess that it worked. No, this is a social mistake, a poor judgement call for which he has no reasonable excuse in the eyes of this land and its relationship with magic. It's hard to completely overcome how casually he has used magic before overnight - over many nights, actually.

"I thought..." Part of being better is owning the mistake instead of just running away, he tells himself, just say your piece and accept whatever happens.

"I thought that it would not be an issue, and I simply wanted to know if it would work here because it can be useful." He takes in a breath. "I can see now that I was mistaken."

[luaithre]

"Aye," Marcus agrees, and then allows, "Well, it might be useful, if it works as you expect. When used with care, among those friendly to you."

Which, he thinks, could be a select group indeed, and he's not even sure he'd count himself among them. His own revulsion from even replying had been immediate and real, but that's not for this man to worry about so much as Marcus to consider it later. Some knot of tension is working its way to release from between his shoulder blades.

He turns the staff in his hands to hold in both, a neutral and relaxed crossways grasp. "There's a practice called blood magic, in this world," he says. "It's heretic, by any decent standard." And this word, 'heretic', falls neutral off Marcus' tongue, like it's more a fact of life than a moral sentiment. "And I'm not accusing you of doing it now, but when it comes to any magic that grasps at the minds and physical bodies of men, it would be easy to mistake it thus.

"But I would caution against the levelling of any kind of magic on people without their say so, no matter who they are. Does that all make sense, serah?"

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.

[luaithre]

Marcus watches her move back towards the mare, seeing to her, tugging at the buckles and straps. It's impossible to not immediately remember the dream that Derrica already recalls, the mechanical certainty that he'd at first been trying to save her from something he'd have himself set into motion, and then that blind fury. It's still all oddly shameful, tempting to flinch from.

That he doesn't go to help her is almost that. He says, "No," and sets aside the brush he'd been working over Kevin's hide. Inspects his hands, dusts them off. "But it seems dangerous to stray far for no good reason.

"Have you had many questions?" is an inelegant pivot, but who needs elegance. "From our newer arrivals."

[tender]

The shift in topic doesn't seem to trouble her. Derrica's rubbing her hand fondly over the mare's chest, and the soft, coaxing hum trails into quiet as she considers Marcus' question.

She'd meant to speak of it to him regardless.

"I've spoken to Holden," she tells him. "And to Ellie and Astarion. And Abby."

Maybe they'll be familiar names to him. Maybe not. But the names matter less than—

"Holden has been here longer, so he's less...it wasn't such a jarring thing for him to consider. But the newer ones are frightened. Some of them think they can run and hide, but I don't know if that's possible for a rifter."

How hard would the Chantry hunt for them, if it came to that?

[luaithre]

Marcus emerges from the stall, leans against a post across from where Derrica tends to her mare. Behind him, Kevin has drifted forward in his wake as if to see if there is more brushing imminent in his future, and his nose bumps Marcus' shoulder. Without looking, Marcus raises a hand to pet him up under giant horse head.

His expression thoughtful. He says, "The rifters seem to express a common sentiment against Circles," a little like he's sounding out a new thought. "Not only because of what it means to them, but when they come to understand the type of world this is. I've never heard a rifter say it's a good thing, to lock mages away."

Intellectually, he understands they've never confronted an Abomination, never considered a Harrowing, or met a Tranquil, but there is something to that instinct. The response to plain injustice.

"I considered myself, and the rest of us," and there is really only one 'us' he can mean, "more apart from them than I realised."

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.

[luaithre]

The cat looks at him. Marcus looks back, holding smoke between his teeth.

He remembers, of course. It's a vivid memory, dream or not, the tiny pinpricks of claws catching him fully in the face even in the midst of the wave of necrotic damage that had flooded him shortly after. He doesn't know why that happened the way it did, the nature of this small creature or the magic that nearly killed him, but in a bluntly mathematical way, he can guess the means in which they relate.

Which is to say, he is cognizant to the risk as he reaches out a hand with the intent to take Thot by her scruff, less violent in approach so much as confidently practical handling, other hand along the way to help collect her.

[nonvenomous]

Her pupils seem to swing out as she’s grasped, wall-eyed panic intensified into a pant as Marcus peels the loose fold her scruff away from her shoulders. She’s warm and spring-coiled and heavier than she looks, her haunches curled up under the lift of her seat, her ears flattened, her jaws parted. The tongue flipped out under her nose is blue and forked at its tip; the puff of her gums and the walls of her throat behind overlong fangs are cottony white.

She hardly moves, save to push one goblinoid hand slowly out against the thick of his wrist, webbed claws splayed wide, not quite pricking in.

Dark chop sloshes the ferry’s flanks as it cuts through the water, seabirds call out overhead.

The low, evil hiss Thot pushes out through her lungs sounds like it should be coming from something several times her size.

[luaithre]

Held at arms length, back straight, Marcus studies her, and she gives him a lot to work with. Between the ghastly white of her mouth and her reptilian tongue, never mind the warning hiss that escapes from her gullet and between needle-prick fangs, Marcus does have to make a conscious decision not to drop her, but there's no physical startle.

This close, acrid burning cigarette smoke wreaths them both, but her keen senses may pick up on something similar, but not quite the same. An earthier smell, dirtier ash, lower burning fires, just beneath.

The ferry creaks as he stands, thinking it best to keep his hold as it is as opposed to try to tuck her more comfortably. Marcus steps around the ferryman, ignoring querying complaint, moving closer to the dock. From there, he can bend enough so that the toss of cat over those few inches of nothingness and water below isn't more than a bunny hop, taking care to not give her an excuse to take a swipe.

He straightens, relieving himself of the cigarette between his teeth as he picks Richard out on the wharf.