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

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.

[nonvenomous]

Bared fangs peel back into a gargoyle grimace, the hiss choked short into the start of a writhe when Marcus stands with her. But she stills again quickly upon registering their heading, the swing of the dock back into her line of sight --

She is lifted and lofted airborne, all four leggies deployed out wide for a landing that’s all fear and blind instinct.

Her feet find the dock and she is off at a brisk trot to match her master, ears laid back to betray a greater sense of urgency than she dare demonstrate with Marcus smoldering at her back.

Richard is there a ways ahead of her, hard to read at a distance save that it’s clear that he’s seen, as he’s turned full back to witness her safe return. The tilt to his brows could be worried, coupled with the slant of his shoulders, the shift of his weight. There’s no need for him to reach down for her, as she leaps to boost from his offered hand to his shoulder. That he turns to leave again is a clue to his intentions for the evening -- he won’t be catching the next ferry, or the one after that.

He’ll find a place here for the night and slither back when he’s certain he can avoid addressing any of this.

Preferably forever.

[luaithre]

Marcus stays where he is, watching the cat scamper away, then leap up onto Richard's shoulder, and then he's watching Richard turn and walk away. As if to invite some late challenge, or something else.

The next breath out is a short and sharp flurry of smoke, funnelled through his nose. The process of unpricking his curiousity from the edges of the interaction is momentary, and then done entirely, stepping away, wood creaking under boots.

The ferryman asks if he's expecting someone, and Marcus shakes his head 'no' as he roams back to where he'd been sitting.