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

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.