open: a little rain never hurt no one.

[charmoffensive]

WHO: Loxley, Tony Stark, Marcus Rowntree
WHAT: Three awkward ferry rides. (Or more, if I get more tags, but you know.)
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: The Kirkwall docks
NOTES: Tag any of these! I don't mind double ups. This is also just a general catch all post if you want to do something slightly different, or drastically different.

Comments

loxley.

[charmoffensive]

"Hello hello, wait a moment—"

A voice and a series of hurried, thumping footsteps ring out from the docks, approaching the ferry which is getting ready to launch.

The rain is coming down in fits and starts, and so if one hasn't dressed for the occasion, it will make for a somewhat miserable ferry ride. Last call, too, and the night is black and chilly despite the steady encroachment of spring. Slashes of silver mist off the surface of the water, raindrops rattling like coppers against the sloped hood of the ferrymen who is doesn't care to wait a single second long in this weather, no matter who's calling for him to slow down.

The boat has pushed off by a few feet before a figure, at a run, springs into a leap, appears to easily and confidently clear that distance, landing heavily in the boat and causing it to violently pitch forwards in the water. Loxley wheels his arms out to balance, which then revert to hands of open surrender and bid for peace at the immediate onslaught of abuse from the ferrymen.

"Sorry about that," he says, cheerfully. One of his hands glows with green luminescence, and he wiggles the fingers above it. "I've a ticket, though. And a few silvers, for my tardiness."

He had yet to look to the other passenger who might be in the boat, but does now, with an apologetic glance.

[contritumella]

There are a lot of questions that could be raised by River's presence here, at such a late hour. For one thing, she's rather young, appearing sixteen, seventeen at best (even though she's actually twenty this year). For another, this is the third round of back and forth of the ferry that River has sat here at the back of the boat for, which might explain why the ferryman says, in her direction: 'last ride, missy, you'll have to get off at the Gallows'.

The girl in question nods, brightens a bit at the Qunari who is looking around, apparently the same man who'd made the running leap (and successfully) for the boat, and shifts from where she's been more or less laying in the seats to where Loxley could sit, if he so desired.

[charmoffensive]

River shifts to make room, Loxley seems to magically summon a few spare silvers out of nowhere into the palm of his non-glowing hand, and the ferryman relents with an aggrieved sigh. He scrapes this offering from the qunari's hand and gestures for him to settle.

The ferryman turns away, so Loxley's sketched bow of thanks is likely for the amusement of the girl sitting nearby. He takes the offer, sitting beside her with a creak of leathers. Immediately there is the scent of whiskey from a good evening spent, but he is clear-eyed and graceful, still. He splays his fingers, showing off a remaining silver coin he'd apparently deftly prevented the ferryman from taking by catching it between his knuckles.

"That's about as close as I've cut it in a while," he says. "Sorry for the excitement, at this hour."

[contritumella]

"Excitement is not something to apologize for." River gives him a smile, having been openly staring at him this entire time. From his shoes to his horns, the Qunari is fascinating to her, mostly because she's rarely met one and didn't know that any were with Riftwatch. "Especially when it's not at blade's point. She's been listening to the rain on the water for three passages between Kirkwall and the Gallows; it reminds her of the better parts of being home." On boats, in the water, in the rain are all things that remind River of the best parts of Wycome.

She tucks her legs in under her and sits up a little straighter. "Where are you from?"

[charmoffensive]

Open staring, in this world and another, is the sort of thing one can get used to when done enough, and the sort of thing one can pick up on the nuances of. For instance, Loxley is rather confident that there's no fear or animosity in this instance, context cues being what they are, but he'll have to divine the nature of her curiousity as they go.

Qunari are not frequent folk seen around Kirkwall, these days. And when they are, they tend to be beefier.

"A magical, far-off place," Loxley answers, sardonic without actually mocking her, perhaps only himself, "traversed from through rift, a land by the name of Tassia."

(Her manner of speech confuses, for a moment, but there are no other passengers but they onboard. And so he takes her meaning, and tries to decide if he ought to read melancholy into the news of her back-and-forth journeys, or something else.)

"Which has cities like this one, very much so. Yourself?"

[nonvenomous]

The creature peering balefully up at him through the dark and the miserable damp is Richard Dickerson, grip locked white-knuckle to the bench under his seat.

It’s difficult to tell if he’s angry.

Sometimes he just looks like this, bristly and lank in the rain.

There’d been a delayed splash upon Loxley’s arrival; Thot climbs back aboard like an eel from the chop, sneezing, spluttering, her claws sticky in old wood.

“I take it this couldn’t wait.”

[charmoffensive]

Whirling on Richard sends a slight spray of water off the tail of his coat—not in Dick's direction, at least. Loxley has made no particular effort to shield himself from the weather, fairly saturated from curly head to enchanted boot, and perhaps whatever he's been drinking is helping with the warmth.

He smiles, bright in the dark. "Only because the ferry can't," he says, before then noticing where Thot slivers over the rail. His smile vanishes, oh, and he neglectfully hands the silvers he'd readied to the ferryman before ducking down to sit.

"Sorry," he says, to cat and man both. He kind of offers his empty hands to Thot, to sniff or climb or butt her face against or bite, whatever comes first. "I didn't see her, she blends in so well."

[nonvenomous]

Burrowing disapproval is more easily felt than seen, something in the hunch of his shoulders in the dark, the hold to his stare. A mood, amidst the pummel and spatter of salt and rain.

He’s underdressed for the weather, stripped lean by the wet under the sheet of his cloak. Returning home had been a last minute decision for him also, motivated by the promise of a warm hearth and dry clothes to put on in the morning.

Not so deep in the bag then that he couldn’t consider the consequences of staying city-side.

“That’s the idea.”

Thot crawls into Loxley’s offered hands like a newborn wildebeest, all legs and slime-slick velvet.

[charmoffensive]

The strange snaky sensation (tm) of Thot wriggling into his hands gets a laugh out of Loxley, a kind of discomforted one, but all the same. He collects her up and deposits her into his lap, limbs and lamp eyes and lashing tail, and opens his cloak partway for her to find some shelter from the rain, as much as she now smells like and drips of the Kirkwall bay.

He crooks a look across at Richard and says, "At least someone's forgiven me."

They're on their way, second thoughts regardless. Black water either side, fitful ocean and sky.

[muckspout]

Edgard waits until the ferryman has become reoccupied with his duties before shooting a glance at Loxley and whispering,

"Was that on purpose? Were you trying to knock him off the boat? You nearly did!"

He leans forward toward him, mud streaking his face from the rain, his eyes wide and his face lit up. His tone is not angry at all, but excited and sends the clear message that whatever shenanigans are going down here, Edgard wants in.

[charmoffensive]

Settled, apology made to the boatman via a few loose coins, Loxley looks to his fellow passenger with a ready smile at the same time that Edgard leans forward and whispers so urgently. Surprised, he takes a moment to read the situation, near-gold eyes darting over Edgard's muddy face and the delight present there.

Perhaps, a joke? They are joking? He grins.

"I know, I was so close," he whispers back. "And I reckon between us, we could row twice as fast as he could."

[muckspout]

Edgard smiles broadly. He knew he was right. He knows an attempted boat stealing when he sees one.

"We could." He says resting a little on the second word to indicate that they still could.

"Where would we go?" Edgard's not sure if this is a joy ride or some kind of operation underway.

tony.

[propulsion]

Tonight, the sky is heavy with potential, clouds flashing lightning in its depths, but only bringing down the occasional spatter of rain. It will probably come down at any second, and Tony would just love it if the ferry could arrive sometime before then.

Not for the first time, he dips a hand into his coat, pulls out a timekeeping device, observes two things: that more minutes have passed, yes, and that this thing is only so useful when almost no one else uses it.

He is standing at the far end of the jetty, dark-seeing sunglasses affixed to his face and squinting out across the way for any sign of a boat. Just as someone else might think to approach—

Rain. Sudden, thick, fast.

"Really?" Tony inquires of the universe, before lifting something that looks like it might have been a cane, until he shakes it out, and an umbrella of dark material mushrooms out with a leathery-sounding rustle. He leans it against his shoulder to shade himself with a jaunty swing, sending a fresh spill of raindrops in all directions.

[favoriteanalyst]

It would be super if the ferry could arrive before the inevitable downpour, so of course it doesn't.

It isn't the rain Mobius notices first, of course. Before that, it's this guy who seems, hm, a little familiar in profile, strange spectacles, strange whatever it is from his coat--all things he'd definitely like to go and ask about. Curiosity killed the cat, of course, but people never remember that satisfaction brought it back.

He's half a step in that direction when the skies finally truly open up, and the gentleman in question then takes out the oddest parasol he's ever seen. Unlike to block the sun from fair ladies in Orlais, it seems a cane and then is quite sturdy and. Also. Flinging more water around as though Mobius wasn't about to get wet enough already.

"Really," he says flatly, as though in reply. "I didn't need help with the shower, serah, but--" And then he abruptly stops. Yeah, no shit this guy seems familiar, he runs the research department. Ah fuck. "Provost Stark." Does he say hi? Does he apologize? Does he demand an apology in turn?

Well, he was already going to get soaked to the bone with the ferry taking its sweet time. No harm done? "Got any room to share under there?"

[propulsion]

Whoops. There's a full guy here.

Tony pivots from the waist to see this for himself, the blank black lenses of his glasses giving nothing away. It is, though, unsettling to wear magic specs that cast the darkness in bright daylight when looking at people and not, say, boats in the distance or a project he's labouring over by candlelight, so it's the first thing to go, slipped into a pocket.

The request gets some subtle twinge of amusement, just visible. "You wanna step into my office? Okay, here we go," and Tony takes one big side step into Mobius' space, the sparse curtain of rain redirected off the edge of the umbrella hitting him on the way and making it almost not worth the trouble until—he's under the shade, and it's a vast improvement.

"I'm off the clock, by the way, so I don't wanna see this on your daybook."

[favoriteanalyst]

Is it much better? Not at first, and it's not like he's going to be able to get much wetter, but maybe he'll be less likely to catch some death of cold. It at least gives him a moment to run a hand through his hair and over his face just to sluice the immediate worst off.

"Promise this isn't business related. Thanks." Could he have just used his coat over his head as he'd done for other spatterings of rain, sure, but the suddenness already caught him damp and off-guard, much less the surprise unintentional shower. "Didn't have 'hide from the rain with my boss' on the docket anyway. Could've been worse, though. I could be cowering from the rain under some lady's delicate, dainty, one-person parasol instead and looking more a fool."

[propulsion]

It occurs to Tony that if they're not talking about work, they're talking about the weather. To be fair, the weather is happening a lot, a hum of pattering noise off the slopes of the umbrella. The dome itself appears to be made out of some kind of light weight fabric that nevertheless isn't leaking, unlike the breezy silk and lace of gentlelady sun-shaders.

"Linseed, linen, a little finagling. I'd invent nylon but then I'd have to introduce plastics into the environment and I got enough on my conscience. But it's pretty lightweight, for oilcloth. Here,"

and with a little handsy insisting, he'll arrange Mobius to grip onto the umbrella at its curved handle. "See? Not bad. You're the librarian?" asks an independently operating synapse, via his mouth.

[armd]

Abby, running late, comes into the dock with a wet skid of boot, her hands jammed into both pockets. Her jacket isn't much defense against the sudden drive of rain but it could be colder, so there's that. The ferry back to the Gallows doesn't take too long. Communal baths will be, shortly, recieving a visit.

"Just in time, huh." A panting observation for the person standing near to her, umbrella held aloft- and then she double takes, inelegantly.

... Is he wearing sunglasses at night?

marcus.

[luaithre]

It's a hazy, wet afternoon, and the ferry on the way back to the Gallows is due to set off when the last of its passengers enter.

Gracelessly. First is a dog, a gigantic wolfhound who stiffly bounds from dock to boat with a clatter of blunt claws on wood. He is sopping wet from some fresh rainfall, which has likewise done nothing for the mud that covers each of his long legs and cakes to the underside, fur dripping with it. He immediately, once landed, shakes himself violently, and sprays everyone in a tight radius with flecks of mud and rain.

His guardian might have missed this assault, but it likely wouldn't have mattered, as Marcus is not quite as filthy, but nor is he clean. His clothes are of a rougher constitution than he normally prefers, simple garments of hardy cotton and leather, his hair dark with rain, plastered down where it's loosened from a low ponytail. Mud likewise, dried and wet in patches, clings to his boots and partway up his trousers.

Without much mind for the intrusion of either himself or the wolfhound he is with, he climbs aboard without a word.

[niminypiminy]

Linden will not, of course, give voice to an objection. Outrage is a luxury, after all, and an elf has little currency with which to buy such a thing. He will not speak up, will not sigh, will not roll his eyes.

But this cloak he's wearing is a rather nice one. He has kept it in very fine condition, and the wool it's made of is soft and warm. He's managed to keep it dry all evening, in spite of the rain, by stepping out only strategically, in those moments between downpours. And now, when he's in sight of returning to the Gallows, this spray.

So he doesn't object. But his sigh is melancholy and tired as he starts brushing at the cloth, seeing how much of the mud he can remove before it dries.

[luaithre]

Marcus sits opposite the other man, ignoring him in the moment as he situates himself. In hand and laid down is a fairly hefty mage staff, bladed and far more menacing than it need appear in the hands of someone who isn't in full armor, or dramatic robes. Decorated in now dormant runs of flame and fire.

The dog, meanwhile, wags his tail lazily, and swings his furry head towards this new stranger. With a kind of lazy curiousity, the old dog pushes forwards some, grey-flecked maw (dripping with an equal mix of saliva and ambient rain-mud, likely drunk from a puddle somewhere along the way) nudging closer to sniff and generally get up in Linden's business with a blast of warm, doggy breath.

This, Marcus does note, and makes no compunctions about leaning forward to grab the big dog's collar to pull him backwards, if maybe not quick enough for everyone's liking.

[niminypiminy]

Certainly not quick enough for Linden's liking. The closer the dog gets, the more he tries to twist and squirm away - in distaste, from that dripping slobber, and in a bit of fear, as well. It's hard not to look upon those massive jaws and imagine what would happen if it decided to bite. Linden's seen a man killed by dogs before - it's not pretty.

There's a staff tucked in beside Linden, as well, which becomes clear when the dog is pulled away. Certainly nothing like what Marcus has. No blades, no runes, no decorations at all - could practically be a walking stick, but that the grip is in the wrong place. Linden shifts it in against himself as it comes into view - not exactly looking to showcase the magic kinship between him and Marcus, it seems. If anything, looking to hide it.

"Thank you," he mutters when the dog is dragged away from him, nearly too soft to be heard.

[hornswoggle]

Prior to boarding the ferry, John had been considering whether or not he might stay in Kirkwall. There is still a fair amount of time before the taverns begin to fill, yes, but Emlyn would have given him his usual space in the upper balcony. John might have done some work there.

But he'd made the decision to return to the Gallows, spend these last hours before evening looking in on his own office, climbing the stairs to the Division Head offices, taking advantage of the time to initiate some conversations before he need return to Lowtown.

Now it seems, a bath is going to be in order.

"Long day?" John queries, dry humor in the words. There's nothing to be done for the aftermath of the wolfhound's dramatic entrance, apart from a brief swipe at what few flecks of mud landed on his face.

[luaithre]

Given the proximity of offices, desks, and people, Vysvolod is recognisable as Petrana's companion, once seen through his current state. In turn, Silver is recognisable to Vysvolod, and the wolfhound pushes his shaggy head into the other man's space for no reason save for the purpose to breathe at him, loudly, tongue long, chops dripping with whatever puddle he had gotten away with drinking from before getting nudged along.

It's good for him, these outings, as Marcus will have to later defend.

Marcus settles, unselfconsciously reaching out to encourage the dog backwards, hand on spine to get him to sit. "It will be," he says. "I'll have to see to the dog before myself, or neither of us will make it as far as our room."

[hornswoggle]

"Yes, I imagine neither of you would be permitted to go dripping into that chamber."

After all, as sporadic as his presence may be, John does share an office with Petrana. He has some sense that Vysvolod replicating this trick inside would not be any more well-received by Petrana. Or Julius.

"Was this outing for his benefit, or for your business?"

In which business might be Captain of the Guard, or it might be simply Riftwatch, or it might be something else, something other beyond both of these things.

John isn't owed anything beyond the first two, regardless of all that lies between them. But the question is an open door, testing to see what Marcus might send through.