faderift | open: a little rain never hurt no one.

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.

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.

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.

Linden's thanks gets a monosyllabic sound of acknowledgment, Marcus focused on encouraging Vysvolod to sit and then lay down a little uncomfortably in the space between them. It would be more of a chore if the wolfhound hadn't taken this journey many times before, but not helped by stiff joints and his own rangy dimensions.

Marcus pat-pats the dog's flank as he settles, two firm thumps. From there, it would simply be a wet and uncomfortable journey to the Gallows, stinking of dog and rain-soaked cloth and mud and ocean, but at least done in silence. He has never felt inclined to make small talk to fill the silence, and the sound of the oars and water lapping against the sides of the ferry are meditative enough.

However, he does, of course, inevitably, spy the mage staff, and this is, of course, inevitably, enough to cause him to speak. "Marcus," he says, an introduction. Somewhat conveniently, the specific set of vowels and consonants in his name betray his own Starkhaven accent.

The boat pushes off.

Perhaps incongruously, the name earns a flash of something that looks rather like alarm. Which - Marcus is likely relatively accustomed to people looking alarmed around him; he has a certain reputation, after all. But likely those people aren't mages, most of the time.

But there it is. A tightening of the muscles, a slight widening of the eyes - and then a glance away.

"Linden," comes the reply. There is something of Starkhaven in that accent, too, for the keen ear. It comes across even more when he mumbles, "Terrible weather."

In this quiet conversation of minor expressive responses, it's clear that Marcus notices Linden's. A slight tip to his head, followed by a quick analysis, focus darting over Linden's features to see if there's anything recognisable there. Deciding that he hasn't met this man save for perhaps passing him in the hallway.

Alarm could mean anything. There are mages with their reservations too.

But where Marcus might be fine to allow someone to stew in their discomfort, less so with other mages, curiousity clear in his manner. "I don't mind it," he says, of the weather. "It's warming again, at least. Where do you hail from?"

And that's the problem. There's no hiding the real answer. "Starkhaven," is the reply.

Linden and Marcus are not really of the same generation; Linden is well more than a decade older than the other man. They certainly aren't of the same social rank, or the same prominence. But even so, two mages of Starkhaven, by rights, should have crossed each other's paths at some point. But, indeed, Marcus will never have seen Linden before in his life.

"What about you?"

There's sort of an odd, missed beat after Linden's answer, as if anticipating more elaboration. Starkhaven originally, for instance. When it doesn't come, it feels like a missed step, a subtle conversational lurch that Marcus pauses over. Between them, Vysvolod's quiet, hoarse panting adds to the very ordinary setting, the indifference of the ferryman, the occasional speckles of cold rain.

So he nods. Starkhaven. "Me as well," he says. "But I also mean to ask which Circle."

Because his new mage elven friend clearly is not from his. Linden is also clearly older, but there were older Enchanters still that Marcus knew well, coming up, and so his dismissal of the possibility that he could simply have forgotten Linden or happened not to meet him is plain.

There's a shuffling, snuffling sound as Vysvolod investigates Linden's boots with a cold, wet nose.

Of course that's what he meant to ask. Normal mages - mages who didn't get trained by cutthroats - the sorts of mages that he's trying to blend in with - talk about their loyalty to their Circles almost before their loyalty to their cities. He needs to remember that next time. Not I am from Starkhaven, but I am from -

"Hasmal," Linden answers. From everything he's been able to discern, as he's ferreted through the documents he's been able to find on the rebellion, it's a solid answer. The mages of Hasmal stayed put. And this man, this Marcus, didn't spend time there, or so he's heard: the mages of Starkhaven largely came here, to Kirkwall, to this cruel and cold island.

Then - "What of you? Where did you go after the Starkhaven Circle fell?"

There is that possibility: I had no Circle. For all of the different people Marcus has been thrown amongst, even before the crumbling of that noble institution, it doesn't occur to him in the moment that there is a world where someone might not be free and easy with their origins.

He nods. Hasmal. Loyalists, neutrals, if there's such a thing as neutrality. He doesn't seem bothered, but maybe something makes sense to him, now.

As Linden shifts the conversation back to him, it's like Marcus is a little slow to switch gears from curiosity to sharing, although not unwilling, apparently. "The first time," has trace irony, and Marcus just nods to the looming shapes of the Gallows, slowing growing in size as they nearer. "And then after it fell good and proper, the rebellion took us to Andoral's Reach. The borders of Orlais, nearest Tevinter."

He reaches to scratch behind Vysvolod's ears. "I know not very much of Hasmal, save that its foundations must have been sturdier than ours were."

It seems, then, that Dirthamen himself is smiling upon Linden, that he by chance chose a Circle largely unknown to the man. "We were little touched by the rebellion," he says as neutrally as possible, because he doesn't really know what tone proper mages would use to say such a thing. Would a proper mage express sorrow, that freedom didn't come to him? Relief, that he was spared brutality?

What Linden had felt in truth, when the rebellion had come, had been relief. Not because he was overjoyed to see the poor downtrodden fools find their freedom. But because it was a grand relief to have more apostates running around. The more grand and powerful and notorious spellcasters there were on the lam, the less likely it was that anyone would spare a thought at mousy, stoop-backed Linden.

"Did you see much fighting?" That seems a good question. Soldiers like to share war stories, and the emotion carries them away from the present moment. Their attention gets diffuse.

Soldiers do like to do that. It's possible so does Marcus.

Here, he only nods.

At least, at first, lazily scratching Vysvolod's neck before pulling his hands away. He cups them to gather up some rain and then uses this to rid the excess dirt from his fingers and beneath his nails, mostly gathered from the dog and its propensity to roll in puddles and, beyond the city, muddy river mouths. Maybe, even if Marcus doesn't immediately offer up tales of glory or sorrow, Linden achieves that sense of diffuse focus anyway.

"How have you found it?" Or perhaps not. "Walking freely. I know it is a different thing, for elves."

open: a little rain never hurt no one.

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