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

[luaithre]

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.

[niminypiminy]

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?"

[luaithre]

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."

[niminypiminy]

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.

[luaithre]

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."