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

"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.

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.

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.

Edited 2022-03-29 01:25 (UTC)

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.

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.

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."

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."

"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?"

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?"

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?"

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.

There is some melancholy there. She's only just become part of the operation, and she misses home. Misses her brother mostly. But home is a dangerous place to be and she has no idea what's happened to her brother, if he's alive or not; seeking him out feels beyond her capabilities now, with the people that could have told her more about where he was just bodies littered in a pathway of the past.

So. Yeah. A little melancholy.

But now she's got a hundred and ten percent on the Qunari Rifter in front of her. That's kind of an amazing combination of words to describe someone.

She wonders if he's terribly lonely since there aren't many Qunari and she assumes that Rifters come through one by one. Knows better than to ask any of that right now.

"Wycome." A shrug. "There are boats. It rains sometimes. Have you ever been?"

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.”

The silver is vanished up a sleeve or a turn of his palm, gone either way.

"I haven't," Loxley says. "Somewhere on the coast, I take it. River boats don't move in quite the same way." The punctuation to his point comes with a grip to the edge of the ferry, a list of his body that causes just a subtle sway to it, mostly just to emphasise the liveliness of the sea beneath them. The ferryman doesn't seem to notice.

So that's something. "Otho, where I was born, was very boat-y and rain-y too. Kirkwall-y in general, if not so large."

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."

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?"

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?"

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.

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.

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."

“Mm.”

A pull at the corner of his mouth betrays him, lenience borne of Loxley’s natural charm. It’s too permeating for him to brush in the close confines of this rickety boat.

He’s just very good, is the thing.

The cat under his coat twists like a leech, conforming to his side in the warmth and out of sight. Must be nice.

“Visiting someone?”

open: a little rain never hurt no one.

loxley.

tony.

marcus.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject