But Marcus thinks through his answer, for it isn't straight forward. There is some consideration, once more, of what is or is not his to say. Of what information he should entrust with Silver. But the other man hasn't to wait too long. Maybe until the wagon passes by them.
It's to the sound of its departure that he answers the question more fully. "We attract the attention of demons, don't we. Spirits. Dreamers like Tsenka attract them more than most. And so it isn't a cost she pays in body or mind, but it is her danger to handle." He glances to Silver, then, a more direct appeal at understanding as he adds, "And she does handle it."
"It's not a learned skill. A born ability, a rare one."
Eyes back on the road, in light of reassurance. Although not really on the road in that Marcus is recalling things, distracting, trusting the rust-brown horse under him to do the driving.
"We were young, but we instinctively knew to keep things like that to ourselves. The Starkhaven Circle—it had a firm hand. It watched its children closely." There's a beat, the clear pause of someone choosing his words, before continuing. "By the time we were grown, and I'd earned some good will, I could make some inquiries, quietly. Books, and that. I don't think they ever helped her, really, and there wasn't much, here in the south. Enough to confirm, though, that they'd likely have branded it out of her."
Tales of Magisters who rent apart the minds of their victims, associations of blood magic, frequency of possession, all dire warnings and theories as opposed to any instructional text as might come with other aberrant mage skills.
This is unsurprising. Another chip set against the piles of sins flowing forth from the Chantry's management of their Circles.
"Or worse," is mild, but skirts the edges of all the ways worse might manifest. Marcus surely knows them all more intimately than John.
"She is self-taught?" might be an unnecessary question. What other Dreamer would have been on hand to teach her? But still, despite his own curiosity, John follows it with, "You needn't answer. We can speak of something else, if these aren't answers she would give me herself."
It's a well timed shift, spoken before Marcus' pause has a chance to become silence, and he nods to that suggestion. He doesn't volunteer an alternative, but makes room for Silver to offer his own suggestion.
When they arrive on the settlement, the air is cooler, damper, the sun setting. Their arrival is not a surprise, heralded by some correspondence from representatives of the villagers. Up ahead, they first find dotted camps and fires starting to be lit in what was clearly a paddock intended for livestock, now overtaken by refugees, and then roaming men and women of suspicious manner guarding the borders of the village.
Welcome is made, the horses are taken, and a meeting is conducted in the larger of the two taverns present, big enough to host two Riftwatch agents and a handful of men and women to stand in for the people of this village, and the displaced civilians who have all but taken it over. Some speak, some merely watch, and mutter. But there is a way forward.
The snarl in the mediation comes in the form of one man of the displaced settlement, introducing himself simply as Walten. Incendiary, stubborn, aware of how he's being watched, and quick to jump on every rhetorical pivot Silver has to offer.
Throughout, Marcus is content in letting the other man lead. He had taken with him his staff, bladed and aggressively mage-like though it is, but had long since set it down and aside. Empty-handed otherwise, arms folded and voice quiet as he offers his own perspective here and there. They can help with training, manage the supplies the settlement needs to defend themselves, and so on and so on, if only the refugees would give up their chokehold. If his patience is wearing thin—
Well, Walten's snaps first. He is suddenly in front of Silver. We don't need your telling us what to do, and the suggestion that they leave is articulated through a hard two-handed shove.
A few shouts raise, hard to say if it's strictly protest or encouragement or both, and Marcus moves to get in the middle of it, forcing the other man back, which is provocation enough for the sudden swing of a brawler's fist towards his face. It connects. He reels. He doesn't think of his staff resting by the door of the tavern when launches himself forwards with more murderous intent than before.
Something John would note to Petrana, later: He was more of a help in that room than one might have assumed.
John had resolved to pass along the sentiment prior to Walten's patience failing, but the subsequent melee doesn't entirely diminish that decision.
If he had fallen—
No, he keeps his footing even if his crutch scrapes across the floor before bracing against uneven boards. The thrill of mortification at the possibility of having ended up sprawled on the floor takes a moment to shake, just the span of a few breaths before John finds his voice again.
"Friends!" is punctuated by the banging of a tin tankard against the nearest table. John keeps it in hand. "Friends, we are not here to argue!"
Argue.
If John has to wade in after Marcus he will but the hope is surely to avoid escalation—
A shriek of wood on wood as a table shudders violently a few feet beneath the combined momentum of Marcus' rush forwards and Walten's stagger. Someone motivated by sense or John's call to order or perhaps both reaches across to try to snare Walten's arm and haul him back, his other hand too busy grabbing at Marcus' coat to compensate.
So snared, Marcus hauls backwards. This doesn't have the effect he hopes when he instead shoved the rest of the way, back hitting a wooden pillar and knocking the breath from his lungs.
Going from 'frustrating but ultimately boring meeting' to this rush of adrenaline is heady. There is a universe where John does have to wade in, for Walten likely outpaces Marcus' experience in coming to blows by a considerable amount. But there are a couple of things to say about how he spent a week, a week ago: Derrica did an admirable job in speeding along his recovery, and he did not get to do as much harm to people who deserved it as he would have liked.
He's hit somewhere beneath his ribcage. He folds, nearly, Walten moving back with some intent at some next thing to end it, but then they are both on the ground, nearby cutlery rattling on a table at the force of it. The sound of Walten's skull striking the floorboards is a neater, sharper sound than the broad thump of their combined weight.
This time, when Marcus strikes him, bearing down on top, the sound of it has the kind of crunch that heralds a fight being over. But he raises his fist, and follows it with a second, just in case. Raised, again, considering a third.
Two thirds of the room are shouting. It's a cacophonous muddle that is impossible to assign to one side or another. John isn't pretending to himself that their welcome has been overwhelming warm, but outright hostility had seemed blissfully avoided.
It would be in their best interest to be sure it remains avoided. Beating Walten into the floorboards, deserved or otherwise, will not do that.
When he had fought Marcus (in a dream, yes, but John doesn't imagine reality differs greatly.) good sense had said to keep well out of arm's reach. Walton hadn't made that same calculation, and seems to be paying for it. John is loathe to wade in, but the decision is made for him. The fight can't continue if they plan to wedge their way into the good graces of either side.
"Marcus," is pitched to carry, punctuated by the hasty thud of John's crutch and the catch of his hand. Try to keep hold, bracing himself for what happens if Marcus tears free. "It's settled. You've made your point."
His arm is caught, and to his credit, there's no instinctive tearing away, just coiled strength snared and slow to unwind itself. Marcus' stare down at the man beneath him is wolfishly bright, but soon dulling, and he manages, just, to divert his attention in a glance up. It does not surprise him to note that John is alone in his attempt to break them up. Everyone else, keeping a distance. Anything could happen, when the brawl involves a mage.
Marcus opens his fist, knuckles greased in blood and fingers spreading in a signal that concurs: it's settled. Arm losing its tension. With his other, he sort of pettily shoves Walten back down into the ground by that matter of millimetres as he pushes himself to his feet, a breath of complaint as new bruises twinge.
Then, another voice, snapping, "Get him out of here."
Instinct has Marcus tense, looking towards the source in immediate defense—but it becomes plain soon enough that the 'him' is not Marcus, but Walten, as a woman with grey threaded through her hair and a nose that's been broken sometime in her life pushes forward, directing some others to go about scraping Walten off the floor. Walten, who comes alive in time to growl his complaints as he's directed out of the tavern.
She gives a short sigh, and squares around at the two Riftwatch agents. "Well," she says. "Where were we?"
Apart from Marcus, no one in this room is aware that John is a fair match for Marcus in a fight.
Hopefully there is something reassuring in that lack of knowledge. If John (a cripple, comes the bitter, ghostly murmur.) steps in without fear, then it must signal something promising about Marcus.
For his part, John is relieved not to have been obliged to hop desperately to keep his balance, or worse, fall. It means he can meet this question head on, without a beat to gather his composure.
"Supplies," John reminds. "And the assistance of our people in training yours, as well as building the fortifications you'll need to even the odds."
The lack of obvious leader has been hampering this discussion. But John has hope in this continuation of earlier debate.
"Enchanter Rowntree can assist with the latter, and I'll see to the former."
Enchanter Rowntree does not lend his voice to Silver's reminders, enduring in silence the skeptical glance flickered his way. Whatever it is she sees there, or decides in spite of it, seems to cause that doubt to dissipate on its own, and she looks back to John Silver, nodding her head once.
"We can work with that."
The town hall style gathering shrinks slightly, with both men offered a seat at a table along with the woman, a Free Marcher named Kyri, and a looming presence of a couple of the other refugees presiding over the negotiation. Some ale is poured, the crowd thins, although an audience still exists as a less volatile circle of interest scattered through the tavern.
They are told of a Brother Jaimen who lives above the shrine, who knows best the needs of the village. He is invited and summoned there, slightly sleep-befuddled and wary as he joins the conversation, but sharp enough to cotton onto the matter at hand. It is agreed, as the evening hours slip later and later, that Kyri can keep her people in line in return of Riftwatch's support, and offer the village protection in exchange of refuge. Jaimen will manage the supply itself, ensuring fair distribution, and the honouring of deals.
The news will be disseminated amongst the village and the camps tomorrow morning.
Throughout this stage of the negotiations, Marcus remains quiet, sensing a way forward and opting to entrust John in its navigation. There is ale, which he drinks, and he offers agreeing sounds and nods at the correct moments.
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no subject
It is, after all, magic.
But Marcus thinks through his answer, for it isn't straight forward. There is some consideration, once more, of what is or is not his to say. Of what information he should entrust with Silver. But the other man hasn't to wait too long. Maybe until the wagon passes by them.
It's to the sound of its departure that he answers the question more fully. "We attract the attention of demons, don't we. Spirits. Dreamers like Tsenka attract them more than most. And so it isn't a cost she pays in body or mind, but it is her danger to handle." He glances to Silver, then, a more direct appeal at understanding as he adds, "And she does handle it."
no subject
Or that Marcus would have ascertained that ability, if only to be certain of her safety. There is no reason to assume otherwise.
Hadn't Isaac asked John that? Even before they had discussed what John might be taught, they had discussed that.
"It's uncommon?" He questions. "What she can do, I don't imagine any mage could acquire the talent."
no subject
Eyes back on the road, in light of reassurance. Although not really on the road in that Marcus is recalling things, distracting, trusting the rust-brown horse under him to do the driving.
"We were young, but we instinctively knew to keep things like that to ourselves. The Starkhaven Circle—it had a firm hand. It watched its children closely." There's a beat, the clear pause of someone choosing his words, before continuing. "By the time we were grown, and I'd earned some good will, I could make some inquiries, quietly. Books, and that. I don't think they ever helped her, really, and there wasn't much, here in the south. Enough to confirm, though, that they'd likely have branded it out of her."
Tales of Magisters who rent apart the minds of their victims, associations of blood magic, frequency of possession, all dire warnings and theories as opposed to any instructional text as might come with other aberrant mage skills.
no subject
"Or worse," is mild, but skirts the edges of all the ways worse might manifest. Marcus surely knows them all more intimately than John.
"She is self-taught?" might be an unnecessary question. What other Dreamer would have been on hand to teach her? But still, despite his own curiosity, John follows it with, "You needn't answer. We can speak of something else, if these aren't answers she would give me herself."
no subject
When they arrive on the settlement, the air is cooler, damper, the sun setting. Their arrival is not a surprise, heralded by some correspondence from representatives of the villagers. Up ahead, they first find dotted camps and fires starting to be lit in what was clearly a paddock intended for livestock, now overtaken by refugees, and then roaming men and women of suspicious manner guarding the borders of the village.
Welcome is made, the horses are taken, and a meeting is conducted in the larger of the two taverns present, big enough to host two Riftwatch agents and a handful of men and women to stand in for the people of this village, and the displaced civilians who have all but taken it over. Some speak, some merely watch, and mutter. But there is a way forward.
The snarl in the mediation comes in the form of one man of the displaced settlement, introducing himself simply as Walten. Incendiary, stubborn, aware of how he's being watched, and quick to jump on every rhetorical pivot Silver has to offer.
Throughout, Marcus is content in letting the other man lead. He had taken with him his staff, bladed and aggressively mage-like though it is, but had long since set it down and aside. Empty-handed otherwise, arms folded and voice quiet as he offers his own perspective here and there. They can help with training, manage the supplies the settlement needs to defend themselves, and so on and so on, if only the refugees would give up their chokehold. If his patience is wearing thin—
Well, Walten's snaps first. He is suddenly in front of Silver. We don't need your telling us what to do, and the suggestion that they leave is articulated through a hard two-handed shove.
A few shouts raise, hard to say if it's strictly protest or encouragement or both, and Marcus moves to get in the middle of it, forcing the other man back, which is provocation enough for the sudden swing of a brawler's fist towards his face. It connects. He reels. He doesn't think of his staff resting by the door of the tavern when launches himself forwards with more murderous intent than before.
no subject
John had resolved to pass along the sentiment prior to Walten's patience failing, but the subsequent melee doesn't entirely diminish that decision.
If he had fallen—
No, he keeps his footing even if his crutch scrapes across the floor before bracing against uneven boards. The thrill of mortification at the possibility of having ended up sprawled on the floor takes a moment to shake, just the span of a few breaths before John finds his voice again.
"Friends!" is punctuated by the banging of a tin tankard against the nearest table. John keeps it in hand. "Friends, we are not here to argue!"
Argue.
If John has to wade in after Marcus he will but the hope is surely to avoid escalation—
no subject
So snared, Marcus hauls backwards. This doesn't have the effect he hopes when he instead shoved the rest of the way, back hitting a wooden pillar and knocking the breath from his lungs.
Going from 'frustrating but ultimately boring meeting' to this rush of adrenaline is heady. There is a universe where John does have to wade in, for Walten likely outpaces Marcus' experience in coming to blows by a considerable amount. But there are a couple of things to say about how he spent a week, a week ago: Derrica did an admirable job in speeding along his recovery, and he did not get to do as much harm to people who deserved it as he would have liked.
He's hit somewhere beneath his ribcage. He folds, nearly, Walten moving back with some intent at some next thing to end it, but then they are both on the ground, nearby cutlery rattling on a table at the force of it. The sound of Walten's skull striking the floorboards is a neater, sharper sound than the broad thump of their combined weight.
This time, when Marcus strikes him, bearing down on top, the sound of it has the kind of crunch that heralds a fight being over. But he raises his fist, and follows it with a second, just in case. Raised, again, considering a third.
no subject
It would be in their best interest to be sure it remains avoided. Beating Walten into the floorboards, deserved or otherwise, will not do that.
When he had fought Marcus (in a dream, yes, but John doesn't imagine reality differs greatly.) good sense had said to keep well out of arm's reach. Walton hadn't made that same calculation, and seems to be paying for it. John is loathe to wade in, but the decision is made for him. The fight can't continue if they plan to wedge their way into the good graces of either side.
"Marcus," is pitched to carry, punctuated by the hasty thud of John's crutch and the catch of his hand. Try to keep hold, bracing himself for what happens if Marcus tears free. "It's settled. You've made your point."
no subject
Marcus opens his fist, knuckles greased in blood and fingers spreading in a signal that concurs: it's settled. Arm losing its tension. With his other, he sort of pettily shoves Walten back down into the ground by that matter of millimetres as he pushes himself to his feet, a breath of complaint as new bruises twinge.
Then, another voice, snapping, "Get him out of here."
Instinct has Marcus tense, looking towards the source in immediate defense—but it becomes plain soon enough that the 'him' is not Marcus, but Walten, as a woman with grey threaded through her hair and a nose that's been broken sometime in her life pushes forward, directing some others to go about scraping Walten off the floor. Walten, who comes alive in time to growl his complaints as he's directed out of the tavern.
She gives a short sigh, and squares around at the two Riftwatch agents. "Well," she says. "Where were we?"
no subject
Hopefully there is something reassuring in that lack of knowledge. If John (a cripple, comes the bitter, ghostly murmur.) steps in without fear, then it must signal something promising about Marcus.
For his part, John is relieved not to have been obliged to hop desperately to keep his balance, or worse, fall. It means he can meet this question head on, without a beat to gather his composure.
"Supplies," John reminds. "And the assistance of our people in training yours, as well as building the fortifications you'll need to even the odds."
The lack of obvious leader has been hampering this discussion. But John has hope in this continuation of earlier debate.
"Enchanter Rowntree can assist with the latter, and I'll see to the former."
no subject
"We can work with that."
The town hall style gathering shrinks slightly, with both men offered a seat at a table along with the woman, a Free Marcher named Kyri, and a looming presence of a couple of the other refugees presiding over the negotiation. Some ale is poured, the crowd thins, although an audience still exists as a less volatile circle of interest scattered through the tavern.
They are told of a Brother Jaimen who lives above the shrine, who knows best the needs of the village. He is invited and summoned there, slightly sleep-befuddled and wary as he joins the conversation, but sharp enough to cotton onto the matter at hand. It is agreed, as the evening hours slip later and later, that Kyri can keep her people in line in return of Riftwatch's support, and offer the village protection in exchange of refuge. Jaimen will manage the supply itself, ensuring fair distribution, and the honouring of deals.
The news will be disseminated amongst the village and the camps tomorrow morning.
Throughout this stage of the negotiations, Marcus remains quiet, sensing a way forward and opting to entrust John in its navigation. There is ale, which he drinks, and he offers agreeing sounds and nods at the correct moments.