open.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree and you
WHAT: We don't talk about fight club, or poor coping mechanisms.
WHEN: Throughout fantasy-August
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: A series of open prompts regarding violences and also just normal drinking, and a place for closed stuff as you like!

There are a few incidents that take place after Marcus misses the ferry back to the Gallows (only the first time by accident).

He joins a card game, once, nearly barred from doing so when he arrives and sets down the mage staff by his seat. He hasn't a lot of coin on him, but without much thought, he undoes the clasps of his jewel-set cufflinks and drops them among the gold, and later, the silver pin that holds his tie. Maybe it's a miscalculation, on his part: being a mage, and a man who dresses as he does at this little low-stakes corner of Lowtown, gambling with people's working wages and his finery, but he ignores the slow building of resentment as he continues to drink and continues to win, until he has no more spare funds with which he can raise, or with which to buy more whiskey.

It only goes awry when he goes to buy himself out, a hand catching his sleeve as he rises. Accusations of cheating, perhaps with magic, who the fuck could know. There's a world where he finds a means of deescalation, but in this one, he simply shoves this man hard enough to upend the table. And falls on him, furious.

The most he wins is blood and bruises. Perhaps you're there to break it up, or later, when he leaves the tavern, hands empty.

The next few times there's a scrap, he starts it. It doesn't often take much. Just one civilian whose eye snags on him long enough to be asked if he has something he'd like to say, or a snarl in the direction of a body brushing too closely past him. Marcus is not a seasoned brawler (although you could make the argument that he's getting in some practice), and loses just as much as he succeeds, if success is what you could call hitting someone harder than they care to themselves.

Find him standing up over whatever poor random drunkard caught the brunt of a temper that had little to do with him, or Marcus sinking still when the next blow catches him across the temple, splitting his vision into double. Or in the midst of it, the grim tangle of blows in a tavern full of yelled encouragement.

Once, a fight that doesn't get far. The tangle of fists, elbows, and snarling is dispersed with the ill-advised summoning of smoke and embers, catching both Marcus and his attacker (his target) in a gust of magical but nevertheless firepit-filthy smog that has the latter shove away the former.

He is very efficiently ejected from the tavern, this time, when two barflies just fearless enough manage to get involved and shove him out into the street, and toss his staff out after him, which clatters loudly on the stone. You could find him at that very moment, off-balance and moving to collect it, or a few minutes later, throwing up his dinner in a side-alley, only just avoiding his boots.

Not every evening spent late ends in violence, however. Most of them, even. There's one little Lowtown den that tolerates his presence, where he sits at the edge of a bar and pushes silvers across it to keep a steady supply of ale flowing in his direction.

Comments

[luaithre]

A gesture, Marcus' hand peeling back off his tankard to turn outward, then resettling. They are, at least, left in relative peace at the end of the bar. This establishment at this late hour is not so crowded, and perhaps those present know better than to close in on any conversation that John Silver might commit any time to.

"Because perhaps those men who had been friends spoke of personal matters in a tavern," he says, "presently." It's a little whimsical, this line of conversation, a crooked bent to the rare half-smile that shows teeth, canine, as he lifts his tankard.

There had been much to wake up to. Petrana's strike to his mouth had drawn blood. How cold Julius' voice had been. Derrica's cry of pain, raw, heard through his own pulse. He had hurt only those he'd drawn closer to, after, and also still remembers the odd shiver of two magical forces locked in tension as his ribcage cracked.

The cup set back down. "You haven't had any of your drink."

[hornswoggle]

It's a funny thought to unravel. How much of what they dreamed was meant to be instructive? Had the Herald meant to nudge them in more directions than the very broad warnings that had been delivered?

John isn't a philosopher. But he has some space for the concept.

And lifts his cup, when prompted. Swigs a generous sip from it while he allows the possibility to settle.

"We might make an attempt," he says, without fully lowering the cup. Keeping it hooked in one hand as he continues, "Seeing as we are here now. And bear a passing resemblance to those men."

[luaithre]

Well, at least he is officially no longer drinking alone.

The next exhale has the sharpness of a laugh to it, even if it never resolves into a proper one. Amusement rolls over, leaves behind the bleakness he'd been indulging in before John's arrival, idly turning his cup in place.

"We played a lot of cards in Starkhaven," he says. "Gambling with them was discouraged, you know. Unbecoming. Not barred, though, as long as it was only play. We'd barter meaningless things, tokens, in place of coin. I remember once a disagreement over cheating became heated, between a couple of apprentices—that none of it was real didn't matter. And so, cards was banned for the rest of the season after that."

Quite rightly, the topics of Circle injustice are that of unfair Harrowings, cruelty and abuse, annulments and the restriction of human rights. Rarer do people speak to the more generalised humiliation of it all.

He finally fishes out his dented copper cigarette case that he only has some minor difficulty in opening when muscle memory fails, for a second or two. He pinches the end of a retrieved cigarette between his fingers, letting heat form there, twitching his hand away again when embers catch.

"It's not all of it," he says, where it is the answer to that nearly-question, "but I won't say there isn't something good about it. Being anywhere so unlike that."

[hornswoggle]

This minor action, the lighting of a cigarette between fingers, still sends a ripple pooling outwards through the Fade. John is aware of it. John will always be aware of the ebb and flow of power around him, how it chimes against his own connection to what lies past the Veil.

And it illustrates the point, doesn't it? A small liberty that likely wasn't welcome in a Circle that begrudged its captives playing cards.

"I think we are more than aligned in wanting to be certain you are never returned to such a location."

This is not an abstract thing. It is well and good, talking about mages and their future as a whole. But there is something necessary about forging a specific link: no, John would not want to see Marcus dragged back to a Circle.

More necessary now, when they are both so aware that Marcus would likely be dragged somewhere far less pleasant than any Circle.

[luaithre]

"I'll die before I do," is simply put and without dramatic flourish beyond the words themselves, no revving of fresh anger, no snarls or bitter mutters or furtive promise. Factual statement only.

Whether in battle, or because it's more likely he'd be put down, hanged or beheaded or however it is fashionable to legally execute a man for whatever wrong they'd assign him. The possibility of Tranquillity is its own spectre, haunting his mood only after he says this sure thing, but it's vanquished with another, deeper pull of ale.

"Will you tell me something?" has a slightly odd inflection to it, implying trade. Whether a trade that's yet to be struck or that John owes him some bit of knowledge is hard to divine immediately. "I've wondered about your leg. What you were before its loss."

[hornswoggle]

A side-swipe of a question.

Not that John's expression betrays any particular surprise or affront. There is only a pause in which he lifts his drink, draws in a sip while he turns the question over in his mind. There is some minor pull of tension in his body.

It can't be helped. The body remembers pain, even if the mind has blunted and softened the recollection of it.

"More agile," is so glib as to be meaningless. But he is entitled to deflect away from something painful, is he not?

[luaithre]

Maybe ~friendship~ is a thing you gnaw on like a bone until it cracks, seeking out its marrow. If there is something Marcus is looking for in asking this question, besides an actual answer (which he does not completely anticipate receiving, but why not, what else do mages have to trade but stories of injury), it goes missed by him anyway with his focus so scattered—that minor pause, that minor flex of tension.

It is a little late when he turns his regard to Silver, some curl of bleak amusement pulled fine through his expression. Still sharp, the way he looks at people, even now in all the bleariness.

"You're still agile," is wry observation. All elegant manoeuvres, all day.

[hornswoggle]

"Ah, but imagine what I managed on two legs."

True and untrue.

He was a different man. He wanted to accomplish different things. Slip sideways and disappear with a fistful of gold, so thoroughly that one might forget having seen him at all.

Those days are long gone.

"I make do," diminishes, in a way. John has forged new strengths. Has made use of innate ability in a way he never would have if other avenues were open to him.

None of this is necessary for Marcus to know. Not yet, at least.

[luaithre]

"Aye."

Don't they all.

Marcus' assessment doesn't let up, considering this answer and the man that produces it, this pinhole of I make do in all the opacity. Shockingly, unprompted questions that cleave to sources of pain do not beget answers, and it isn't really revenge, this. Silver has always been careful that way, even kind, tonight included, and anything Marcus has told him has generally been offered easily.

But he did not come to this bar to enjoy himself, and doesn't intend to start now. "I hate pity," he says. "I don't know what to do with it when it's given. Useless. And it's no better from those you love or those you hate. Maybe worse. You must have some familiarity."

[hornswoggle]

"I do."

What does it cost John to offer this?

Nothing, perhaps. Of course he has been the object of pity. The one-legged creature, hobbling along about his business. John knows how that image can stick, regardless of all that he has done to dispel it.

"When the leg was taken from me," comes slowly, words measured out against some internal guidance. "The crew meant to tend to me. They put the idea to me as a kindness, but I found it unbearable. I imagine the better comfort would have been for no one to have said anything at all."

Easier to reconcile himself to their regard when it came on his own terms, something to which he contributed equally, rather than received as alms. The scorn had been easier to weather, though John had been just as unable to let it stand.

But they aren't talking about him, are they?

"Do you imagine yourself to be the object of pity at present moment?"

[luaithre]

Maybe they are talking about John.

At least halfway. Marcus listens with an interest that hedges out from the fog of whatever private misery he's been enjoying. Perhaps a little wolfish, scent of blood and everything, but not completely that, either. Some of that edge recedes, almost visible the way that pressure eases off in posture, expression, subtle nuance.

By the time they aren't any longer, Marcus has conveniently remembered his cigarette embering away between his fingers, flicking the gathered ash aside. "I don't wish to be," sounds like an amendment of a thing he didn't say, grudging.

If it's keeping John here, presently, at this bar. If it's keeping him overseeing what it is Marcus does or knows, in general.

[hornswoggle]

"You aren't."

Not as far as John's concerned.

He has never been given to it. Pity. That twinge of feeling comes and goes, never finding purchase. It is easy to let pass. What use is pity?

"If you find yourself concerned as to where my interests lie, I can assure you of that."

Simple. John is here because he wants to be. No pity roots him to this spot, sipping at the dregs of his cup.

[luaithre]

He can puzzle together some pieces of what John has said, the way he has said it. A killing injury and a necessary amputation, perhaps, that is how such things usually go. Charity, where the only thing that can't be given is freedom. And a crew, of course, still a pirate at the time and not, say, a soldier, or some other thing. It's not nothing, this information.

Put away, for now, along with more ale, stomach immediately turning on impact but managing to only wince a little. Maybe later, there will be more externalised regrets.

There is a difference between professional concern, and worry, and sympathy, and pity, all distinct. A few nights from now, he's going to frustrate one or even both of his partners at his refusing to separate them. For now, well, he'll be assured.

"I'll rule it out."