open + closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Stark, Loxley, Marcus Rowntree, Florent Vascarelle
WHAT: Various activities!
WHEN: Throughout Guardian and Drakonis
WHERE: All around. Training spaces, griffon eyrie, late night kitchen, Kirkwall streets, and so on.
NOTES: Open prompts for all four in comment headers below, also a place for me to just stash some closed stuff. If you want to RP with me any which way, hit me up here or in plork.

Comments

Hightown

[cozen]

When Marcus emerges discomfiting his latest shopkeeper, Bastien is leaning against the stone facade, barely sheltered from the rain by the architecture above, with a cigarette he is struggling to keep from becoming so damp it goes out. He has a hand held over it, every puff a two-armed motion.

In Hightown, he fits in so well—in his way, without any attempt to mimic the lords and ladies, only to look like someone who'd have a good reason to knock on one of their doors, with even his mustache failing to distinguish him, because mustaches are incredibly fashionable, did you know—that overlooking him entirely would be forgivable, except there is no opportunity. He is budging from his post as soon as he hears the door.

"I was not following you," he begins with, "but I did stop because I saw you going in." A looking-over, and he sounds a touch admiring: "You are so wet."

[luaithre]

There is not too much momentum that Marcus needs to kill as he exits the shop—something of vague enough purpose which had been half the reason he went in, but has exited with having actually purchased something small, wrapped in a linen that is going into his coat pocket.

Looks, surprise not doing very much to move his expression save for where it pinches a little tense, a quick flick of study that zigzags over Bastien. Doesn't so much as relax as return to status quo.

He is more expressive at that observation, an eyebrow ticking up and glance angled downwards at where rain water streaks and soaks dark grey coat, rendering it darker in patches. "Mm," Marcus agrees. It is not actually very comfortable, that he be so. "I wanted to go through the," there is a titled name for it, capital letters, but he doesn't know it, so just tips his head in an east direction, "gardens, that way, while they were quiet."

Due to the rain, with only some brave souls with parasols for company.

And then, "You stopped?"

[cozen]

Bastien looks east, as if he might be able to see the garden in question. He can only see the dreary rain-streaked grey walls, the incongruous bright green of spring leaves beginning to emerge from hibernating vines and trees along the street–but he smiles anyway. Serious, slightly terrifying man taking a detour to look at plants in the rain: charming.

"Ouais. I'm not in a hurry," Bastien says, as if being in a hurry would be his only excuse not to stop. "And I wanted to ask how you are doing with, you know. The house. I have heard it is haunted."

And filled now with an assortment of people who perhaps would prefer not to be seeing so much of one another.

[luaithre]

Marcus is expecting something like a message from the Gallows to the Commander, maybe, given his upright attention, or some other errand. News to him directly, something from Derrica. (They have crystals. He's used to them. They are still in part easy to forget, as a matter of instinct.)

How are you doing, instead, mild-mannered and easy. He doesn't react, at first, save that no reaction to an innocuous thing is very much like a reaction. His hands have come together in neutral pose, but something of a fidget in the way fingertips find the handsome signet ring that lives on his left hand, and twist it around just a little.

"Mm," again. Yes. Haunted. "It's fine."

What can he read of Bastien, save a mildly friendly person, harmless? He inches a step back to begin the momentum of being on his way, pleasantry exchanged.

[cozen]

Bastien's smile freezes without shrinking, a blip of lost momentum without lost friendliness. Even after he has clocked and fully understood that he is being dismissed, he lets the silent stretch—like a normal person would, if they were caught off guard enough to still sort of expect elaboration—before he takes an equal step forward.

"Fine, not haunted? Or haunted but fine?"

He pinches out the cigarette to delicately pocket.