O2 ♚ I'M A LONG TIME TRAVELER HERE

[slaveking]

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Several Rifters and native drop-ins congregate at the Tavern as advertised via messenger crystal.
WHEN: Late January (forward-dated for recentmost app approvals!)
WHERE: The Tavern, private room
NOTES: OOC plotting here! Feel free to treat this like a general mingle log, but I will be making empty starters below for specific topics for group threads/conversation. An infodump/glossary link may also be pending from Araceli/Church.

It's past dinner time. This provides a reasonable excuse to drink only out of the ale pitchers set up for the expected guest, although there's a little bread and salt pork set up on the one bench along the wall. Dozens of chairs and a few less tables are loosely organized into groups. There's no dais or marked center for the room, the bar room version of the principles of the Arthurian round table, all being equal in the private room. Which, granted, is only as private as the public announcement and common courtesy might enforce. In other words, that can't be a real expectation.

However, the other Tavern workers are watching the door and main floor discreetly, multi-tasking with running the usual evening business. It's not so different from any other night, not even for the involuntary immigrants gathering on the second level. Drink, talk, and get to know.

Comments

[apostasia]

Martel's attendance is not enthusiastic.

He received the invitation with all the others; considered declining it. More accurately, considered ignoring it entirely, but...he is stubborn, not a fool. At least not most of the time. And he isn't the kind of man who willfully renders himself ignorant of something that might affect him - while he has no desire to be associated with people whom he has nothing in common bar the method of their arrival, the fact remains that the method of their arrival is what defines them to many here. Working against it is uphill going and in the meantime, he can't afford to shut his eyes or close his ears.

Rifters, meeting. If they're going to do anything, he should know what it is. Optimistically, nothing he needs to concern himself with, but...

So he attends. He does not drink, nor talk, and certainly does not get to know.

But it's only when the conversation turns to the matter of leaving Thedas that he simply, quietly, leaves. It's been interesting. He's done.

going to assume martel is outfitted per his icon, pp me if not ok

[slaveking]

Marcel notices him, the tall white guy with the dark hair, the brush across his upper-lip that looks fashionable despite that nobody in Skyhold is concerned at all with fashion, really. Specifically, Marcel notices him start to leave, with timing precise to the content of conversation. The vampire tilts back in his chair, craning his head a little to look around the shoulders of those sitting at his table. Fortunately, most of them seem preoccupied by the conversation at hand. Particularly, the glaring lack of valid information or clear methodology to achieve what he means to do.

"Hey, black jacket." Surely this verbal tradition carries across worlds; marking people by the cut and color of their clothing when one does not happen to know their name. Marcel's voice is loud, difficult to ignore; promises to get even louder and more difficult to ignore if Martel tries.

"Did you want to stay?"

He scrapes his chair back, excusing himself from the immediate conversation with a gesture of one large hand. He doesn't get up, though, only so willing to try and bother somebody who lacks real interest in staying to be bothered. Nonetheless, there's nothing hesitant at all about the smile that spreads sharp white contrast across his face.

IT'S FINE (ps sorry he's a dickhead)

[apostasia]

The smile is lost on Martel, who neither breaks stride nor looks back; by the dryness of his tone in answer, his misunderstanding of the question is entirely deliberate--

"As fascinating as the discourse has been," it hasn't, "I'm afraid not."

They've reached the limits of what interests him here, and he didn't come to discuss his own affairs.

[slaveking]

"Too bad."

Marcel doesn't break his smile or look away. His eyes follow the tall stranger (in the black jacket) up to the door, without real expectation that Martel is about to break loose into some incredibly exciting action. He only watches long enough to determine something about his balance, as well as the (relatively obvious) earmarks of his demeanor, before eventually turning away.

"Later."