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[slaveking]

WHO: Marcel Gerard & you!
WHAT: Open and closed log for Marcel kicking around Skyhold. The closed starters will be down in the comments, the open starters in the entry below the cut.
WHEN: February to March 2016!
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Potentially some PG-13-rated violence or language, nothing else.

[open] tavern

By now, Marcel has moved on from lifting heavy boxes. Not that he had any particular objection that work-- he still does sometimes, lending his better-than-human strength to the early morning task of shifting supplies. However, he has also managed to insinuate himself in the more bureaucratic management of the Tavern, making some use out of his education with letters and numbers.

Every few nights and a couple of mornings, too, he is the one in the back office, pouring over ledger. Quill in hand, a piece of scratch paper laddered with numbers. His writing is impeccable, pausing only now and then to correct his hard-won cursive into something a little easier for Thedosians to interpret. His errors are far and few between, marked out with a single line that's as straight as a ruler. Come in then, and you're wont to interrupt a reverie, but a break is welcome.

Other evenings, he's at the bar. He laughs easily, offers to buy you an ale. The bartender jokes with him about where his paycheck goes-- first ham for the Rifter meet, and now free drinks for anybody who happens to wander by? But it's an easy ribbing, and he doesn't mind.

[open] sparring forever

Other times, he has a sword in hand.

There's one Vahshoth that he's been squaring off against consistently, and they've changed it up from wrestling as of late. The two men can be found in the courtyard, sun sinking low over the rooftops. They charge, and metal rings from metal, snaps sparks into the brisk mountain air. Sometimes they laugh. Occasionally, there's a grimace-- the tip of a sword slipping through skin, called break, the healer standing by rolling his eyes. But perhaps more interesting than that, is the banter about the Inquisition.

Marcel has had more questions since the Rifter meeting, but the only one his Vahshoth friend has to ask, between drinks of water and the stretches for cooldown afterward, is always: "When will you join the Inquisition?"

And the vampire's answer, easily overheard: "Like the Good Book says. There's a time for everything." Punctuated with a wag of his eyebrows, playful, but not insincere.

wildcard

choose your own adventure \o/

Comments

[closed to araceli & alayre]

[slaveking]

Dinner at the Tavern is not as decorative an affair as some of the meals that Marcel has taken with people of import. Used to be, he'd favor a long table with candelabras in the corners, whole animals brought out bronzed by the oven heat and seasonings, vegetables lined up on kebabs and speckled with crushed Brazil nuts, salad nicoise, puddings ringed with raspberry cremes and so on. A casual dinner with the Mikaelsons had still involved clawfoot furniture and rock-cut crystalware, when he had been growing up.

Things are different now, but Marcel still put a fair dent in his wages for a nice spread. There's cinnamon in the butter that goes with the braided egg bread, which he taught the baker how to make just recently. Potatoes on a roast freckled through with herbs, a chicken pot pie with the crust baked crispy. Fruit for dessert, mostly because cake was rather out of Marcel's humble budget, than out of real concern for anybody's vitamin intake. He's seen Araceli move, and rather doubts that the Templar Order, however New, would have an authority figure with health trouble.

The venue is an upstairs room, off to the corner, round table and closed window. Barroom chatter emanates up to them, allowing a casual ambience. Marcel doesn't have nice clothes, but his shirt belongs on the nicer end of the spectrum as his shirts go, a navy jacket over it for a touch of formality, and he rubbed some oil into his boots to make them mre presentable. It was a little funny, almost. Falling into old patterns. Once upon a time, he had somebody to starch his shirt, and picked underwear designer-labeled by Calvin Klein.

At the knock on the door, he pulls it wide. "Evening," he says, with a smile.

[foxsays]

A dinner such as this at home would involve the rest of the queensguard to help her get ready; there would be joking, someone to either advise on the decor or to check on it in advance, a menu told to her in a whisper all before she'd even started to get dressed. The queensguard moved as one, thought as one, and fought as one no matter what the battle might be. Here in Thedas there are few she can trust, no finery beyond the casual guard's suit she arrived in, soft blues and a shimmer of silver like little waves catching the light, hair oil carefully so that no one curl dares to frizz. She'd prefer something to make her larger than she is but Skyhold is in need of a seamstress and better merchants so there's very little to be done.

Meeting a native means she can't afford to be late, so as soon as she's ready she heads to the tavern where she skirts past the tables she usually gambles at, weaving her way past serving maids and upstairs. Her knock is brief and sharp, the smile for Marcel genuine. As soon as there are three then the face will go up but for a moment she has a chance to breathe and to look all that she is: a woman of twenty glad to see a friendly face.

"Marcel, it's been too long," she beams, those lined eyes bright. "I think this will be the first time I've sat down in a proper chair at a proper table in far too long and everything smells wonderful." Life has been...trying of late, the most polite description she could give if asked but she doesn't plan to betray any of that tonight, not if she can help it; everyone downstairs can certainly vouch for her ability to bluff with the best of them.

[equanimiti]

Always a stickler for punctuality, Alayre arrives shortly after the others. The knight-commander didn't put too much thought into his attire for the evening but he was against wearing armor. He's dressed modestly in a black overcoat with a matching tunic that had faint gold etching along the wrists and collar. Alayre isn't too fancy in his attire but he certainly embodies a sense of importance.

Up the stairs and off towards the side, Alayre finds Marcel there already partaking in smalltalk. He doesn't immediately announce his arrival in favor of listening to the idle chatter at hand. Marcel stated in the letter that he would bring a guest and there she is smiling up at the Rifter. Alayre let's his gaze linger on the woman briefly before turning to Marcel again.

"It seems that we're all here." He says loud enough to grab their attention.

[slaveking]

Two-hundred-year-old creature of the undead that he is, Marcel hears it when the other man comes up to meet them. However, he doesn't actually catch Alayre's arrival until a fair few footfalls later than he'dve expected to detect an ordinary civilian, which makes sense. Is pleasantly surprising. Fortunate, of course, Araceli is saying nothing of particularly alarming or secretive nature, otherwise Marcel would've had to give her a sign of some subtle sort, deflect the conversation into easier territory. All of them have only just arrived.

"I'm glad you think so," he tells Araceli, stooping down to kiss her cheek. For some reason, it seems like the proper courtesy to do, when she's dressed that way and carrying herself like such-- not overly formal, but reminiscent of certain subcultures that he's been part of at some time or other. He moves slow enough, though, that if she telegraphs displeasure with the way he's coming toward her, he can drop just as easily and take her hand for a kiss to her knuckles. In either case, he whispers wryly to her ear: "You'll tell me if the taste lives up too, for what I paid for it." Surely they know each other well enough to joke about the expenses of hosting. They have the beginnings of Rifter solidarity, and Alayre is technically the guest of honor.

And it's the man who gets a shake of his hand the next moment, and a warm smile. Marcel shows both of them in. Because the other man is bringing up the rear, it is Marcel's subtle, odd assumption that he'll be pulling out Araceli's chair for her, if the woman allows it. Already, from the way Alayre just down just enough, Marcel sees him as an observer of etiquette of an adaptive kind. "It's a pleasure. I'm Marcellus Gerard, as you've guessed-- just Marcel is fine. This is Araceli Bonaventura, who I mentioned in the letter."

[foxsays]

And there again is something about Marcel that reminds her of home, of the impeccable manners that the nobility have towards one another that have seemed lacking in Skyhold, more questions to ask another day when she has the time and no audience. What she says in the moment though is nothing of the sort, a quick nod of her head in Alayre’s direction as she rises up on her toes, a hand on Marcel’s arm just to steady herself, a coy smirk tugging at her lips.

“I cannot imagine that a man such as yourself would disappoint, but what are our mistakes but a chance to learn and better ourselves?” Even as she teases though, she sinks back down with a quick flick of her eyes between the him and Alayre. This is more than the meal itself given the current climate and Marcel inviting her along must mean they’re on the same page about this.

With the flourishing bow that would be expected of her at home, and that she gives here because she has manners and knows the value of a good impression, she gets a better look at Alayre, the first Templar that she’s seen out of the armour. “At your service,” she offers, straightening and moving to her seat, curious as to what manners dictate here. She is the woman, and the youngest, yet she and Marcel are the unknown elements like so many others and the customs of Thedas vary so widely that simply keeping track of them to pass on to the others in the notes she keeps had been a challenge at first.

“I trust this evening finds you well, knight-commander? You have my gratitude for allowing me to join you both.”

[equanimiti]

The pair win an awkward glance from the Templar.

Alayre doesn't know a thing about Marcel other than his name. From just what little Lenneth told Alayre about him, Marcel seems likeable enough. The darskinned fellow carries himself with grace fitting of nobility and the woman is a perfect lady. They both win Alayre's subtle approval but he's still wary. The Rifters are something of an enigma to him. He still doesn't know what to think about them even after all this time. Minus a handful, most of the Rifters seem no different than ordinary people. That's something which surprised Alayre since he once assumed them to be demons.

He frowned a little at that thought. These people aren't demons but rather "victims" of a more sinister plot. No one knows how the Rifts form but Alayre is certain that Corypheus is behind it. Who else in all of Thedas could wield that kind of power? His mind strayed away from that thought once they head inside the small dining hall.

The handshake was welcomed with one of his own. Alayre was again impressed with Marcel's good etiquette. "It's an honor to meet you both." Alayre states with a curt nod. "I'm Alayre Sauveterre of the New Templar Order." He introduced quickly as to not dwell on the subject of the Order for long.

"The evening suits me just fine, thank you." Alayre turned to Araceli with a faint smile. "There's no need for gratitude here, Lady Araceli." He settled for formalities with her unless she says otherwise. "I'm quite glad to speak with you both."

For a Templar, Alayre is slightly shorter than the others. Not by much but enough to be noticed when amongst his brothers. Still he certainly carries himself like a Templar with a sense of authority often associated with them. He's a little older than most but some people honestly think he looks younger than he is. Alayre often gets confused for thirty-something.

His gray gaze settled on Marcel again. "The dinner is much appreciated. I'm grateful I skipped lunch." Was that a joke? Indeed, it was.

[slaveking]

Marcel laughs at the joke because-- of course. It's a good one, and better yet that it flatters his ego as a host. He'd like to think he did the best he could with what he had, anyway.

Nobility manners kick into gear right then. Marcel ensures that Araceli is properly seated, and gestures for Alayre to take up the third point of the equilateral triangle that the chairs form around the table. It was calculated, if not very elaborately, that there was no head to the seating plan. If it worked for a made-up Camelot land, it'll work just as well for a group of awkward strangers sitting around a herb-freckle chicken. Which he's going to carve up now. Knife and fork in hand.

No need to stand on ceremony; he hasn't said grace in a long time. Besides, this is Skyhold, and the only one of them who has formal dress left it at home, no doubt with a slew of other shiny ferrous objects. "The best I could afford," he says. "At least until I think about somewhat more glamorous employment. Which is part of why I'm so interested in hearing about your work." He smiles at Alayre from across the top of the bird.

"I've met a lot of Mages, and written an ex-Templar who helps to lead the Inquisition. Curious to know what you think about us." Among other topics, but he rather suspects Araceli is better-equipped-- and frankly, has more of a right to ask such questions. Relations with the mages, in particular.

Little do any of these fine folks know, all that is about to reach a boiling point in just a few weeks. Whoops.

watching the sparring

[aceso]

At some point, Christine wanders over on hearing the sound of metal ring against metal, and the healer seizes the opportunity to bow out, making some excuse that probably isn't true. With a knowing look, Christine takes the healer's satchel from him and slings the strap over her chest before leaning against a fence post to watch the sparring session.

Everything appears fine, but when the two take a break, she calls out, "Any new injuries to report?"

your pb makes my heart sing :]

[slaveking]

"I think I've cracked a rib," Marcel says. There's a dry hint of complaint to his voice, but it's intended to make his partner Vahshoth laugh-- and he's rewarded with one, a coarse guffaw from across the courtyard. In reality, the vampire knows he cracked a rib. And he knows, just as well, that it's going to heal sooner than later, but he's less wary of hiding himself from the magic of flesh and blood that the locals wield lately.

He's pretty confident that if he responds oddly, that's chalked up easy enough to the differences of Rifter. Nobody's said the word vampire since he got here, at least, not since the other vampire actually departed. So he moves toward Christine now, loping pretty easy, except for a slight favoring of his right side. "What do you have there?" he asks, nodding at the newly-transferred satchel over her chest.

thought you might like that!

[aceso]

Such responses are common with dashing young men who think they can take on the world, and Christine has heard them often enough. Still, as a healer she takes note of how he walks towards her and she straightens.

"Poultices, bandages, potions. The standard things for a patient if they do not wish to be healed magically." By now, perhaps Marcel will know that her French-sounding accent marks her as Orlesian, and today she wears a normal long tunic over pants instead of mage robes. She likes having the choice of something other than what she had to wear in the Circle all those years.

[slaveking]

By now, Marcel can recognize an Orlesian accent from a mile away. Literally a mile away, actually, considering he has a vampire's hearing, but that's neither here nor there. His grin stays bright white against the contrast of his complexion, and he comes up by her. Slows, though, in order to sit on the cut stone step nearby-- a proper distance for doctor and patient.

"I've never taken a potion before," he offers, feeling a little like the first time he entered a Walgreen's. Twelve different brands of Vitamin D, gummy formats, or, if you prefer, pellets of fish oil. He isn't sure how humans do it. "Is it all the same? Should I be worried about side-effects? Second head, for example." That would be impressive. It'd do nothing for the sake of rehabilitating the local image of Rifters, but still-- impressive.

[aceso]

She turns to give him her attention, still slightly concerned over how he's carrying himself, but seeing that it's by no means dire.

"What good would a second head do? That would be twice the amount of glibness coming from you." Christine opens the bag and shows him a small potion bottle. "This is a health potion. It can heal minor injuries. And this is a regeneration potion. It is similar, but works slower. Yet it is longer lasting. If you are engaged in combat and have an injury, then take this, you will feel yourself slowly start to heal. If you are injured again, you will still feel yourself healing, where as with the first potion, it is good for only that first injury."

[slaveking]

Marcel leans forward slightly, arms folded on his knees. Breaths drawn a little unevenly, thanks to the discomfort in his ribs, though it isn't nearly as bad as it would be experienced by an ordinary man. He's focused mostly on the potions glinting in their bottles, within the recesses of her bag. "Will you look at that," he says, raising his eyebrows. "That sounds too valuable to waste on a funny lung today.

"But that's very impressive." He reaches over, slow enough that she can stop him if she wants. He tries to pick up a bottle, hold it up to the light to see it. "Do you know how they're made?"

tavern

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Dude, so, how's the bartending business? Booming? Sinking? Same faces every night?" That's Church settling in at the bar, because sometimes Skyhold is fucking dreary and a bar is a bar where everybody knows your name etc. "Don't suppose you have any awesome moves mixing drinks when it's mostly just wine and fucking viking ale, huh."

[slaveking]

"Just the wine and fucking Viking ale, far as I know," Marcel answers. He already knows that it's Church before he turns to look at the bearded man, his own face crinkling, amused. "If they're stashing the good stuff somewhere, it's beyond my access. Bartending business is about as predictable as the selection of beverages."

A beat.

"Ale tastes different when you heat it up with spices though," he offers, straightening. There's a glass in one hand and a drying rag in the other. "You want to give that a shot?"

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Like...mulled ale instead of mulled wine?" Because nothing takes the bite out of a snowball fight in the middle of winter like a bonfire, a pretty lady, and mulled wine, apparently. "Whatever the bartender recommends. I put my sobriety in your hands."

It probably helps that Church doesn't exactly have a lot of experience with boozes. Not that anyone needs to know that.

[slaveking]

Marcel nods his head. It's unconventional even where he comes from-- and you'll find a ton of booze in contemporary New Orleans. Still, he'd met people before for whom it suited as well as wine, if not better, depending on the individual's palate. "With any luck, you're not about to regret that," he says, grinning.

He's pretty quick getting the bottles out, the little pot they use for mulling. If there was a mage around, he could enlist them for a fire spell. As it is, he has to step around the bar to grab a burning stick from the hearth, but he's efficient about that, too. "What the Hell do they drink in the space age?" he asks. "I've been picturing fluorescent blue alien fluids." Maybe it's a vampire thing. Whoops.

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Uh, well, I mean, we definitely don't drink alien gunk. That's fucking gross. But you can totally get fluorescent blue drinks. ...Pretty sure you can get fluorescent blue drinks from when you're from, but that might be--my 21st century mixology is a little rusty," he adds with a laugh. "I dunno, I don't imagine it's wicked different, just a lot more creative? Like sure, get a beer, get a beer flavored like whatever you want, or get a mixed drink that sparkles and is warm to the touch and glows yellow and is, like, liquid sunshine basically, oooor just all kinds of wacky shit. You get to other planets, you get other plants. That makes things different."

Another shrug. Still no real...real experience. A few vague memories of taste and just some glimpses rather than tastes. "End of the day, a drink's a drink, right?"

[slaveking]

Most of the drinks in New Orleans were brown, but upon further consideration, Marcel supposes it's true. Particularly with the judicious application of black lights. "Fair enough. You know more about twenty-first mixology than you think," he says, his eyes sharpening a little. Warm to touch, glows yellow. There's a toilet joke in there somewhere, but he's a hundred and ninety years too old for any of that.

"I'll drink to that," he says. "I'm not kidding. I'm actually going to drink to that." He's prepping two glasses as they speak, and the spices besides.

"You got anything else to toast to?" he glances over his shoulder while his hands are busy. "How you staying busy without an alien war?"

Tavern

[el_tybs]

It's been some time since he's seen the Rifter, which had been when the man was still new to having been thrown from a rift. So seeing him now at the bar, keeping busy, has the mage raising his brows and smiling ever so slightly. Slipping into a chair he lightly taps his fingers on the counter, patiently waiting to get the man's attention.

"It's been a while. You seem to be doing well."

[slaveking]

It's been long enough that Marcel doesn't recognize the mage until he looks up to spot him. He's a little surprised, but not unpleasantly so. He smiles, and that much looks the same. "Thanks," he says. "Can't say I've seen the war front yet, but I followed some of the leads that you gave me. Spoke to Dorian, put feelers out here, obviously." He puts down the supply box that he was carrying, shifting it up onto the counter.

And then he offers the mage a hand. "Thanks for getting me started, Sam."

[el_tybs]

Reaching up he grips the man's hand firmly, giving it a single shake. "I only pointed you in a direction is all. You did all the work."

Pulling his hand back after he folds his arms on the counter in front of him and leans on them slightly, getting comfortable in his seat. "It almost sounds like you want to be out there with the troops."

[slaveking]

"A lot of walking, a lot of talking," Marcel answers. It's the kind of humility that nonetheless emanates pride, which he has in spades. He is good at walking and talking, and he knows it. He turns back toward the box he was handling, pulling the lid free. Inside, there's a tufting of hay, a glint of ceramic and stone. New wares for the Tavern.

"I'm definitely thinking about it. Seems like the best way to earn some trust, and get an understanding of the Rifts. You've been out there, right?" He sets aside some of the fresh mugs, but then pauses to look at Sam. "Have there been Rifts on most missions? All of 'em?"

[el_tybs]

Not trying to be nosy, but still curious, Sam lifts up a bit to look at what's inside the box. "New stuff for the tavern, huh?"

Settling himself back down into the chair he sighs, nodding his head in confirmation that he's been out with the troops. "Because of the Breach there's been Rifts all over the place that demons come out of. If you're talking about specifically the ones that people from other lands like yourself are coming through in... seems like any time we have our army in an area one opens up."

[slaveking]

"Really?" This pattern piques Marcel's interest, that much is immediately obvious. He nods his head a little distractedly in answer to the question. He is in fact handling new stuff for the tavern. The population of residents in Skyhold grows every day, and accidents occur at least every other week. Supply and demand drive the economy of every world in the multiverse, and there is never a lack of demand for alcohol.

But the Rifts opening in this pattern-- that's interesting. Marcel sets his hands on the bartop, his brows sinking thoughtfully. "So-- is it a rough sequence? When reports of demons filter in, then the Inquisition moves to deal with it, and then the Rifts my people appear through open?" He cocks his head. "How many times have you seen this happen?"