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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

[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.

[foxsays]

A soft murmur of thanks is offered, the memories of her last quiet dinner in Skyhold being pushed far from her mind. A different guest, a different intention and if one of them is doing the work then the other should watch and listen.

As Marcel speaks she nods, sitting up a little straighter in her seat as she turns to fully face Alayre, giving the impression of her utterly undivided attention.

"I have to confess that what I have heard of Templars thus far is secondhand knowledge at best, to my knowledge I have only spoken with Knight-Commander Baratheon when he was still in residence." A charitable way to look at it; they had both been angry for very different reasons, and she had very much taken exception to being called a demon so quickly after nearly dying when the rift had spat them out along with her. "I know that the mages have their own perspective on the shards and what they can do - and that each mage with their different talents will have differing opinions again - but a coin has two faces, the Templars being the other half. It was the mages who volunteered to examine our marks after all when we first arrived in Skyhold, yet this was prior to the formation of the mage council, as I understand. But, if I am correct in understanding the purpose of the Order, then I did wonder as to why it all remained so quiet after that first statement."

Mages she trusts more too, there's a certain sort of kinship that's more readily apparenty in certain circles (a pun she would never utter) with the mistrust for a thing so outwith their control. A rifter might not have magic in the same way but the marks do something that goes beyond, that can close the sky and send the demons away. Her understanding of how all these things connects to the Fade? It makes her wary but she's careful not to let it show, to allow her face to be a girl's face, soft and open, a small smile and an arched brow.

[equanimiti]

What does he think about them? That sounds more like "What does the Order think of us Rifters?" more than anything else. Here as a representative of the entire Order itself, Alayre found himself mulling over Marcel's question more than twice. He glances between the pair for a moment as he pondered his reply further. Neither Marcel or his lovely guest look like the demons that Alayre once pegged them for. An awkward smirk settled on his lips one Araceli mentioned Baratheon. Knight-Commander Baratheon wasn't the most well liked man here at Skyhold but for all his brooding intensity, Alayre knew the commander wasn't some sort of tyrant.

"Our silence on the matter was due to our poor knowledge of the situation." Alayre mentioned with a touch of honesty in his tone. "We didn't know whether to lock any of you within a cell or treat you as honored guests. To be frank, we declined to take action in favor of lurking instead." He explained quietly before reaching for the ale. The Templar poured himself a glass before continuing.

"To be honest, our inactivity on the matter was indeed most peculiar but so was the nature of the situation." That and the fact Alayre himself had no idea how to approach that situation when it occurred. While he isn't the head of the entire Order, the Knight-Commander was one of many with the authority to have done something. While his authority is limited, he still holds it.

"The Seeker didn't view the Rifters as enemies, therefore, I didn't either." He's mentioning Cassandra. "However, due to certain circumstances, that may change." This was inference to the rift opened here at Skyhold.

trying not to take too many infomodding liberties, please boop me if this is not OK

[slaveking]

Lurking. Vampires are good at that too, which is actually in full demonstration right now, at this dinner table, while Marcel chops up food that doesn't particularly interest him in order to hide his blood habit. But that's fine.

He's serving out chicken as the other two talk, but it's extremely obvious that he's attending to the conversation as he does. He does well know that Araceli has rather close connections to the Mages, and that a lot of the Rifters who arrived before him had rather unpleasant run-ins with the Templars. However, it doesn't surprise him at all that she's comporting herself very courteously. Nor that Alayre is on his best behavior too.

Man if the Mikaelsons had had this much chill, a lot fewer people would be dead back in his world.

"It's a problem in my world too," he notes, "when the actions of a few are taken to represent the trends of many. On that count, I'm glad you all have been patient. Truth is, most of the other Rifters I've personally known have been pretty cautious about dealing with the Rifts. The ones with the most zeal have been pretty intense about dedicating their efforts to the Inquisition. General opinion seems to be, demons want to kill all of us." He sits down again once the food has been served, folding his hands at the near edge of his plate. "But I don't know how much the Rift over Skyhold is going to change. I didn't get to see too much of it first-hand."

Rubble. Yelling. More rubble. An unwonted increase of tension, which was impressively distinct, considering they're already living out of a war zone.

[foxsays]

No matter how self-contained a person might strive to be, they will always be taken as part of a larger thing; in this case an order, in Marcel and Araceli’s case, as rifters, despite the impossible number of differences between their own worlds, between the worlds other rifters come from. Small wonder she still tries to find the time to write down whatever might be helpful to the others.

There were new arrivals after all, she doesn’t know if they’ve remained in Emprise du Lion or if they’ve made it to Skyhold but already she’s concerned. Concerned sounds better than worried. Less invested in some way even though that’s far from the truth.

“You were not afraid that it could be taken for inaction?” Her smile softens it; it’s not a challenge, she doesn’t know him well enough and she would prefer an honest answer, if she is to get one, and he says ‘we’ not ‘I’. “I know in some circumstances there are times when silence can be taken as a sign of assent, and I am not entirely sure which of your political systems the Inquisition is most influenced by. Your Grand Cathedral is in Orlais, as was your Divine - my sympathies and condolences of course - but we are between Orlais and Ferelden in these mountains, two countries that could not be more different. I understand though that politics and religion are kept more separate than they would be where I hail from but the Game all sounds so very insidious.”

It all sounds so much like home but less bloody, where they don’t act like children calling it a game and instead treat it as what it is: politics, cutthroat and fast and deadly, where those with the quickest minds in a crisis or with the patience to wait for plans to come together prosper. Where a secret sells for ludicrous sums. She takes a sip of wine to steady herself though because Marcel’s words has her stomach falling. What has he heard this is worse; the job he has here is a good one, a place to hear all, to be the sympathetic ear, to be able to catch a person when the tongue is loosened and the inhibitions left behind.

“I only learned about it after it had happened,” she beings, setting the glass down. “Sina and I are friends, but I was in Emprise du Lion helping to free those taken as slaves for the quarries by the Red Templars. I had heard that she was close to death. I suppose some of us are lucky; we have our shards in safer places than our chests. She is the last one I would ever suspect of wishing to inflict harm, I cannot recall ever meeting a more gentle person in my life.”

That’d be more impressive if she was older than twenty but neither party actually know her age here.