O3 ♚ 40,000 MEN AND WOMEN EVERY DAY

[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

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?"

[aceso]

"Nothing is too valuable if a patient is in pain," she replies, allowing him to take the potion from her hand.

"Elfroot is a main ingredient in both. Its medicinal properties are well know. I am afraid I am still a novice at potions making. My skill lies in magical healing." Christine has now learned non-magical healing practices, because she knows not everyone will want magic used on them, and she wants to provide a patient with the best care she can, not run off to find someone else to do the job.

"I could heal you quickly, if you would permit it."

[slaveking]

Elfroot. Marcel commits that one to memory. He knows of a Rifter who might want to try her hand at that, although he does have to wonder if potion-making would come as easily to somebody from a different universe. He sets the little bottle back in her hand, an automatic smile on his face as he considers her offer.

"I'd appreciate that," he decides, after a moment. Maybe it's a little reckless, but it can't be more foolish than falling out of a hole in the sky into a feudal realm in the midst of a war against darkspawn and demons. He swivels his knees a little toward her, setting himself up to appear attentive. He even starts to lift one hand to offer her, recalling the way that healing often worked at home, but then he pauses. "Need me to do anything in particular?"

[aceso]

Christine tucks the bottle away and gives a brief nod. This is the part that causes many in Thedas to shy away. Mages are feared by many, and the thought of them touching or even being close to a non-mage, using their magic, causes a flare up of fear.

"The easiest method is by touching you," she says simply. "Since you are not gravely injured, I can transfer my healing to you through your hand, instead of directly over the injury."

do you have any thoughts if she'd notice the healing was a bit weird on his undead self? c:

[slaveking]

Or maybe this is the exciting part. Marcel should maybe be slightly concerned about paradoxical effects-- he's dead, after all, and a creature of very black magic. Perhaps spells of healing and life might do him harm rather than good. But nobody ever got anywhere playing it safe.

And his rib is knitting a little slow. Blood hunger, you know. He reaches out with one hand, his palm turned upward, long fingers relaxed.

"Do people usually cry or anything?" he inquires, pleasantly. "Asking for a friend."

i think not until she gets her spirit partner!

[aceso]

Christine focuses on the task, relying more on him to tell her he feels better than anything else. Open wounds are easy; she can see them close up, but things like this on the inside are more difficult. Thankfully once she becomes a spirit healer, her partner will be able to help her.

"No, they do not." Her lips twitch with a smile. "What an odd question."

ok sure =) good luck with getting the spirit!

[slaveking]

"Is it?" Marcel's face has stilled a little bit. He's intent on what's happening, despite the fact that nothing externally is happening at all. He's fairly cognizant of the subtler cues in his own physiology, having spent two hundred years getting to know himself.

He feels his breath start to come easier. It's interesting. Excellent. His brow relaxes visibly.

"Do men in Thedas usually like crying in front of young lady healers?" he asks. "Might be a cultural thing."

thanks!

[aceso]

"Men cry over very little in my experience," she answers, glancing up at his face to see how he's responding. She cuts off the flow of magical energy, brow raised. "How do you feel? Does it still pain you?"

[slaveking]

A smile ghosts over Marcel's face. He wonders absently if she's thinking about a man in particular, but it doesn't occur to him to ask. Instead, he glances down at himself, as soon as she's let him go. One eyebrow cants, thoughtful, and then he raises his arms, elbows out, a little funny. He leans forward, then twists his torso gently, checking for pain.

None.

"I'll be damned," he says. "You know your stuff, miss healer."

[aceso]

No one in particular; just many cases of men trying to be strong, manly patients.

Once Marcel tests out Christine's work and lets her know he's better, Christine allows herself a pleased smile. She does so enjoy taking away the pain of others.

"Good! And I should. I have studied it for a long time." Resting a hand lightly against her chest, she adds, "Christine."

[slaveking]

"Marcel Gerard. Rifter, not Orlesian," he adds, in full knowledge now that anything French lends itself to that particular nation in Thedas. "But you already figured that out." Marcel doesn't know exactly how commnplace mages and healing potions are, but he'd guess that most Thedosians would know one when shown.

He rises to his feet. It's easier for him than sitting down had been. No stiffness at all anymore. He offers her a handclasp-- a gesture that he's aware people here use as well. "It's a pleasure to meet another Mage. I've crossed paths with a couple now."

[aceso]

"Oh? That is not a phrase I hear too often," she answers with a wry grin. "But you are a rifter and not of this world. You came in with no preconceived notions of mages, yes?" His hand is taken and given a firm shake. She doesn't like to display weakness.