Ser Marcus. I've narrowed down the prospects to just you and Ser Julius, but I'd like to compare your teaching methods. D'you think you'd be up for giving me a short lesson as a demonstration sometime?
[ And, as an afterthought: ]
Do you enjoy teaching?
[ And, as an afterthought: ]
Do you enjoy teaching?
Yes.
[ --seems to be the answer to the second question. ]
Please write a short letter that tells me about yourself. Your name, your age, and where you're from, and the like. That will give me some idea about where you've gotten to in writing. I'll provide you with a few pages of reading for you to decipher, and tomorrow when we meet, we'll talk about the content before we begin the lesson.
[ --seems to be the answer to the second question. ]
Please write a short letter that tells me about yourself. Your name, your age, and where you're from, and the like. That will give me some idea about where you've gotten to in writing. I'll provide you with a few pages of reading for you to decipher, and tomorrow when we meet, we'll talk about the content before we begin the lesson.
Edited 2020-02-14 00:48 (UTC)
Surprisingly punctual, Athessa is waiting where they agreed to meet for their lesson before Marcus arrives. She has her letter, if that's what it is, in front of her, and she's frowning at her only-somewhat-legible scrawl:
But it's a bit late to redo it, isn't it?
My name is Athessa, of Clan Sulahnan. Don’t worry if you havn’t herd of them. I woodn’t expect you to, since I’m the last living member that I know of. I’m 28 years old. When I was 13, I lost my mentor and my family and found my way to Kirkwall, where I lived on the streets for a few years. I went to Rivayn for a while, workd as a dancer and a mersenerry, and at age 25 I returned to Kirkwall and joyned theInkwRiftwatch.Inkwis
I also won’t hold it against you if you’re surprised I’m Dalish. Becos I lost my clan so young, I never got my rites, witch is why I don’t hava vallaslintattoos on my face.
Sulahnan means “the place of song.”
But it's a bit late to redo it, isn't it?
The man she meets is probably close to what she expects, in that his diction and handwriting are proper and so too is his clothing, his grooming, his bearing. What possibly does not match are the scars seamed deep down the left side of his face, not overly disfiguring but certainly speaks to some old, horrific wounding.
Under his arm are some slim volumes, a small writing slate, and handheld wooden case, and these he sets down on the table.
"Good morning," he says, then nods to the page before her. "I thought I'd meet you halfway, seeing as I couldn't find something adequate on short notice, and wrote my own. Shall we trade?"
Under his arm are some slim volumes, a small writing slate, and handheld wooden case, and these he sets down on the table.
"Good morning," he says, then nods to the page before her. "I thought I'd meet you halfway, seeing as I couldn't find something adequate on short notice, and wrote my own. Shall we trade?"
[ The message will come shortly after Marcus has (at some point) passed near the sick room window. Her tone is as stern and scolding as a person drowning in their own mucus can: ]
Ser Marcus, please remember to wear a scarf when you're outside. It's bad for your throat to go without so often.
Ser Marcus, please remember to wear a scarf when you're outside. It's bad for your throat to go without so often.
[ Poesia is an impossible figure to miss. Tall and lithe, a lady's poise over bubbly energy, gold hair braided and pinned neatly to be out of the way. She moves towards him, graceful and smiling with guileless delight. ]
Goodness, aren't you lovely. Would you be dear Marcus, who's promised to play a lovely game with me? [ Her head tips, birdlike and fae as her eyes trace the width of his shoulders with open interest that sharpens her smile. ] Or if you are not, perhaps you'd like to play another game?
Goodness, aren't you lovely. Would you be dear Marcus, who's promised to play a lovely game with me? [ Her head tips, birdlike and fae as her eyes trace the width of his shoulders with open interest that sharpens her smile. ] Or if you are not, perhaps you'd like to play another game?
[ Dear Marcus says, voice matched to his network correspondence; ]
One game at a time.
[ --with barely perceptible dry affect. He has opted against armoring up for this 'training', as it were, dressed instead in normal clothing, incongruous to the staff he wields in all but shades of grey. He holds it rather than wears it, ashy wood and the blade inset into one end.
This can be said for the Gallows: its proportions are generous. The courtyard they are in is nearly empty, and recent rainfall is wet in the cracks of the stone tiles. ]
I'll admit, I've not played this one with someone without magic.
One game at a time.
[ --with barely perceptible dry affect. He has opted against armoring up for this 'training', as it were, dressed instead in normal clothing, incongruous to the staff he wields in all but shades of grey. He holds it rather than wears it, ashy wood and the blade inset into one end.
This can be said for the Gallows: its proportions are generous. The courtyard they are in is nearly empty, and recent rainfall is wet in the cracks of the stone tiles. ]
I'll admit, I've not played this one with someone without magic.
Would you believe I've forgotten the secret handshake? Makes saying your how-do-you-dos dreadfully fucking inconvenient.
The lesson is over, which gives Athessa leave to...well, leave, if she wishes, but before that it gives her an opportunity to produce Marcus' recommended reading from nigh on a month ago at this point and place it neatly on the table.
"I finally finished reading these," she says, and fiddles with the corner of the pages with her thumb. Flit, flit. "I mean. I finally had time to sit down and read them, not that it took the whole month to read them."
Look. There's a war on, okay? Everyone is busy.
"I finally finished reading these," she says, and fiddles with the corner of the pages with her thumb. Flit, flit. "I mean. I finally had time to sit down and read them, not that it took the whole month to read them."
Look. There's a war on, okay? Everyone is busy.
Marcus certainly expects her to just leave, gathering up some of the tools of their lessons. They still have on hand the slate and the chalk, as paper and writing materials tend to be expensive, but there are some loose leaf pages -- a little tatty, and well worn -- and inks for proper practice too.
He glances to the books, familiar ones, and nods.
"And did you read them closely?" he asks. "Or quickly?"
He glances to the books, familiar ones, and nods.
"And did you read them closely?" he asks. "Or quickly?"
Pardon my forwardness, but do I have the pleasure of addressing Marcus Rowntree?
[The prayer garden, while not so busy as the chapel, sees its greatest use around times of observance: dawn, dusk, the sun's apex. Less so the daylight hours in between, and less still in the dark. Occasionally, Leander comes at sundown to sit quietly by himself, content as a witness to any others in their observance. Tonight he comes in the dark.
The night wind coming off the sea, it barely reaches this little patch of green amid the stone—enough to move the leaves, to set thick flowers bobbing on their stems. A cooling sigh against the skin. It moves his shirt across his back, again and again, both balm and bother to the dull pain still lingering there. The blister he'd pierced, the jet of boiling fluid—more lymph than magma, to his good fortune. Less stone to harden on the flesh. It's already flaked off, but the skin is fresh and pink where it stuck, and so every brush of cloth or bunching of muscle comes with a twinge. This he bears in appreciative silence.
He is silent, too, while he watches the shape of another mage move through the garden. At first seated outside the sparse torchlight, he stirs when Marcus leaves his view, stealing just a few steps through the darkness to follow him with his eyes.]
The night wind coming off the sea, it barely reaches this little patch of green amid the stone—enough to move the leaves, to set thick flowers bobbing on their stems. A cooling sigh against the skin. It moves his shirt across his back, again and again, both balm and bother to the dull pain still lingering there. The blister he'd pierced, the jet of boiling fluid—more lymph than magma, to his good fortune. Less stone to harden on the flesh. It's already flaked off, but the skin is fresh and pink where it stuck, and so every brush of cloth or bunching of muscle comes with a twinge. This he bears in appreciative silence.
He is silent, too, while he watches the shape of another mage move through the garden. At first seated outside the sparse torchlight, he stirs when Marcus leaves his view, stealing just a few steps through the darkness to follow him with his eyes.]
[ Marcus's attendance to this garden have often had some utility to it. To sit and rest after returning from Kirkwall, before the climb up to his room, or a neutral location for a quiet talk without the public attention, the social obligation, that a shared dinner may have. Right now, he finds himself there because staring at the four walls of his room, or the ceiling, was enough to creep agitation beneath his skin. (He stays in the Templar tower, but it mirrors, too much, the one that had once been allocated to mages.)
So he is here, instead, and thinks: the prayer garden is really quite nice, even at night. It's good that nothing bad happened to it.
Not so reverent that he doesn't extract a cigarette box from his coat pocket. Leander, from behind, will see Marcus pause his wandering, duck his head in the likely familiar motion of someone setting the cigarette between their teeth, and then a flare of flame, dancing over his fingertips to light the end.
He's gotten lucky and bears no injuries, save for some minor blistering around his hands from wild spellwork. His clothes had been a little less lucky, holed in places from flying embers. ]
So he is here, instead, and thinks: the prayer garden is really quite nice, even at night. It's good that nothing bad happened to it.
Not so reverent that he doesn't extract a cigarette box from his coat pocket. Leander, from behind, will see Marcus pause his wandering, duck his head in the likely familiar motion of someone setting the cigarette between their teeth, and then a flare of flame, dancing over his fingertips to light the end.
He's gotten lucky and bears no injuries, save for some minor blistering around his hands from wild spellwork. His clothes had been a little less lucky, holed in places from flying embers. ]
In the early morning, Edgard knocks on Marcus's door. No response. He waits a moment, looks around to see if anyone's there. He's going to have to get that bowl back somehow. He starts sticking something into the lock and wiggles it around for a bit. Just a bit more and then it clicks.
And so the door opens.
Inside are the uniform modest lodgings of the Templar tower rooms, without real effort to decorate, as though not a great deal of time is spent here. A made bed, a closed chest, and a simple work desk near the window that doesn't seem to have much work on it at all, but a small mirror, an ashtray, a half-melted candle in its holder. Likely more items are stowed in the drawers, in the chest.
The bowl in question doesn't present itself plainly.
Inside are the uniform modest lodgings of the Templar tower rooms, without real effort to decorate, as though not a great deal of time is spent here. A made bed, a closed chest, and a simple work desk near the window that doesn't seem to have much work on it at all, but a small mirror, an ashtray, a half-melted candle in its holder. Likely more items are stowed in the drawers, in the chest.
The bowl in question doesn't present itself plainly.
[ She appears with the wild eyed look of someone who's been awake for an inadvisable amount of time and a large basket, nearly twice her size, filled to the brim with oranges. ]
Good morning, Ser Marcus. How do you feel about citrus cordial.
Good morning, Ser Marcus. How do you feel about citrus cordial.
[ It's the morning, and although he is a disciplined sort of person, Marcus is not naturally a morning person. He has yet to go through the considered process of combing and tying his hair back, selecting his outerwear articles, or gathering his wits enough to withstand the personalities and idiosyncrasies of others.
He stands in the open door and considers Sara from his vantage. ]
Medium, [ he lands on. ]
He stands in the open door and considers Sara from his vantage. ]
Medium, [ he lands on. ]
( petrana is struck, immediately upon retrieving her crystal, by the fact that she is no more sure how to broach this conversation with marcus than she had been sure of how to wake julius.
so there is a moment where he hears only her breathing. and then, )
Marcus, we would speak with you.
so there is a moment where he hears only her breathing. and then, )
Marcus, we would speak with you.
[ He catches the glow of his crystal by the time he is out the door of his quarters, and does duck somewhere aside to listen to the message it contains. Once those sparse words have completed, and none follow—
He slips the crystal back into his pocket. Later. ]
He slips the crystal back into his pocket. Later. ]
the morning, or possibly early afternoon by now, after:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
overharrowed
2021-03-02 03:52 pm (UTC)(link)
[Once Petrana's whirlwind has departed the room, Julius sighs, not unpleasantly, and shifts a bit to resettle in her wake. He is privately grateful that he hasn't any meetings scheduled for the rest of the day. There's no need to gauge, yet, whether he could get up when he's disinclined to move.]
She does that, [with resigned fondness.] Has she told you about how she and I began?
[He's aware she was inclined to confide in Marcus well before now; it hasn't bothered him, but he's not sure which particular corners of their private life have been covered in those friendly conversations.]
She does that, [with resigned fondness.] Has she told you about how she and I began?
[He's aware she was inclined to confide in Marcus well before now; it hasn't bothered him, but he's not sure which particular corners of their private life have been covered in those friendly conversations.]
[ Marcus is not as inclined towards actual sleep as all that body language suggests, even if he did spend about twenty minutes trying his best not to completely crush Petrana beneath the combined weight of them. (Next time, she's on top. Speaking of next time—)
He hooks a claw around the bed head to drag himself up slightly more, still slouched, still half sunken into the bed itself. Resisting returning to something more civil. ]
No, [ he says. ]
He hooks a claw around the bed head to drag himself up slightly more, still slouched, still half sunken into the bed itself. Resisting returning to something more civil. ]
No, [ he says. ]
[ He waits a few days after they've returned to the Gallows, out of respect for all of the bruising. And the blondes.
Then his voice cuts through the crystal, casual and distant in the way everyone sounds when their crystals are on their desks or laps or otherwise not being held up to their mouths. ]
How are you feeling, Monsieur Enchanter?
Then his voice cuts through the crystal, casual and distant in the way everyone sounds when their crystals are on their desks or laps or otherwise not being held up to their mouths. ]
How are you feeling, Monsieur Enchanter?
[ There is no way for Bastien to clock the abrupt hand-over-hand eagerness of collecting up his crystal when it gleams at him, but let the record show that there isn't much of a delay in response.
He's never liked this method of communication, but perhaps there's word. News. He will let slide 'Monsieur Enchanter' for that. ]
Well.
He's never liked this method of communication, but perhaps there's word. News. He will let slide 'Monsieur Enchanter' for that. ]
Well.
There has been little occasion for Ellis to visit the office of the Captain of the Watch before now, but it is easily found. Convenient for Ellis' purpose, though it isn't exactly difficult to locate members of Riftwatch. Ruadh, for instance, is more than capable of sniffing out any given individual should they be within the Gallows. Ellis has his crystal.
He would still prefer to have this conversation in person.
"Captain," is a momentary acknowledgement of rank, respect where it's due as Ellis occupies the doorway. Ruadh weaves around him, entering unbidden. "Could I interrupt your work?"
He would still prefer to have this conversation in person.
"Captain," is a momentary acknowledgement of rank, respect where it's due as Ellis occupies the doorway. Ruadh weaves around him, entering unbidden. "Could I interrupt your work?"
In truth, Marcus has had little occasion to visit his office either, but it is slowly becoming more frequent once again as paperwork and the text inscribed upon it becomes, in increments, somewhat decipherable to him. He can labour his way though guard schedules (much to Petrana's relief, he's sure) and most of the notes made of late night reports, and so Ellis finds him doing just that.
Cigarette between his teeth, which helps, and is removed when the Warden appears at his doorway. He glances to the mabari, doesn't object.
"Aye," sounds neutral, without betraying particular relief to be interrupted. (He is already pushing aside his pages.) "What is it?"
Cigarette between his teeth, which helps, and is removed when the Warden appears at his doorway. He glances to the mabari, doesn't object.
"Aye," sounds neutral, without betraying particular relief to be interrupted. (He is already pushing aside his pages.) "What is it?"
Enchanter? May I ask you a question?
[It's possible that there is a more official written record of the temporary reassignment waiting in Marcus' pigeonhole. But before he gets that far—
A chance crossing of paths along the sheltered margins of the Gallows' courtyard while the rain floods the paving past the stone eaves. Flint don't call out. But he does meet Marcus' eye as the man travels in the opposite direction, and then draws to an expectant halt.]
A chance crossing of paths along the sheltered margins of the Gallows' courtyard while the rain floods the paving past the stone eaves. Flint don't call out. But he does meet Marcus' eye as the man travels in the opposite direction, and then draws to an expectant halt.]
[ Marcus has set a brisk-ish pace, because if you don't, it might take forever to get anywhere, the Gallows' dimensions being what they are. On clocking Flint's approach, he prepares a polite nod, but doesn't get that far before noting the slowing. And stop.
He draws to one too. ]
Commander.
He draws to one too. ]
Commander.
Since this situation shows no signs of abating, I'd like to make available to you a guest room (specifically, Julius's old room) in the de Coucy residence if you'd like a reprieve. Please don't completely abandon de Fonce's house of horrors, I don't want her feelings hurt by an exodus, but if you need a break from either the house or the company, my grandfather's staff have been instructed to expect fluctuating additional bodies. Let me know if you have any queries about it.
G.
( having written it down specifically to avoid wysteria overhearing "oh thank god i desperately want out of here", does he have to get someone to read this to him or )
G.
( having written it down specifically to avoid wysteria overhearing "oh thank god i desperately want out of here", does he have to get someone to read this to him or )
( amidst a hundred other things,
the matter of petrana's brief abduction has been little addressed, beyond the necessities. of which there have been fewer than there might have been, all told, by dint of the hundred other things: she and john had been well out of it before anyone had known there was anything for them to be out of, had returned bearing enemy intelligence of greater priority, and into a new chaos.
but hers is not the only difficult experience recently glossed over, and when she has marcus to herself of an evening — julius, working — she remarks, as they wend their way through conversation and smoke, )
I might have thought to apologise for keeping it from you in the immediate, if I were not inclined to think us even afterwards.
( captain got poisoned. )
the matter of petrana's brief abduction has been little addressed, beyond the necessities. of which there have been fewer than there might have been, all told, by dint of the hundred other things: she and john had been well out of it before anyone had known there was anything for them to be out of, had returned bearing enemy intelligence of greater priority, and into a new chaos.
but hers is not the only difficult experience recently glossed over, and when she has marcus to herself of an evening — julius, working — she remarks, as they wend their way through conversation and smoke, )
I might have thought to apologise for keeping it from you in the immediate, if I were not inclined to think us even afterwards.
( captain got poisoned. )
[ It's been a fucking week, that much is certain.
So much so that once he'd been finally informed of Petrana's status, and John's along with it, there'd been scarcely room to feel offense at having been left out of the worrying. It had also been so apparent, its purpose, that he hadn't even demanded of Julius why, nor Petrana, occupied more with holding her closely for as long as she'd allow. It was clear, anyway, why. And, evidently, something of a shared instinct.
Recovered well enough now, with some new scars laid into his shoulder to mark the occasion. The sharper funneling of smoke through his nose indicates something like a laugh. ]
You'll have to find some other way to wrong me, then. I'd like to listen to an apology someday.
So much so that once he'd been finally informed of Petrana's status, and John's along with it, there'd been scarcely room to feel offense at having been left out of the worrying. It had also been so apparent, its purpose, that he hadn't even demanded of Julius why, nor Petrana, occupied more with holding her closely for as long as she'd allow. It was clear, anyway, why. And, evidently, something of a shared instinct.
Recovered well enough now, with some new scars laid into his shoulder to mark the occasion. The sharper funneling of smoke through his nose indicates something like a laugh. ]
You'll have to find some other way to wrong me, then. I'd like to listen to an apology someday.
"The rendezvous point is roughly here," Flint says, placing a marker on the unfolded map in what most likely are the stony foothills a few days east of Perviantium. There's a more rudimentary copy of the same chart lying alongside this which Marcus is likely to be given to carry with him; it's purposefully devoid of all but the most vital of landmarks and roadways, and will near no mark highlighting the spot they're presently discussing. For obvious reasons, it would be unwise to send him into a dangerous assault with directions pointing straight to their collaborators.
"The correspondence suggests that the Blades' agent operates out of a trading post, and to use some caution should you arrive there and find other travelers patronizing it."
It's been a brisk, to the point meeting thus far—here is the request we've received, here is the intelligence they've provided, here is what I expect you to accomplish. But now, stood about the work table which dominates the division office, Flint lays his hands flat on the table top rather than reach for another slip of paper or wooden chit. He looks expectantly at Marcus.
"Questions?"
"The correspondence suggests that the Blades' agent operates out of a trading post, and to use some caution should you arrive there and find other travelers patronizing it."
It's been a brisk, to the point meeting thus far—here is the request we've received, here is the intelligence they've provided, here is what I expect you to accomplish. But now, stood about the work table which dominates the division office, Flint lays his hands flat on the table top rather than reach for another slip of paper or wooden chit. He looks expectantly at Marcus.
"Questions?"
Marcus' focus is set on the table, still, but it's plain enough that whatever thoughts might be occurring reach beyond what's represented via a map. He has absorbed all of these directives and the information appending them in silence (with exception to the occasionally acknowledging grunt) and no trace of confusion or objection, but now there's a brief silence where, perhaps, Flint might ideally most like a 'no, Commander' to go.
"The mining company," he says, "and the men they've hired to guard the payroll and the men to whom it belongs. They aren't Venatori."
He looks back up, then, in part for confirmation. He'd folded his arms comfortably at some point during this briefing and remains so. "Nor does it sound like the mines are being worked by slaves, given the acquisition. Is the point of this the money or something else?"
"The mining company," he says, "and the men they've hired to guard the payroll and the men to whom it belongs. They aren't Venatori."
He looks back up, then, in part for confirmation. He'd folded his arms comfortably at some point during this briefing and remains so. "Nor does it sound like the mines are being worked by slaves, given the acquisition. Is the point of this the money or something else?"
The thing is, they're always busy.
That said, it's felt especially so the last few weeks. Not only the attacks in late Justinian, though those certainly upset everyone's work flow, as did the increased Kirkwall traffic that followed. But it's also the daily cruft of letters that need answering, and meetings that need organizing, and training to be kept up with. One day Julius looks up and realizes they've rescheduled dinner so many times that he can't remember when the original one was supposed to be.
Of course, the three of them see one another to sleep (usually). They chat in an idle, affectionate way as their paths cross in the normal course of their routines. But with a stab of guilt, Julius realizes that he's let himself fall fully out of balance.
Granted, there's a war on. On the other hand, how long has it been since there wasn't?
So ahead of the next dinner, he makes a point of clearing his schedule and reminding his partners (in honesty, mainly Petrana) to clear theirs. They'd decided to avoid the crowds in Kirkwall and stay in, and he takes on the responsibility of setting up. He's even taken the extra trouble a day or two in advance to secure wine a cut above their everyday quality, along with a small strawberry cake.
It isn't exactly an apology, but it isn't entirely not.
That said, it's felt especially so the last few weeks. Not only the attacks in late Justinian, though those certainly upset everyone's work flow, as did the increased Kirkwall traffic that followed. But it's also the daily cruft of letters that need answering, and meetings that need organizing, and training to be kept up with. One day Julius looks up and realizes they've rescheduled dinner so many times that he can't remember when the original one was supposed to be.
Of course, the three of them see one another to sleep (usually). They chat in an idle, affectionate way as their paths cross in the normal course of their routines. But with a stab of guilt, Julius realizes that he's let himself fall fully out of balance.
Granted, there's a war on. On the other hand, how long has it been since there wasn't?
So ahead of the next dinner, he makes a point of clearing his schedule and reminding his partners (in honesty, mainly Petrana) to clear theirs. They'd decided to avoid the crowds in Kirkwall and stay in, and he takes on the responsibility of setting up. He's even taken the extra trouble a day or two in advance to secure wine a cut above their everyday quality, along with a small strawberry cake.
It isn't exactly an apology, but it isn't entirely not.
Costs have been unpredictable in Kirkwall of late, stretching even to their familiar social haunts, and Petrana is more than willing not to find out upon sitting down that their dinner might cost three times more than it had the week previous. (Alright: the proverbial week previous. They've been busy.) Perhaps it's the out of the ordinary strategizing that helps her fix it in her mind to clear her evening, to not linger too long in her office—
Julius is well set up when she arrives, but she isn't late in letting herself into their shared quarters, slipping out of her shoes and sitting down on the edge of their bed for a moment to discard the day.
“Oh, hello,” is delivered warmly to Vysvolod, shoving his great head onto her knee, and then: “Darling, this looks charming.”
Julius is well set up when she arrives, but she isn't late in letting herself into their shared quarters, slipping out of her shoes and sitting down on the edge of their bed for a moment to discard the day.
“Oh, hello,” is delivered warmly to Vysvolod, shoving his great head onto her knee, and then: “Darling, this looks charming.”
Edited 2023-07-10 04:18 (UTC)
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