[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]