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.”
It must have been only a handful of minutes that Marcus had arrived before Petrana, his boots stowed by the door and the familiar sounds of changing behind the screen towards the back of the room. There, clothes that are a little sodden from the mid-summer shower that decided to come down between his route from the stables and back to the Gallows are being discarded, permeated as they are in sweat, hay, and always that tinge of smoke.
Emerges with a fresh shirt, clean hands (rings slid back into place, after), damp hair combed back out and allowed to remain loose, lacking any further plans for the evening that might require he be more outwardly presentable.
Next in line after Vysvolod, he'll go and greet Petrana with a kiss to the cheek.
Julius smiles, quick and almost a little sheepish, but he does say, "Well, I thought maybe making it a little bit of a special occasion wouldn't go amiss. Considering."
Taking his turn, he reaches for Petrana, having already greeted Marcus (if briefly) when he first came in. "I'd make some comment about everyone doing without us tonight, but I don't want to invite that sort of irony." It's said lightly enough it's clear he's not actually worried. Or, at least, if he is it's somewhere back and away where it won't sour their dinner.
“We'll know who to blame,” Petrana says, releasing her affectionate grip on the end of Marcus's hair (a perfectly appropriate greeting in the privacy of their own room) to allow Julius to draw her in turn, kissing the corner of his mouth.
(It's Corypheus. They can, perpetually, blame Corypheus.)
“Thank you,” she adds, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach, “for arranging this.”
Both for ensuring that she turned up and in a timely fashion, and for allowing Marcus to be on the receiving end of a romantic gesture rather than, as a matter course, making most of them. To Marcus, “Wine, first, I think?”
For most, it might be a tricky thing to separate Marcus when normal and Marcus when quietly pleased, but living in close quarters does a lot to key into the subtle differences. The second glance aside to the table after greeting Julius and on his way to getting changed, for one, and the brush of a touch to the arm as they switch out turns with Petrana for another, as it seems to echo her sentiment.
To her, he says, "Mm," agreeably, moving for the table. The wine bottle is taken with a click of rings against glass, inspected both for the colour of it as well as the slightly esoteric wax stamp and ribbon meant to signify its making. He will get more out of the former, as far as information is concerned. "And for last?"
There, a slight smile. Kidding. "This was timely," he says, on the topic of arranging things, thumb set against cork to work it loose. "I expect I'll be riding north by the end of the week, or sooner."
"So soon? I'd heard things were building." He pulls out a chair for Petrana, affectionate habit. (He resists the fleeting urge to ask if the wine passes muster.) "Regardless, you're both very welcome, though it's as much for me as anything. I've missed this."
He still feels, sometimes, as if he careens between ongoing surprise that he's been lucky enough to find them both and feeling that the ground under them is so solid that his mind can leave it off the tour of matters that need his immediate attention. He realizes neither of those is especially conducive to romance, however: the first tends to freeze him in fear of losing this, and the second distracts him. He does want to do better. For them both to know he thinks they're worth the effort.
And for last nets Marcus the click of Petrana's tongue behind her teeth, fondly amused, and she lowers herself into the seat offered,
“How long do you anticipate being gone? Only so we might as suitably welcome you back,” she proposes. “There seems no great need that we should miss this, at least no more than is ordinary.”
And they have managed, through all that is ordinary, to still be here.
"The journey will take longer than the task," Marcus says. "No eluvians in the area, and we'll be moving around rather than through contested territory on our return. Two or three weeks, if the griffons can be spared to collect us."
Cork freed, he sets about filling glasses. It feels as usual to make the rounds of three more so than two, by now, familiar as well with dispensing more modest cups only so that the last emptying of the bottle will be more even with the first.
The bottle is set down, his own chair scraped out from under the table to sit. "It isn't war business," he adds. "It's a favour for a slave rebel group. We've little to worry about beyond some hired swords."
And potentially mages, but transparency isn't why he's saying so.
"Little to worry about beyond the baseline level of worry appropriate at all times in the middle of a war," he suggests, light enough to be at least partially a joke. He reaches for his wine as Marcus settles.
"Still. Three weeks is certainly long enough you'll be missed." He glances at Petrana with a small smile. "We'll have to think of something suitably festive."
“As if courting favour with rebels is not war business,” is a criticism of his framing without especial heat, only a sort of amused familiarity. All that had been done before they'd an army to march upon Lamorre with that had been no affair of Lamorre, until all of a sudden it was too big to ignore and long past the time anything might have been done.
Marcus has his wine glass up to his mouth, but gestures with it as Petrana says that as if to say, fair.
"The task in itself, I mean. We're knocking over wagons filled with money, attached to a project that has nothing to do with the Venatori. I understand," he adds, before Petrana or Julius might feel compelled to explain to him its importance in the scheme of things. "It's only a more indirect thing than the Forces division is used to."
Not just posing as highwaymen, but playing the role about as thoroughly as you can get without declaring it your career. "Two to three," he adds, to Julius, a non-serious correction.
"Two to three," agreeing to the correction with a smile. "Noted. And it makes me feel a bit better about sending people out to harass Cedric Marquette's associates, to be honest. Not every initiative is a straight line out from Corypheus."
It's partially a joke, but not entirely. Sometimes he feels like they've been pushing the same heavy stone up a hill for years, though he suspects anyone who has been in Riftwatch long enough occasionally shares the sensation.
"Do you want follow-up questions or is this one of those times we should stop thinking about work for a bit?" he adds, and this time it is a joke (if at his own expense).
“We might spare Marcus my half-remembered mercenary critiques of his proposed techniques,” is certainly more a joke about having spent too much time in the company of men who knocked over wagons full of money than it is a real suggestion that she's going to have notes on his strategy. “I will only bear in mind this skill-set, for our own future endeavours.”
"It won't be my first time either," Marcus says, a mild form of no thank you. "Although a mining company's payroll is a richer target than we had much opportunity for."
The 'we' is not so esoteric a reference, light sketches made in the past of a less-than-lawful existence in the wake of the rebellion: Tsenka, some others, some Julius and Petrana have met, whether in Cumberland or otherwise. Certainly, he didn't come into possession of Kevin through and exchange of gold and papers.
"I think asking about work is a different thing than doing work," to Julius. "Barely."
"Alright." Noted to be used like a lawyer when necessary, presumably. "If it makes a difference, it's not as if I have any tactical information or input to offer, I'm just interested in it because you'll be doing it." So that makes it less like work, surely.
He glances to Petrana and adds, "Well, I can speak for myself, at least. I don't know which particular future endeavors are in play." A gentle tease.
“I only think we may need to keep our options open in the future,” she says, mild as you like, “but having said so I would be more than happy to speak instead of a happy future than our overburdened present.”
Future endeavors, indeed.
“If the war were over tomorrow,” she proposes, “and the Divine saw sense, and we did not pivot at once to another front of war. Where would we start?”
From her tone, this is at least intended in light-hearted spirit.
There is more on the table than cake and wine, being a dinner date. Marcus is arranging his plate, the usual Gallows fare of stewed things (when it isn't pizza night, anyway) and looks to Julius at Petrana's posited question.
The You first is silent, as he takes up his glass.
He takes it in the spirit it's presumably meant, and nods as Marcus before he says: "In this world where we've won a war and avoided restarting a second, we're going to need to start building up some currently tenuous alliances, here and further afield. Presumably prioritizing a list, seeing who is near one another if we're to be launching a charm offensive in person." A mild smile. "Maybe tote up who owes us favors, just for reference."
It can hardly be surprising that the first point of order for Julius is relationships and resources in the form of people, given how his mind works. But he glances back, as if passing a ball.
“Rank those alliances,” she proposes, over her own plate, “most-to-least tenuous,” which is a joke but only inasmuch as the joke is that they'd probably do it, and if she weren't making a point of being light-hearted then it would be dangerously adjacent to losing their evening off with work. “We would have to consider where we wish to settle, of course, once we leave Kirkwall.”
Petrana takes as read that leaving Kirkwall would naturally follow.
“Presumably, in this pleasant thought-experiment, we have already addressed such matters as anchor-shards, and Riftwatch disbanded.”
"We might have garnered some good favour in the Free Marches, by then," Marcus says, as if the idea of a future without war were an easy thing to conceive of, as if it were no challenge at all to fit himself within that space. He turns the wine glass against the table. "Or go further. Rivain."
If their constitutions could handle that much warmth and humidity in exchange for relative social freedom. They'd at least adapted to that corner of the world in a dream.
"I'll build a house," angled to Petrana, a whimsical offer made serious in tone.
"I like the parts of Rivain that I've seen," is a bit of an offering to the game of imagining where they could go. "I even picked up a little conversational Rivani when I was in Antiva, if we needed it. Though I will be much less help at constructing much of anything."
Hardly a surprise. With a small shrug, he adds, "One can write ravens from anywhere, though."
Petrana's smile warms at I'll build a house, charmed by the image of it; the practicality of Marcus, doing hard labour, which is already delightful. The ease with which that slides into imagining him becoming increasingly particular, becoming an expert on what sort of stone should be used for a fireplace. He would be terribly ambitious about it, she decides. The finest house he could conceive of.
Which, she considers, might be a simpler thing in a warmer climate.
“You and I will watch,” she proposes to Julius. “We fill a supervisory role. Perhaps we'll make requests.”
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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.”
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Emerges with a fresh shirt, clean hands (rings slid back into place, after), damp hair combed back out and allowed to remain loose, lacking any further plans for the evening that might require he be more outwardly presentable.
Next in line after Vysvolod, he'll go and greet Petrana with a kiss to the cheek.
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Taking his turn, he reaches for Petrana, having already greeted Marcus (if briefly) when he first came in. "I'd make some comment about everyone doing without us tonight, but I don't want to invite that sort of irony." It's said lightly enough it's clear he's not actually worried. Or, at least, if he is it's somewhere back and away where it won't sour their dinner.
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(It's Corypheus. They can, perpetually, blame Corypheus.)
“Thank you,” she adds, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach, “for arranging this.”
Both for ensuring that she turned up and in a timely fashion, and for allowing Marcus to be on the receiving end of a romantic gesture rather than, as a matter course, making most of them. To Marcus, “Wine, first, I think?”
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To her, he says, "Mm," agreeably, moving for the table. The wine bottle is taken with a click of rings against glass, inspected both for the colour of it as well as the slightly esoteric wax stamp and ribbon meant to signify its making. He will get more out of the former, as far as information is concerned. "And for last?"
There, a slight smile. Kidding. "This was timely," he says, on the topic of arranging things, thumb set against cork to work it loose. "I expect I'll be riding north by the end of the week, or sooner."
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He still feels, sometimes, as if he careens between ongoing surprise that he's been lucky enough to find them both and feeling that the ground under them is so solid that his mind can leave it off the tour of matters that need his immediate attention. He realizes neither of those is especially conducive to romance, however: the first tends to freeze him in fear of losing this, and the second distracts him. He does want to do better. For them both to know he thinks they're worth the effort.
And, yes, he has missed this.
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“How long do you anticipate being gone? Only so we might as suitably welcome you back,” she proposes. “There seems no great need that we should miss this, at least no more than is ordinary.”
And they have managed, through all that is ordinary, to still be here.
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Cork freed, he sets about filling glasses. It feels as usual to make the rounds of three more so than two, by now, familiar as well with dispensing more modest cups only so that the last emptying of the bottle will be more even with the first.
The bottle is set down, his own chair scraped out from under the table to sit. "It isn't war business," he adds. "It's a favour for a slave rebel group. We've little to worry about beyond some hired swords."
And potentially mages, but transparency isn't why he's saying so.
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"Still. Three weeks is certainly long enough you'll be missed." He glances at Petrana with a small smile. "We'll have to think of something suitably festive."
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"The task in itself, I mean. We're knocking over wagons filled with money, attached to a project that has nothing to do with the Venatori. I understand," he adds, before Petrana or Julius might feel compelled to explain to him its importance in the scheme of things. "It's only a more indirect thing than the Forces division is used to."
Not just posing as highwaymen, but playing the role about as thoroughly as you can get without declaring it your career. "Two to three," he adds, to Julius, a non-serious correction.
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It's partially a joke, but not entirely. Sometimes he feels like they've been pushing the same heavy stone up a hill for years, though he suspects anyone who has been in Riftwatch long enough occasionally shares the sensation.
"Do you want follow-up questions or is this one of those times we should stop thinking about work for a bit?" he adds, and this time it is a joke (if at his own expense).
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The 'we' is not so esoteric a reference, light sketches made in the past of a less-than-lawful existence in the wake of the rebellion: Tsenka, some others, some Julius and Petrana have met, whether in Cumberland or otherwise. Certainly, he didn't come into possession of Kevin through and exchange of gold and papers.
"I think asking about work is a different thing than doing work," to Julius. "Barely."
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He glances to Petrana and adds, "Well, I can speak for myself, at least. I don't know which particular future endeavors are in play." A gentle tease.
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Future endeavors, indeed.
“If the war were over tomorrow,” she proposes, “and the Divine saw sense, and we did not pivot at once to another front of war. Where would we start?”
From her tone, this is at least intended in light-hearted spirit.
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The You first is silent, as he takes up his glass.
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It can hardly be surprising that the first point of order for Julius is relationships and resources in the form of people, given how his mind works. But he glances back, as if passing a ball.
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Petrana takes as read that leaving Kirkwall would naturally follow.
“Presumably, in this pleasant thought-experiment, we have already addressed such matters as anchor-shards, and Riftwatch disbanded.”
no subject
If their constitutions could handle that much warmth and humidity in exchange for relative social freedom. They'd at least adapted to that corner of the world in a dream.
"I'll build a house," angled to Petrana, a whimsical offer made serious in tone.
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Hardly a surprise. With a small shrug, he adds, "One can write ravens from anywhere, though."
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Which, she considers, might be a simpler thing in a warmer climate.
“You and I will watch,” she proposes to Julius. “We fill a supervisory role. Perhaps we'll make requests.”