It's not very often that Marcus is deployed on any kind of diplomatic event. Rarely, he might shadow these things as a security measure, normally lingering outside, or on a nearby perch with Monster at the ready to dive in on anything going wrong, or rarer still, a part of the mingling for more immediate, at-hand response should it be required.
This is something different, a banquet and dance hosted by the kind of eccentric who thinks that the presence of Riftwatch in and of itself makes for entertaining conversation. Not limited to eccentric rifters, either, but resident war criminals, or however it is they view him. Here, he has been wrangled into a circle of conversation. Probing questions, sly asides, glances between strangers he couldn't interpret, and the knowledge that if he drank a third glass of this wine, he would begin to make errors.
He finishes this second glass anyway.
Considers his exits. There, a doorway out onto a cool evening balcony. There, a shadowy archway with even more unnecessary amounts of empty manor, likely dark and unpopulated. But first he seeks out people, for although his own impending extrication is liable to be entirely graceless and probably rude, at least it will appear as though he is moving with purpose, and not just away.
Dressed nicely, anyway. He has yet to be talked into a proper Circle robe, and so aimed for something passable, the unfussy but still elegant lines of Free Marcher ideas of gentlemanliness. Grey on grey, softer cream silk, silver embellishments.
For a time, Derrica was of so little consequence that she escaped notice. When it came to these sorts of events, she could avoid them if she chose.
But having elevated herself, she is inescapably included when banquets and dances held by eccentrics in search of exciting party guests. She is not so miserable, perhaps, as some of her fellows, but there is a certain way southerners approach her that can be—
It is insulting, there is no other word for it, though Derrica knows they don't mean anything by their pointed queries and long-winded airing of opinion on Rivain and it's culture, their thoughts on what might be done differently, and did she agree with their understanding? In some respects, she is the perfect person for this work; she is patient, and capable of gracefully excusing herself when she senses her tolerance waning.
Her bracelets jangle down her forearm as she reaches to catch hold of Marcus' elbow. She had seen him across the room, easily marked in his grays and whites. There is a tension in his posture that feels very familiar, though maybe she is the one more in need of respite than he is.
"Enchanter," is due respect, though rarely used. (In this moment, she is demonstrating to their audience how they might address him, the consideration he is owed.) "I needed a word with you. Please, excuse me."
To the nobility and otherwise that had circled her, now watching her fall into step alongside Marcus and depart.
"How are you?" is an aside, meant for him rather than pitched that others might hear and invite themselves into the conversation. She feels frayed, having navigated so much attention for such a stretch of time.
Of those he might have spied in the crowd, and gravitated towards—
Well, Marcus would name Derrica first among them, he thinks, now that her hand has found his arm and there is nothing he need do to remove himself from this situation but step with her. The murmur of conversation in their wake is a little hushed, and in this particular crowd, hitting the exact correct resonance of avoiding being heard but making it clear that chatter has been evoked nonetheless.
Marcus doesn't care, empty wineglass at a negligent dangle from his fingertips as he bends his arm so that Derrica can keep a hold of it.
"Sober," he reports. His tone sketches wry, like maybe he'd fished for the most positive of status reports, or a problem he's contending with. The confusion of enjoying the music that emanates from the corner and the quality of the wine and even the selection of his own clothing and the clash of colour of everyone else's, everything fine and luxurious and bright, and then simply having no idea what to do once amongst it all.
He doesn't wear a robe for the way it marks him as being from the Circle, but these things have a way of doing the very same.
"I hope my rescue isn't stealing you from anything important."
It had occurred to Derrica somewhere within the first few minutes of her time in this room that the style of dress she'd chosen was very much at odds with the other women in the room. The rich purple is not necessarily the problem; it is the cut of the dress, the tattoos it reveals, the gleam of gold at her throat and wrists. It is all very Rivaini, and while Derrica doesn't know how else to present herself, she is aware of how it can make her into an oddity.
Which is the point, she knows. It is why they are here. But it invites a certain measure of—
Inspection. Or observation. A regard not dissimilar to a tiger in a cage, wheeled through a ballroom.
"Only Count Randolph's story about the last time he traveled to Rivain," Derrica tells him. "I think you can imagine the gist of it."
The squeeze of fingers at his elbow punctuates the statement. Does she have to outline exactly such a story would be tedious at best, affronting at worst?
The empty glass is transferred onto a passing tray, resisting the urge to reach for a refill.
Instead, when Derrica squeezes his arm, Marcus transfers his now free hand over the top of hers, communicating with the swoop of thumb over her knuckles that he can, indeed, imagine. There is a worldliness to these sorts of people that is only rivaled by their absolute disdain (even veiled as it might be in curiousity) for anything beyond their ordinary.
"The Lady Olstice was enjoying listing off stories of the rebellion and bidding me to name each one true or false," he says.
Tigers in cages, who also do tricks. He scopes the crowd for Count Randolph, idly. Just for reference. And if it'll make her feel any better;
From Marcus, the compliment draws a smile, a light nudge of her elbow against his. He is entitled to the observation. It lands far better than a similarly phrased by far more leering offering she had fielded earlier in the evening.
“I wish I had saved it for Satinalia,” she tells him, by which she means she should have saved it for their people, to celebrate alongside them rather than offer it up to gentry who observe her critically, measuring and weighing and clucking their tongues over the impression it gives. (Or covetously, the way one might observe something dazzling and dangerous while imaging it at their beck and call.)
She intends to say something else, about how pleasing she finds the fabrics he’s chosen for himself, though neutrals are not exactly her preference. It separates him in a way that suits, she thinks; stark and bright and unyielding amid the aggressively lavish array of their host and his chosen companions.
But instead, a strike of chords and a rap of drums from the front of the room draws everyone’s attention. The band, having drifted back to the raised dais in the corner has taken up their instruments. Derrica sighs, seeing immediately within the crowd a flurry of movement.
“Will you dance with me? Lord Brattle asked, but I’d rather avoid him.”
And his partner, who had frowned throughout the entire exchange before Derrica had extricated herself from their company.
It’s not a request she would usually make of Marcus. Almost immediately, she second-guesses the impulse, the position it puts him in.
The more likely response from Marcus would be the proposal that they simply leave, and the standing behave or else orders can be tested against the true depth of these people's pockets, and the diplomatic use of treating rifters, mages, and their other oddities as more for entertainment than a means towards sympathy. Perhaps he still will.
But she asks him to dance, and, despite everything, he thinks that might be nice to do.
"Aye," he says, and turns to lead them away, drawing them from the suggestion of a person trying to cut his way towards them. How strange, that standing alone in this place had marked him inside and out as an outsider, but moving through the crowd alongside Derrica feels like something else. Not a sense of superiority, exactly, but,
well, maybe a slight sense of superiority. Some mutual ability to declare each other unapproachable, around people he can think less of.
A brief commotion behind them, likely Lord Brattle attempting to bypass the cluster of elderly women positioning themselves to commentate on the dancers, comes to nothing. Or perhaps not exactly nothing, but he does not manifest to attempt to part Derrica from Marcus so it demands no more of her attention.
This melody may be familiar to Marcus, but it is not so for Derrica. Even after so much time among Riftwatch and spending all their efforts liaising southwards, the tunes she recognizes skews heavily northward.
The few turns she'd taken around the room had been stiff, diplomatic affairs. Now, with some lingering self-consciousness (lessened slightly by Marcus' lack of hesitation) she lifts her hand from his elbow to offer properly, a little pantomime of what she's observed other women on the floor to be doing.
This is perhaps not diplomacy as they had been instructed to do. But maybe they are both entitled to a few moments where neither of them are occupied with best behavior in the face of gilded rudeness.
"I've been pretending to know the steps," she admits, a slight smile breaking across her face.
It was petty, maneuvering herself constantly into the lead of any given dance and politely apologizing for her northern ways when her partner finally objected. But it is only a minor crime, not worth diplomatic incident.
None of those Marcus had found himself in conversation with had quite plucked up the courage to ask him to dance, if they had even wished to. It's one thing, perhaps, to play at conversation with a mage known to be particularly dangerous, and another to be seen at all embracing him.
But, you know. He'd gotten some practice in, just in case.
He didn't know he'd been practicing for Derrica in particular. He takes her hand, half-bowing over it as he's seen other men do. The dance currently happening is not so coordinated that all are following steps in synchronisation with one another, but there is a shared movement of rotation that they will need to dip into shortly.
"They're not so difficult," is his assurance that he can likely lead them along, drawing in close enough to rest a hand at her waist, and turn his other so that her palm can lay against his. It's gentle, the fold of his fingers over hers.
There's been no opportunity for a cigarette break, but there's still the subtle trace of that distinctive, stubborn scent on his person from earlier that day. Wine, fresh silk and linen, the sharper note of the alcohol content of some kind of cosmetic, all a distinct layer when pulled in closer. (Normally: horse and griffon, and smoke, and leather.)
"Alright," he says, more for his own sake, counting down in his head, before directing them into the first step.
A letter arrives at the Gallows not long after the party, Ostwick's Chantry requesting assistance with the allocation of a cache of supplies that likely once belonged to a contingent of mages but could just as well have been left behind by refugees. Regardless, it is a matter requiring some mediation, and Derrica cannot consider anyone else for the task for a multitude of reasons.
So it is decided she will go herself, but as she cannot simply ride out alone with the state of the war as it is presently—
Holden left her a lovely mare. Dulcinea is sweet-tempered and light-footed, and though Derrica is not the most experienced rider, Dulcinea is well-suited to field all Derrica's shortcomings. Marcus had helped her saddle the horse, checked over the straps, see Derrica into the saddle. It is no more than he would have always done. Even this is no more than they would have done together, without any particular weight to the work.
Still, she is very aware of him. Though fading, she knows she still has imprints of his fingers bruised into her skin. She feels them now, shifting in the saddle as they head out into the Marches.
Even so, the quiet between them is comfortable. If Derrica is overly aware of him, so be it. For the moment, she is content to hold it behind her ribs, let it settle so she might examine it dispassionately, refrain from embarrassing them both. (Keep it from scaring her, as it does at times, the prickling awareness of what sparks in her chest every time he looks at her.)
The horse Marcus rides is not Kevin, whose riding time is now more or less recreational since that one complication on the road. This smaller bay roan mare (named Margaret, Marcus had said, without any sign of irony) that's taken his place is quicker to spring into speed at the slightest urging, but stays well under her reins.
His current focus is seeing she doesn't try to take charge of the expedition, keeping her in check to walk beside Dulcinea.
The quiet between them is comfortable. It isn't in Marcus' nature to fill such silences with small talk, unless there is some pressing bit of information he'd like to convey, or something in need of answering. There's a stretch of time where he is content to watch the now familiar scenery roll by and listen to the sound of hoofs gently striking, with the Waking Sea to their right shoulder and the shadows of the Vimmarks on their left.
And, also, the effect of her company, even quiet. His awareness of her, comfortably close at hand. When invited along on this trip, Marcus had been forced to consider the alternative, if she'd invited someone else along. Not out of feelings of jealousy (at least, not prominently, not immediately, dependent besides on the chosen partner), but of imagining the twist of something, anxiety or regret, for her being so far from him.
So, there are things in need of answering, and information he wouldn't mind conveying. Likely deeper than the question of how many rooms they'll require by the time they land at their first waypoint.
"I think that the next time there's an affair like the one we attended," he says, after a moment, chasing the spark of a thought even as he says it, "we might wait for later in the evening."
There had been other names floated, Vanya Orlov foremost among them. Derrica had understood the conceit; a former templar, palatable to her while simultaneously passable within the confines of the place they are going. Maybe that would have been the better choice, but she was saved from making it by other needs, any of the hundreds of request tugging at Riftwatch's edges day after day.
So she had been afforded her first choice, without having to admit such specific preference at all.
When he breaks the silence, though, Derrica finds herself unprepared for the topic being raised. (Though it stands to reason that eventually they would speak of what occurred. It wouldn't go unacknowledged forever, whatever her wishes.) They are within arm's length here, respective mounts moving in tandem, and maybe Derrica had expected him to mention begging an excuse rather than attending, or some delicately worded explanation that he wasn't inclined to repeat their activities, or any other number of things beyond what he says now.
"Oh?" comes as she turns in the saddle, immediately seeking the expression on his face to set against the tone of his voice for clarity. "Why?"
A ribbon of uncertainty unspooling in her chest, even without full understanding of his proposition.
His expression is mild, but inquiring. Curious, and also ready to read her in return.
Of course, he would drop this whole thing if she wished it. They weren't so far gone than they couldn't return to a previous state, and Marcus could not find some distraction throughout the transition, and it would be more than worth it to preserve their friendship. But it would be a shame to convey the wrong thing, compel each other apart through misunderstanding and hesitancy.
"We might have left together," is what he goes on with, "without arousing too much suspicion."
The haste and desperation in a corner, no, he wouldn't have wished to have been done differently. There was something enjoyable in that edge of denial and restriction, the rucking of clothing and the freedom of reaching so immediately for something. But it does feel like,
not enough, is the most direct conclusion.
"Unless you would prefer not to repeat it," he adds, speaking of direct.
A flicker of a smile, widening before she glances up and away to study the landscape for a moment.
The directness of the question provokes a very specific kind of anxiety. She can feel it fluttering against her ribs, nervousness that has everything to do with how much she cares about Marcus.
Were Marcus anyone else, the directness of the question after something so singularly good would have been easily answered. Of course she would like to repeat it. That's hardly the question.
Shifting in the saddle, she shifts more fully towards him, fingers folding the reins back and forth as she meets his gaze.
"I think so," she tells him. Doesn't ask if he wants to repeat it, because she knows him well enough. Marcus wouldn't ask to trap her into admitting this for his own amusement.
"Is that alright?" she asks instead, which seems to be the more important question. Is it alright to want this?
The road is long ahead of them, so Marcus can keep his eyes off it for a while. In favour of watching her, meeting her eyes when she looks back at him, an attempt at discerning whatever there is there to read.
Quietly receptive for a tentative answer, and then faintly amused for the next question.
"I don't see anyone here who could say otherwise," he responds, quiet, more deliberate than flippant. Like perhaps the concern for the alrightness of what they've done and may continue to do is external, and a given, between them. Shifts reins his holding in his hands, betraying himself in a fidget for some of his own uncertainty.
It doesn't prevent him from asking, "Why might it not be?"
It does strike her first as a joke, before Marcus follows it with a question.
She moderates her expression accordingly, smile fading as she turns thoughtful. Gives the question due consideration, weighing the reasons why they might veer away from establishing something between them. From coming together with some kind of regularity, when it pleases them.
"Does it scare you?" she asks. "That it could change things between us too much?"
Or has the potential to do so. Inspires worry, concern. Rather than simply saying no, remembering his own caution when he'd first slipped his hand further up her back, Marcus pauses over the question, considers whether that easy answer is true. Lets his focus cast back out to this ragged edge of Free Marches, more stone than earth.
"I think there are ways I feel for you that couldn't change for anything," eventually. "The parts that matter most."
The sky is heavy-grey, with a coarse wind bending long grass, restless, over hills. They'd done some tracking, which did not take a huge amount of skill what with the evidence of Fade-damage blistering the earth in spots that were easily followed, and then came demon howls, carried on that wind.
Mages are, perhaps, given cause for sympathy. Imagining the madness that strikes these spirits when they find themselves in the material world, all that cunning twisted and warped into their basest selves. Of course, there's nothing for it, for their malevolence and violence, and the kinder thing is to simply banish them through whatever means avail themselves. Lightning, fire, a blade.
The fear demon, long limbed and deformed, roams with the blood of cattle and one farmhand still dripping like rubies off its long claws. It only begins to turn towards both the sound of their approach and its innate instinct for the tug of the Veil, before it is halted in place with flashing lightning that cages around its limbs. It shrieks in a pain that is rage, writhing as its physical constraints lock it in place.
Enough time for a well-aimed casting of fire and rock, slamming into it and driving it into a stagger, still sparking.
They are fortunate, in a way, that this creature appears to be entirely alone.
Bound in electricity, limbs broken by rocks, it is still a terrifying, dangerous thing. The sizzle of burnt blood sears the air. Derrica's hand shoots out, draws a shimmering wreath of energy from the air and wreathes Marcus in it. A barrier, to deflect whatever retaliation he draws when he surely moves forward to engage more fully with this creature.
"Left," she directs him, as the cage flexes and constricts at the turn of her fingers in the air. The lightening bolt she brings down is distraction, meant to give Marcus an opening as those claws scrabble through the air towards Derrica.
He moves as she says that, as if she'd released a bow string.
A physical launching off, long strides that rush in, before the third step lifts further into the air and his corporeal form collapses in roiling smoke, in which contains a rush of embers, and the motes of protective magic as Marcus carries with him her Barrier. Distance is eaten up in the blink of an eye, a good spell for a hasty escape.
Or a hasty confrontation. Smoke trails off armor, the edge of his blade, as solid foot finds earth, and Marcus swings his staff. A coppery smear of light trails after, cleaving iron edge into writhing demon flash which connects with both a flash of ice, a shimmer of energy that seems to make the blow land all the more firmly, and then the simple connection of a heavy blade finding its mark.
The fear demon swings wildly, claws hooked. Marcus turns his staff, takes the hit, a shimmer of Derrica's magic keeping him on his feet. A pulse of fire ripples through runes, scorching across the demon.
They have done this before. She has seen Marcus fight before. (She has been in opposition to him on a battlefield before.) The operation is not new to her, and she understands what is needed.
Marcus is so close, as he should be. As his abilities require, really. He can do such damage when crowding his target. But it means Derrica is the one who must distract, keep the creature turning and turning so Marcus can utilize the gleaming blade of his stave and the flares of elemental magic at his disposal.
When Derrica draws the head of her stave through the air, six pulses of energy blur into existance, flying forward to make contact. They impact over and over, tearing the demon round in the purple-sparking cage Derrica has enclosed it in. The claws lash as is shrieks, seeking purchase any way it can accomplish.
A battle with one mage is chaos enough. Two, and it's a mess of whorling colour and light, of run-off energy and confusion.
And it's possible to get used to it, to stay the instinct to flinch from the snap of electricity and the brightness of pulses of energy. Marcus sees the demon reel back from where damaging magic scours across its side, peeling back leather hide to the black sinewy layers beneath.
Marcus catches his sense of balance, reels back, and runs his blade deep into that open wound.
Black ichor burns into acrid smoke off super-heated blade. The demon's howls hits a higher pitch. Another confusing layer of magic, a tornado of something like heat waves, crackling with arcane potential, that does nothing extremely obvious in all the more violent actions being taken, but seems to catch at the fear demon, seems to rake across it invisibly.
It is dying. The wild swing of its claws is the twitch of a dying thing, but it does pass finally through snapping bars of lightning, seems to unhinge from its own shoulder and elbow with a snap of tendon and bone just as it can rake sharp edges against Marcus' arm and shoulder.
Armor must absorb the most of it, because there's no immediate flinch back or buckle. A grimace, and then a twist, wrenching loose his blade in a movement that that spatters demon ichor in a wild arc.
With only the two of them casting, Derrica is very aware of the smoke-tinged crackle of Marcus' magic. It is specific to him. It is easier to draw it from the air, let it supplant her own ability.
He is so close. There is nothing for it; Marcus' magic lends itself to this, and he has never shown any inclination to amend that. When those claws find momentary purchase, scraping across armor, seeking purchase there at his shoulder, Derrica feels how her breath catches.
The next volley of energy, blue and purple and searing hot, aggravate Marcus' work. The deep slice of the blade is torn wider by the impact. The guttural scream of protest, followed by gnashing fury, is to be expected. Any thing so cornered would lash out, shriek until it was snuffed out.
Still, her off hand stretches out. Turns in the air, drawing up a sheet of magic to swathe Marcus in once more, for all the good it might do him.
"Again!" is likely unnecessary. Marcus knows his business, whether or not she is shouting encouragement from a distance.
That blur of arcane wind thickens, streams off of the fear demon like wisps of smoke. As Derrica casts her Barrier into it, she might have a sense of the connecting tether in the moment of cast of something pulling, draining.
But the spell takes, in the same moment that all signs of Marcus' magic fall away, save for the runes that glow on his staff. At the next lashing out, Marcus ducking aside, claws rake against nothing where a flash of light repels the strike completely. Enough for Marcus to carve his blade up under one long limb, and then around again into that open wound, and this time, the orange-glow of the tip emerges out the other side.
With a snarl of noise, Marcus levers the demon down into a thrashing mess amongst the tall grass. Raises his staff up as he pushes the demon off the end of it with a boot, and brings it back down again.
That ripple of something, a siphoning quality hooking into the edges of the spell. Making her push harder, exert more energy to wreathe Marcus in a barrier.
It is not immediately clear to her whether something is wrong, when Marcus' spellwork drops. The runes burn still, even when the demon is a twitching, oozing corpse on the grass. The ichor of its blood is scorching the earth, staining everything it touches black.
And it is quiet, apart from the slap of footsteps as Derrica hastens down to him.
"Let me see," she is saying already, slightly breathless even with sparks and lightening leaping between the locks of her hair, along the curve of her neck. "Are you alright?"
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no subject
This is something different, a banquet and dance hosted by the kind of eccentric who thinks that the presence of Riftwatch in and of itself makes for entertaining conversation. Not limited to eccentric rifters, either, but resident war criminals, or however it is they view him. Here, he has been wrangled into a circle of conversation. Probing questions, sly asides, glances between strangers he couldn't interpret, and the knowledge that if he drank a third glass of this wine, he would begin to make errors.
He finishes this second glass anyway.
Considers his exits. There, a doorway out onto a cool evening balcony. There, a shadowy archway with even more unnecessary amounts of empty manor, likely dark and unpopulated. But first he seeks out people, for although his own impending extrication is liable to be entirely graceless and probably rude, at least it will appear as though he is moving with purpose, and not just away.
Dressed nicely, anyway. He has yet to be talked into a proper Circle robe, and so aimed for something passable, the unfussy but still elegant lines of Free Marcher ideas of gentlemanliness. Grey on grey, softer cream silk, silver embellishments.
Evidently, not as wallflowery has he had opened.
no subject
But having elevated herself, she is inescapably included when banquets and dances held by eccentrics in search of exciting party guests. She is not so miserable, perhaps, as some of her fellows, but there is a certain way southerners approach her that can be—
It is insulting, there is no other word for it, though Derrica knows they don't mean anything by their pointed queries and long-winded airing of opinion on Rivain and it's culture, their thoughts on what might be done differently, and did she agree with their understanding? In some respects, she is the perfect person for this work; she is patient, and capable of gracefully excusing herself when she senses her tolerance waning.
Her bracelets jangle down her forearm as she reaches to catch hold of Marcus' elbow. She had seen him across the room, easily marked in his grays and whites. There is a tension in his posture that feels very familiar, though maybe she is the one more in need of respite than he is.
"Enchanter," is due respect, though rarely used. (In this moment, she is demonstrating to their audience how they might address him, the consideration he is owed.) "I needed a word with you. Please, excuse me."
To the nobility and otherwise that had circled her, now watching her fall into step alongside Marcus and depart.
"How are you?" is an aside, meant for him rather than pitched that others might hear and invite themselves into the conversation. She feels frayed, having navigated so much attention for such a stretch of time.
no subject
Well, Marcus would name Derrica first among them, he thinks, now that her hand has found his arm and there is nothing he need do to remove himself from this situation but step with her. The murmur of conversation in their wake is a little hushed, and in this particular crowd, hitting the exact correct resonance of avoiding being heard but making it clear that chatter has been evoked nonetheless.
Marcus doesn't care, empty wineglass at a negligent dangle from his fingertips as he bends his arm so that Derrica can keep a hold of it.
"Sober," he reports. His tone sketches wry, like maybe he'd fished for the most positive of status reports, or a problem he's contending with. The confusion of enjoying the music that emanates from the corner and the quality of the wine and even the selection of his own clothing and the clash of colour of everyone else's, everything fine and luxurious and bright, and then simply having no idea what to do once amongst it all.
He doesn't wear a robe for the way it marks him as being from the Circle, but these things have a way of doing the very same.
"I hope my rescue isn't stealing you from anything important."
no subject
Which is the point, she knows. It is why they are here. But it invites a certain measure of—
Inspection. Or observation. A regard not dissimilar to a tiger in a cage, wheeled through a ballroom.
"Only Count Randolph's story about the last time he traveled to Rivain," Derrica tells him. "I think you can imagine the gist of it."
The squeeze of fingers at his elbow punctuates the statement. Does she have to outline exactly such a story would be tedious at best, affronting at worst?
"How has it been for you?"
no subject
Instead, when Derrica squeezes his arm, Marcus transfers his now free hand over the top of hers, communicating with the swoop of thumb over her knuckles that he can, indeed, imagine. There is a worldliness to these sorts of people that is only rivaled by their absolute disdain (even veiled as it might be in curiousity) for anything beyond their ordinary.
"The Lady Olstice was enjoying listing off stories of the rebellion and bidding me to name each one true or false," he says.
Tigers in cages, who also do tricks. He scopes the crowd for Count Randolph, idly. Just for reference. And if it'll make her feel any better;
"I like your dress."
no subject
“I wish I had saved it for Satinalia,” she tells him, by which she means she should have saved it for their people, to celebrate alongside them rather than offer it up to gentry who observe her critically, measuring and weighing and clucking their tongues over the impression it gives. (Or covetously, the way one might observe something dazzling and dangerous while imaging it at their beck and call.)
She intends to say something else, about how pleasing she finds the fabrics he’s chosen for himself, though neutrals are not exactly her preference. It separates him in a way that suits, she thinks; stark and bright and unyielding amid the aggressively lavish array of their host and his chosen companions.
But instead, a strike of chords and a rap of drums from the front of the room draws everyone’s attention. The band, having drifted back to the raised dais in the corner has taken up their instruments. Derrica sighs, seeing immediately within the crowd a flurry of movement.
“Will you dance with me? Lord Brattle asked, but I’d rather avoid him.”
And his partner, who had frowned throughout the entire exchange before Derrica had extricated herself from their company.
It’s not a request she would usually make of Marcus. Almost immediately, she second-guesses the impulse, the position it puts him in.
no subject
But she asks him to dance, and, despite everything, he thinks that might be nice to do.
"Aye," he says, and turns to lead them away, drawing them from the suggestion of a person trying to cut his way towards them. How strange, that standing alone in this place had marked him inside and out as an outsider, but moving through the crowd alongside Derrica feels like something else. Not a sense of superiority, exactly, but,
well, maybe a slight sense of superiority. Some mutual ability to declare each other unapproachable, around people he can think less of.
The melody being struck is one he knows, as well.
no subject
This melody may be familiar to Marcus, but it is not so for Derrica. Even after so much time among Riftwatch and spending all their efforts liaising southwards, the tunes she recognizes skews heavily northward.
The few turns she'd taken around the room had been stiff, diplomatic affairs. Now, with some lingering self-consciousness (lessened slightly by Marcus' lack of hesitation) she lifts her hand from his elbow to offer properly, a little pantomime of what she's observed other women on the floor to be doing.
This is perhaps not diplomacy as they had been instructed to do. But maybe they are both entitled to a few moments where neither of them are occupied with best behavior in the face of gilded rudeness.
"I've been pretending to know the steps," she admits, a slight smile breaking across her face.
It was petty, maneuvering herself constantly into the lead of any given dance and politely apologizing for her northern ways when her partner finally objected. But it is only a minor crime, not worth diplomatic incident.
no subject
But, you know. He'd gotten some practice in, just in case.
He didn't know he'd been practicing for Derrica in particular. He takes her hand, half-bowing over it as he's seen other men do. The dance currently happening is not so coordinated that all are following steps in synchronisation with one another, but there is a shared movement of rotation that they will need to dip into shortly.
"They're not so difficult," is his assurance that he can likely lead them along, drawing in close enough to rest a hand at her waist, and turn his other so that her palm can lay against his. It's gentle, the fold of his fingers over hers.
There's been no opportunity for a cigarette break, but there's still the subtle trace of that distinctive, stubborn scent on his person from earlier that day. Wine, fresh silk and linen, the sharper note of the alcohol content of some kind of cosmetic, all a distinct layer when pulled in closer. (Normally: horse and griffon, and smoke, and leather.)
"Alright," he says, more for his own sake, counting down in his head, before directing them into the first step.
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i sense we are approaching bow territory we must generate new content
it's all on you
challenge accepted
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So it is decided she will go herself, but as she cannot simply ride out alone with the state of the war as it is presently—
Holden left her a lovely mare. Dulcinea is sweet-tempered and light-footed, and though Derrica is not the most experienced rider, Dulcinea is well-suited to field all Derrica's shortcomings. Marcus had helped her saddle the horse, checked over the straps, see Derrica into the saddle. It is no more than he would have always done. Even this is no more than they would have done together, without any particular weight to the work.
Still, she is very aware of him. Though fading, she knows she still has imprints of his fingers bruised into her skin. She feels them now, shifting in the saddle as they head out into the Marches.
Even so, the quiet between them is comfortable. If Derrica is overly aware of him, so be it. For the moment, she is content to hold it behind her ribs, let it settle so she might examine it dispassionately, refrain from embarrassing them both. (Keep it from scaring her, as it does at times, the prickling awareness of what sparks in her chest every time he looks at her.)
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His current focus is seeing she doesn't try to take charge of the expedition, keeping her in check to walk beside Dulcinea.
The quiet between them is comfortable. It isn't in Marcus' nature to fill such silences with small talk, unless there is some pressing bit of information he'd like to convey, or something in need of answering. There's a stretch of time where he is content to watch the now familiar scenery roll by and listen to the sound of hoofs gently striking, with the Waking Sea to their right shoulder and the shadows of the Vimmarks on their left.
And, also, the effect of her company, even quiet. His awareness of her, comfortably close at hand. When invited along on this trip, Marcus had been forced to consider the alternative, if she'd invited someone else along. Not out of feelings of jealousy (at least, not prominently, not immediately, dependent besides on the chosen partner), but of imagining the twist of something, anxiety or regret, for her being so far from him.
So, there are things in need of answering, and information he wouldn't mind conveying. Likely deeper than the question of how many rooms they'll require by the time they land at their first waypoint.
"I think that the next time there's an affair like the one we attended," he says, after a moment, chasing the spark of a thought even as he says it, "we might wait for later in the evening."
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So she had been afforded her first choice, without having to admit such specific preference at all.
When he breaks the silence, though, Derrica finds herself unprepared for the topic being raised. (Though it stands to reason that eventually they would speak of what occurred. It wouldn't go unacknowledged forever, whatever her wishes.) They are within arm's length here, respective mounts moving in tandem, and maybe Derrica had expected him to mention begging an excuse rather than attending, or some delicately worded explanation that he wasn't inclined to repeat their activities, or any other number of things beyond what he says now.
"Oh?" comes as she turns in the saddle, immediately seeking the expression on his face to set against the tone of his voice for clarity. "Why?"
A ribbon of uncertainty unspooling in her chest, even without full understanding of his proposition.
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Of course, he would drop this whole thing if she wished it. They weren't so far gone than they couldn't return to a previous state, and Marcus could not find some distraction throughout the transition, and it would be more than worth it to preserve their friendship. But it would be a shame to convey the wrong thing, compel each other apart through misunderstanding and hesitancy.
"We might have left together," is what he goes on with, "without arousing too much suspicion."
The haste and desperation in a corner, no, he wouldn't have wished to have been done differently. There was something enjoyable in that edge of denial and restriction, the rucking of clothing and the freedom of reaching so immediately for something. But it does feel like,
not enough, is the most direct conclusion.
"Unless you would prefer not to repeat it," he adds, speaking of direct.
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The directness of the question provokes a very specific kind of anxiety. She can feel it fluttering against her ribs, nervousness that has everything to do with how much she cares about Marcus.
Were Marcus anyone else, the directness of the question after something so singularly good would have been easily answered. Of course she would like to repeat it. That's hardly the question.
Shifting in the saddle, she shifts more fully towards him, fingers folding the reins back and forth as she meets his gaze.
"I think so," she tells him. Doesn't ask if he wants to repeat it, because she knows him well enough. Marcus wouldn't ask to trap her into admitting this for his own amusement.
"Is that alright?" she asks instead, which seems to be the more important question. Is it alright to want this?
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Quietly receptive for a tentative answer, and then faintly amused for the next question.
"I don't see anyone here who could say otherwise," he responds, quiet, more deliberate than flippant. Like perhaps the concern for the alrightness of what they've done and may continue to do is external, and a given, between them. Shifts reins his holding in his hands, betraying himself in a fidget for some of his own uncertainty.
It doesn't prevent him from asking, "Why might it not be?"
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She moderates her expression accordingly, smile fading as she turns thoughtful. Gives the question due consideration, weighing the reasons why they might veer away from establishing something between them. From coming together with some kind of regularity, when it pleases them.
"Does it scare you?" she asks. "That it could change things between us too much?"
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Or has the potential to do so. Inspires worry, concern. Rather than simply saying no, remembering his own caution when he'd first slipped his hand further up her back, Marcus pauses over the question, considers whether that easy answer is true. Lets his focus cast back out to this ragged edge of Free Marches, more stone than earth.
"I think there are ways I feel for you that couldn't change for anything," eventually. "The parts that matter most."
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Mages are, perhaps, given cause for sympathy. Imagining the madness that strikes these spirits when they find themselves in the material world, all that cunning twisted and warped into their basest selves. Of course, there's nothing for it, for their malevolence and violence, and the kinder thing is to simply banish them through whatever means avail themselves. Lightning, fire, a blade.
The fear demon, long limbed and deformed, roams with the blood of cattle and one farmhand still dripping like rubies off its long claws. It only begins to turn towards both the sound of their approach and its innate instinct for the tug of the Veil, before it is halted in place with flashing lightning that cages around its limbs. It shrieks in a pain that is rage, writhing as its physical constraints lock it in place.
Enough time for a well-aimed casting of fire and rock, slamming into it and driving it into a stagger, still sparking.
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Bound in electricity, limbs broken by rocks, it is still a terrifying, dangerous thing. The sizzle of burnt blood sears the air. Derrica's hand shoots out, draws a shimmering wreath of energy from the air and wreathes Marcus in it. A barrier, to deflect whatever retaliation he draws when he surely moves forward to engage more fully with this creature.
"Left," she directs him, as the cage flexes and constricts at the turn of her fingers in the air. The lightening bolt she brings down is distraction, meant to give Marcus an opening as those claws scrabble through the air towards Derrica.
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A physical launching off, long strides that rush in, before the third step lifts further into the air and his corporeal form collapses in roiling smoke, in which contains a rush of embers, and the motes of protective magic as Marcus carries with him her Barrier. Distance is eaten up in the blink of an eye, a good spell for a hasty escape.
Or a hasty confrontation. Smoke trails off armor, the edge of his blade, as solid foot finds earth, and Marcus swings his staff. A coppery smear of light trails after, cleaving iron edge into writhing demon flash which connects with both a flash of ice, a shimmer of energy that seems to make the blow land all the more firmly, and then the simple connection of a heavy blade finding its mark.
The fear demon swings wildly, claws hooked. Marcus turns his staff, takes the hit, a shimmer of Derrica's magic keeping him on his feet. A pulse of fire ripples through runes, scorching across the demon.
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Marcus is so close, as he should be. As his abilities require, really. He can do such damage when crowding his target. But it means Derrica is the one who must distract, keep the creature turning and turning so Marcus can utilize the gleaming blade of his stave and the flares of elemental magic at his disposal.
When Derrica draws the head of her stave through the air, six pulses of energy blur into existance, flying forward to make contact. They impact over and over, tearing the demon round in the purple-sparking cage Derrica has enclosed it in. The claws lash as is shrieks, seeking purchase any way it can accomplish.
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And it's possible to get used to it, to stay the instinct to flinch from the snap of electricity and the brightness of pulses of energy. Marcus sees the demon reel back from where damaging magic scours across its side, peeling back leather hide to the black sinewy layers beneath.
Marcus catches his sense of balance, reels back, and runs his blade deep into that open wound.
Black ichor burns into acrid smoke off super-heated blade. The demon's howls hits a higher pitch. Another confusing layer of magic, a tornado of something like heat waves, crackling with arcane potential, that does nothing extremely obvious in all the more violent actions being taken, but seems to catch at the fear demon, seems to rake across it invisibly.
It is dying. The wild swing of its claws is the twitch of a dying thing, but it does pass finally through snapping bars of lightning, seems to unhinge from its own shoulder and elbow with a snap of tendon and bone just as it can rake sharp edges against Marcus' arm and shoulder.
Armor must absorb the most of it, because there's no immediate flinch back or buckle. A grimace, and then a twist, wrenching loose his blade in a movement that that spatters demon ichor in a wild arc.
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He is so close. There is nothing for it; Marcus' magic lends itself to this, and he has never shown any inclination to amend that. When those claws find momentary purchase, scraping across armor, seeking purchase there at his shoulder, Derrica feels how her breath catches.
The next volley of energy, blue and purple and searing hot, aggravate Marcus' work. The deep slice of the blade is torn wider by the impact. The guttural scream of protest, followed by gnashing fury, is to be expected. Any thing so cornered would lash out, shriek until it was snuffed out.
Still, her off hand stretches out. Turns in the air, drawing up a sheet of magic to swathe Marcus in once more, for all the good it might do him.
"Again!" is likely unnecessary. Marcus knows his business, whether or not she is shouting encouragement from a distance.
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But the spell takes, in the same moment that all signs of Marcus' magic fall away, save for the runes that glow on his staff. At the next lashing out, Marcus ducking aside, claws rake against nothing where a flash of light repels the strike completely. Enough for Marcus to carve his blade up under one long limb, and then around again into that open wound, and this time, the orange-glow of the tip emerges out the other side.
With a snarl of noise, Marcus levers the demon down into a thrashing mess amongst the tall grass. Raises his staff up as he pushes the demon off the end of it with a boot, and brings it back down again.
No magic, just a violent finishing stab.
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It is not immediately clear to her whether something is wrong, when Marcus' spellwork drops. The runes burn still, even when the demon is a twitching, oozing corpse on the grass. The ichor of its blood is scorching the earth, staining everything it touches black.
And it is quiet, apart from the slap of footsteps as Derrica hastens down to him.
"Let me see," she is saying already, slightly breathless even with sparks and lightening leaping between the locks of her hair, along the curve of her neck. "Are you alright?"
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slides under your doorstep
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hits fast travel button
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