As if the scuff of fingers there at his shoulder has reminded him of his other limbs, Flint's hand comes unhooked from the head of the bed and the angle of his elbow draws sluggishly down. The reddish mark of applied pressure has already more or less faded, smuggled in among freckles and some natural undertone of the skin.
"A crossbow shot from another Nascere man," he says after a moment.
If Marcus does mean to distract him—from the overlap of bodies, the casual sling of limbs, the fact that he should presently be looking to shake free in order to clean himself up before the loose jointed satisfaction of not doing that and instead loitering here in the heat of the bed and the closeness of bare skin cements itself into a semi-permanent state—, then this is the best mark to question. It requires some consideration, given how it would be impolitic to tell a man whose day he regularly controls that he came by the scar during a mutiny.
(Almost as impolitic, say, as having said man put his cock in him.)
"He'd an interest in taking possession of my ship. I disagreed." Illustrative. "The other half is on the other side," is radically moreso for a throw away remark and a vague twitch of the shoulder in question. The disagreement had apparently occurred at close enough rang that the bolt had been happy to punch all the way through him.
Marcus lifts his head at this opener to get a better look at what kind of mark such a thorough crossbow strike leaves behind. Lowers back down.
His fingers flatten out, the shift from the light brush of the tips of them to the warm settling. It is barely conscious, this playing at conversation, the excuses to touch, where it is just as easily a point of curiousity, a touch that doesn't need an excuse anyway. Of course, having his first question rejected and finding a new one does, to some extent, tell on them both.
This is all still a matter of convenience. No sense in pushing it beyond those boundaries.
"I knew someone who said that marks like that are a sign of good luck," he says. "Given you've still your arm and your life, he might have a point." The last word, punctuated with the idle tap of fingertip to skin.
And maybe insensitive to whatever potential delicacy may be attached to the thing. But Marcus had fought in a war, and has probably seen children he all but raised killed for it. Even lacking that—death is a very ordinary. Under the warm flat of Marcus' palm, it hardly occurs to him not to treat the subject with some degree of flippancy.
"Bad luck for the man with the crossbow, in any case."
A small tilt of the face in Marcus' direction. Were the room darker, this motion might serve to cloak the line of Flint's attention entirely. But the lamplight is warm, and the shadows only wading depth. His study is heavy. More firm than the hand idle across Marcus' side is despite being half lidded.
There's nothing very offended in the rough little exhale of agreement at this first part. Aye, knew. In its way, the point still stands, to the detriment of past purveyors of wisdom and reassurance, and mutineers, although Marcus hasn't asked if this Nascere man had been a friend, first, before he was an enemy.
The question is only just forming when Flint asks his, drawing Marcus' focus up from the hazy nothing he'd been looking at while talking, thinking. It is the sort of question so rarely asked that it feels a little like if he'd pushed his fingers firmer against that bruise, and again, there is nothing very offended in the meandering conclusion of wondering if his question had, inadvertently, felt the same way.
Still. No ripple of defense from him, just a brief study back before he answers.
"I didn't catch their name," which he could always leave it at, if he wanted. "A Templar with a tower shield. I remember them standing over someone, and me, striking them with rock and flame. It was enchanted, the shield, and it repelled it back towards me, I'm told."
And then the wisdom, the reassurance. Out of order, in the telling. Messy, like that day.
Or maybe he is just curious, and has spent the last measure of time in strict study of the man's face. Noting to scar because he is staring at it, and because it takes on a deeper pitch when Marcus is sweating and a flush of exertion has worked up into the face.
(But, maybe: a little tender to the touch, too. That veering point of conversation Marcus had suffered in the hot, cramped tavern before this when Flint had decided to be done discussing something.)
Said knee raises a little, in the midst of the incidental tangle he's arranged them into. Thinks, first, of the wrap of Flint's hand around in, inviting him into bed before he'd put it into words. Marcus draws in a breath, a little like ah, yes, the knee, and a trace flicker of humour gives him away.
"Fell off a horse."
He'd wondered if Flint does anything purposelessly, to the conclusion that the answer is 'no', but it does not profoundly change the way he engages in return. Perhaps that will be a mistake. For now, Marcus glances down the length of them both. Turning his thigh to illustrate the jagged few inches. "If you ever want to make a grown man beg for his life, get something sharp just under there." Reaching, indicating where the scar curves to kneecap.
Hand laying down on Flint's chest again, leg folding back down. "Do you miss it?"
comes with a look rising from Marcus' knee to his face. Something in the skeptical flex of an eyebrow or the nearness of the air made briefly more flexible by the trace humor Marcus has breathed into it suggests, 'Isn't that what we just did?'
It's an idle thing to draw his hand from Marcus' side and allow his hand to settle across his own middle instead. Unremarkable, a simple settling in the overworked cords of his shoulders (except for how Flint does nothing purposelessly). Flat there, the rings on his fingers glow dull in the lamplight.
He makes no effort to unmoor himself further. Not just yet.
"Considerably." Nevermind that the ship he'd come in often still lurks at anchor in the harbor. There is no denying that he has become so removed from its functioning so as to be rendered entirely inessential. "Though I might feel differently were the Gallows halfway less like they are."
A real question, slow on the back of Flint's answer as if anticipating elaboration, and still quiet, tired in a prolonged post-coital way without yet threatening to sink into unconsciousness.
And if Flint has withdrawn in some small way, Marcus doesn't appear to have noticed enough to even feign not noticing. In another second or several, perhaps, comfortable in laying against a warm body, the small room diminished further to small bed, back turned to the rest of the evening laying ahead of them.
"It means," he says, drawing some definition out from behind his ribs. Warm as he is, it takes a moment to put the thing into some logical order. "That the Gallows is all in service to this war. It isn't a place for living in."
It is not what he imagined quitting the sea for.
(Nevermind that he can picture other men, in other chairs, in other forts, who he would prefer to be little like who nonetheless rankled under a yoke similar in appearance.)
His response is understated, first, a quiet vocalisation on a breath out. Agreeable understanding. No, the Gallows is not, and how strange it had been to, for that second time, step onto its docks while it cast the same shadows as it had the first. But it isn't the connotation that Flint means and it is an easy thing to quiet steer back from that path, and consider another.
"But we do live there," Marcus says, after a moment. "In spite of it."
In small ways. You can, in small ways, make a home out of anywhere.
Flint's answer to this is some low hum—more acknowledgement than either affirmation or skepticism. He tilts his face back to its natural upright position. The ceiling above them has a crack in it, and the general view of the plaster around it isn't so interesting as to keep him from letting his eyes shut. Just for a short while, he doesn't tell himself so much as he simply expects it.
"My point was that the Gallows is hardly retiring to a house on a rich Antivan vineyard," he says. The bed is warm. "It's entirely possible that if I'd traded up instead of across in circumstance, there'd be no reason think of the sea at all."
Sure. That sounds like it could be a true thing someone who made his fortune through theft at the end of a sword's point might say.
The quiet mh out of him at further clarification doesn't sound unconvinced. Ponders that, this supposed house on a rich Antivan vineyard, the sort of thing that wouldn't have occurred but certainly sounds compelling, and it doesn't entirely negate the possibility of something simpler, nested in it.
So, sure.
And Flint asks his question, and in the midst of it, Marcus adjusts. The roll of his body is not quick, not really aimed towards some specific next movement, just settling on his back. Foot leaving off where it had rested against ankle, hand coiled back from Flint's chest, but there maintains the line of contact, thigh, shoulder.
"If we're speaking of trade," as opposed to a means to nudge him off the prior topic only, "I don't know the value my place would have been there. I was there when it was a rebellion, and left when it ceased to be. I wouldn't miss seven years as a foot soldier of the Chantry."
He considers not saying a thing, before, "Riftwatch has been the better home." He rides griffons and sees much of the world and gets to walk around a city when duties permit and there are people who are good, mixed in the people who are intolerable. He had told Flint he misses his war, too, and apparently these two impulses can co-exist.
In a minute or two, Flint decides as Marcus shifts fully off of him, he will sit up and extract himself from the warmth bed with its crinkling straw packed mattress and see whether there's any water in the pitcher by the door that he might use for cleaning himself up with. He'll only lay here with his eyes closed, listening to Marcus's thick consonants, a few moments longer.
(Maybe Marcus is speaking to the very thing that dissatisfies him; Riftwatch may be faintly divorced from the Chantry and in the least respectable trade city on the Waking Sea, but it still postures at an air of legitimacy. That, the expectation of what civilized places do for civilized people, rankles against the skin. Moreso, from that sixth floor division office. All this courting favor of rich fucks abroad, and playing by the rules that the Divine would prefer them too, and—)
In the close, over warm atmosphere of the room, these irritations hardly rise past a simmer.
"You might send word of your endorsement back to your fellows still with the Inquisition and see whether you might sway anyone else to divest of the Divine's banner," has the timbre of an idle remark, unserious in the sense that it seems highly unnecessary. Surely everyone with the Inquisition knows full well of the Gallows and what might be expected of them there.
Marcus doesn't have his eyes closed, entertaining himself in the contrasts and similarities both of skin tone and line of muscle and scar tissue, what little he can see where he idly considers the topography of both of them laying this way. Then, up at the ceiling.
Either to prevent or give serious thought to the possibilities of not getting up and seeking water and getting clean. Of what further value they can get out of a let room. It is, at minimum, nice to lay here with the air warm enough to make it practical, soothing where it turns cool against sheen of sweat.
A breath out. "They're too busy trying to sway me to the opposite," is also nonserious. If any of them made ardent appeal, it might work, but most understand why it is he might choose to keep his distance. And they, from here.
A grunt of acknowledgement after a time becomes— "Then we'll have to make do with present company."
And then it has been his handful of moments, and the hand across his middle slips from it to plant on the mattress. Flint levers himself up to a sitting position. He is sluggish about kicking his feet off the edge of the bed and is so much more so about rising to them that he allows himself to linger momentarily. To feel the pull of muscle, and the tender sensation in his shoulders from having borne so much of Marcus' weight.
It seems like an incredible effort to clamber to his feet, but he manages it.
Behind Flint, the mattress rasps and the ropes slung beneath it creak. Marcus, not yet getting out of it, instead sits up, slides backwards so his back meets the scarred up frame and wall. Knees drawn up comfortably, laxly.
He doesn't say anything, here, watching Flint with frank appraisal, the things he chooses to do next. The slow way he moves, the pause at the edge of the mattress before rising. For Marcus' part, there is the strain of repetitious movement, if less pronounced than if it had been driven down into him by another.
He finds himself wondering a thing, so he asks, "Are you wanting to stay or try to make the ferry?"
"I've some work here in Kirkwall to see to yet," is more answer than Marcus technically asked for. Flint doesn't bother to fish after his clothes yet and instead, naked, pads to the pitcher and basin set just to the right of the door. All things being equal, he hasn't actually lost so much of the night to fucking around.
"There's an alternative if I don't catch the boat." Presumably one that doesn't charge by the candle mark.
And while there's no cloth for washing, but there is water in the pitcher. Flint brings both back within arm's reach of the bed, placing the basin on the rickety side table alongside their helpful vessel of lamp oil. A generous measure of lukewarm water is splashed into it. He fishes the edge of the coverlet up.
Only when Flint plucks at the covelet does Marcus move, heaving a sigh as he vacates that warm spot they've made in partial awareness for how he does not particularly want to find his bare skin touching this specific exposed mattress in this specific venue. The floorboards creak under bare feet, and he does move, first, to separate his clothing from Flint's, shaking out his tunic, draping it over the edge of the bed frame.
"Find a seat at a gambling table, maybe," because he doesn't have work to do, which is the kind of thing he can arrange when not on assignment. Moving towards the basin. "Win back my two bit."
His hands, first, dunking them into water in pragmatic fashion, fingers flicking. A scooping hand distributing water down across belly and groin, a careless spatter of wet on the wooden floor.
"There's money to be won at the Jackdaw if you're any good at keeping track of cards and can stay sober longer than the merchantman who wash up there this hour." They'd probably take Rowntree and his Starkhaven consonants for granted, too. No sailor takes any landsman very seriously as first blush.
As far as hot tips go, he wagers that's more or less worth the copper near the jar of lamp oil.
He makes brisk work of cleaning himself up—workmanlike, neither coy or embarrassed about about mopping up across his belly or between the legs. Clothes are sorted. His coat his shaken out, and the contents of the pocket verified to be only marginally crumpled. His belt is untwisted and buckled back on. It only then, jamming his belt knife back between it and his side, that Flint's attention falls to the activity of Marcus' hand.
"Where'd you come by that?"
The silver ring, common black stone. Its tck against a metal tankard. Its warm metal bite at the skin. Marcus hadn't worn any rings in the mountains.
He's in the process of tucking his tunic into his waistband when he thinks to search the ground, turning a half circle in scanning the floorboards before finding what he is looking for. The sliver of leather cord that Flint had tugged loose, and he's untangling it out of its half-knot, considering his prospects at the Jackdaw with warmer interest than the prospect of retiring early, and thinking around the space that exists in between where he offers to accompany Flint's remaining errands.
Turns his hand to glance at the ring, stone cut into a masculine square, set into heavy silver with some texture of design worked into the surface.
"Looted it," he admits, though it doesn't sound like admission. He is, anyway, talking to a whole pirate. "And learned it was near worthless when I took it to sell."
Or a merchant was attempting to con him, commonness of stone aside, but his tone lacks guile on the topic.
His hm is low and rumbling, a vague sound of acknowledgement—
"Tourmaline. It's a disappointing stone more often than not," sounds vaguely approving regardless. If nothing else, it's a good shap.
The belt knife is hooked into place; his hand with its own smattering of rings comes away from it on favor of fishing through a sleeve on his cost. In short order, Flint once more looks the part of Whole Pirate instead of merely being one.
Gathering hair back into place, the muscle memory rake of fingers to sit it the way he prefers, Marcus ties it off with practiced efficiency. Less neatly than if he had a comb and a mirror and an inclination to be fussier about his appearance than he does currently, sweat half-dry beneath his clothing and still a little aware of where Flint's grip had, at various points, set the future ghosts of yellow bruises.
"Do you have a story for each one of yours," he asks, during, a tip of his chin down at Flint's hand, "or did you come by them all at once?"
A mild teasing, some small brushing against a more familiar register and rhythm than they would have indulged in before the mountains, or even after the mountains.
"I looted them," has a frank cut of shitheelery in it; the equivalent of a nip of teeth at a tender lip. Behind his whiskers, Flint's mouth slants in the direction of smug. "Some are worth money."
The last buckle on a gaiter is done up. The edge of the missed coverlet is flipped back to be certain nothing has strayed out of sight under the bed. And then there is no more benefit for the room, air thick and muggy even before the sweat of their exertions, to yield. It's possible that at this hour, the land breeze will finally be washing down through Kirkwall and carrying with something cool or at least the stir of the air with it as it hurries to meet the sea.
Might as well quit this place to take advantage of what little relief might be found from the heat while walking.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thanks @ whoever directed that episode
"A crossbow shot from another Nascere man," he says after a moment.
If Marcus does mean to distract him—from the overlap of bodies, the casual sling of limbs, the fact that he should presently be looking to shake free in order to clean himself up before the loose jointed satisfaction of not doing that and instead loitering here in the heat of the bed and the closeness of bare skin cements itself into a semi-permanent state—, then this is the best mark to question. It requires some consideration, given how it would be impolitic to tell a man whose day he regularly controls that he came by the scar during a mutiny.
(Almost as impolitic, say, as having said man put his cock in him.)
"He'd an interest in taking possession of my ship. I disagreed." Illustrative. "The other half is on the other side," is radically moreso for a throw away remark and a vague twitch of the shoulder in question. The disagreement had apparently occurred at close enough rang that the bolt had been happy to punch all the way through him.
no subject
His fingers flatten out, the shift from the light brush of the tips of them to the warm settling. It is barely conscious, this playing at conversation, the excuses to touch, where it is just as easily a point of curiousity, a touch that doesn't need an excuse anyway. Of course, having his first question rejected and finding a new one does, to some extent, tell on them both.
This is all still a matter of convenience. No sense in pushing it beyond those boundaries.
"I knew someone who said that marks like that are a sign of good luck," he says. "Given you've still your arm and your life, he might have a point." The last word, punctuated with the idle tap of fingertip to skin.
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And maybe insensitive to whatever potential delicacy may be attached to the thing. But Marcus had fought in a war, and has probably seen children he all but raised killed for it. Even lacking that—death is a very ordinary. Under the warm flat of Marcus' palm, it hardly occurs to him not to treat the subject with some degree of flippancy.
"Bad luck for the man with the crossbow, in any case."
A small tilt of the face in Marcus' direction. Were the room darker, this motion might serve to cloak the line of Flint's attention entirely. But the lamplight is warm, and the shadows only wading depth. His study is heavy. More firm than the hand idle across Marcus' side is despite being half lidded.
"Who split your face?"
no subject
The question is only just forming when Flint asks his, drawing Marcus' focus up from the hazy nothing he'd been looking at while talking, thinking. It is the sort of question so rarely asked that it feels a little like if he'd pushed his fingers firmer against that bruise, and again, there is nothing very offended in the meandering conclusion of wondering if his question had, inadvertently, felt the same way.
Still. No ripple of defense from him, just a brief study back before he answers.
"I didn't catch their name," which he could always leave it at, if he wanted. "A Templar with a tower shield. I remember them standing over someone, and me, striking them with rock and flame. It was enchanted, the shield, and it repelled it back towards me, I'm told."
And then the wisdom, the reassurance. Out of order, in the telling. Messy, like that day.
no subject
(But, maybe: a little tender to the touch, too. That veering point of conversation Marcus had suffered in the hot, cramped tavern before this when Flint had decided to be done discussing something.)
"And the knee?"
no subject
"Fell off a horse."
He'd wondered if Flint does anything purposelessly, to the conclusion that the answer is 'no', but it does not profoundly change the way he engages in return. Perhaps that will be a mistake. For now, Marcus glances down the length of them both. Turning his thigh to illustrate the jagged few inches. "If you ever want to make a grown man beg for his life, get something sharp just under there." Reaching, indicating where the scar curves to kneecap.
Hand laying down on Flint's chest again, leg folding back down. "Do you miss it?"
no subject
comes with a look rising from Marcus' knee to his face. Something in the skeptical flex of an eyebrow or the nearness of the air made briefly more flexible by the trace humor Marcus has breathed into it suggests, 'Isn't that what we just did?'
no subject
"Having a ship and all that went with it," he presses, patiently. "In place of a stone tower on a rock."
no subject
It's an idle thing to draw his hand from Marcus' side and allow his hand to settle across his own middle instead. Unremarkable, a simple settling in the overworked cords of his shoulders (except for how Flint does nothing purposelessly). Flat there, the rings on his fingers glow dull in the lamplight.
He makes no effort to unmoor himself further. Not just yet.
"Considerably." Nevermind that the ship he'd come in often still lurks at anchor in the harbor. There is no denying that he has become so removed from its functioning so as to be rendered entirely inessential. "Though I might feel differently were the Gallows halfway less like they are."
no subject
A real question, slow on the back of Flint's answer as if anticipating elaboration, and still quiet, tired in a prolonged post-coital way without yet threatening to sink into unconsciousness.
And if Flint has withdrawn in some small way, Marcus doesn't appear to have noticed enough to even feign not noticing. In another second or several, perhaps, comfortable in laying against a warm body, the small room diminished further to small bed, back turned to the rest of the evening laying ahead of them.
no subject
It is not what he imagined quitting the sea for.
(Nevermind that he can picture other men, in other chairs, in other forts, who he would prefer to be little like who nonetheless rankled under a yoke similar in appearance.)
no subject
"But we do live there," Marcus says, after a moment. "In spite of it."
In small ways. You can, in small ways, make a home out of anywhere.
no subject
"My point was that the Gallows is hardly retiring to a house on a rich Antivan vineyard," he says. The bed is warm. "It's entirely possible that if I'd traded up instead of across in circumstance, there'd be no reason think of the sea at all."
Sure. That sounds like it could be a true thing someone who made his fortune through theft at the end of a sword's point might say.
"Do you miss your place with Fiona's contingent?"
no subject
So, sure.
And Flint asks his question, and in the midst of it, Marcus adjusts. The roll of his body is not quick, not really aimed towards some specific next movement, just settling on his back. Foot leaving off where it had rested against ankle, hand coiled back from Flint's chest, but there maintains the line of contact, thigh, shoulder.
"If we're speaking of trade," as opposed to a means to nudge him off the prior topic only, "I don't know the value my place would have been there. I was there when it was a rebellion, and left when it ceased to be. I wouldn't miss seven years as a foot soldier of the Chantry."
He considers not saying a thing, before, "Riftwatch has been the better home." He rides griffons and sees much of the world and gets to walk around a city when duties permit and there are people who are good, mixed in the people who are intolerable. He had told Flint he misses his war, too, and apparently these two impulses can co-exist.
no subject
(Maybe Marcus is speaking to the very thing that dissatisfies him; Riftwatch may be faintly divorced from the Chantry and in the least respectable trade city on the Waking Sea, but it still postures at an air of legitimacy. That, the expectation of what civilized places do for civilized people, rankles against the skin. Moreso, from that sixth floor division office. All this courting favor of rich fucks abroad, and playing by the rules that the Divine would prefer them too, and—)
In the close, over warm atmosphere of the room, these irritations hardly rise past a simmer.
"You might send word of your endorsement back to your fellows still with the Inquisition and see whether you might sway anyone else to divest of the Divine's banner," has the timbre of an idle remark, unserious in the sense that it seems highly unnecessary. Surely everyone with the Inquisition knows full well of the Gallows and what might be expected of them there.
no subject
Either to prevent or give serious thought to the possibilities of not getting up and seeking water and getting clean. Of what further value they can get out of a let room. It is, at minimum, nice to lay here with the air warm enough to make it practical, soothing where it turns cool against sheen of sweat.
A breath out. "They're too busy trying to sway me to the opposite," is also nonserious. If any of them made ardent appeal, it might work, but most understand why it is he might choose to keep his distance. And they, from here.
no subject
And then it has been his handful of moments, and the hand across his middle slips from it to plant on the mattress. Flint levers himself up to a sitting position. He is sluggish about kicking his feet off the edge of the bed and is so much more so about rising to them that he allows himself to linger momentarily. To feel the pull of muscle, and the tender sensation in his shoulders from having borne so much of Marcus' weight.
It seems like an incredible effort to clamber to his feet, but he manages it.
no subject
He doesn't say anything, here, watching Flint with frank appraisal, the things he chooses to do next. The slow way he moves, the pause at the edge of the mattress before rising. For Marcus' part, there is the strain of repetitious movement, if less pronounced than if it had been driven down into him by another.
He finds himself wondering a thing, so he asks, "Are you wanting to stay or try to make the ferry?"
no subject
"There's an alternative if I don't catch the boat." Presumably one that doesn't charge by the candle mark.
And while there's no cloth for washing, but there is water in the pitcher. Flint brings both back within arm's reach of the bed, placing the basin on the rickety side table alongside their helpful vessel of lamp oil. A generous measure of lukewarm water is splashed into it. He fishes the edge of the coverlet up.
"You?"
no subject
"Find a seat at a gambling table, maybe," because he doesn't have work to do, which is the kind of thing he can arrange when not on assignment. Moving towards the basin. "Win back my two bit."
His hands, first, dunking them into water in pragmatic fashion, fingers flicking. A scooping hand distributing water down across belly and groin, a careless spatter of wet on the wooden floor.
no subject
As far as hot tips go, he wagers that's more or less worth the copper near the jar of lamp oil.
He makes brisk work of cleaning himself up—workmanlike, neither coy or embarrassed about about mopping up across his belly or between the legs. Clothes are sorted. His coat his shaken out, and the contents of the pocket verified to be only marginally crumpled. His belt is untwisted and buckled back on. It only then, jamming his belt knife back between it and his side, that Flint's attention falls to the activity of Marcus' hand.
"Where'd you come by that?"
The silver ring, common black stone. Its tck against a metal tankard. Its warm metal bite at the skin. Marcus hadn't worn any rings in the mountains.
no subject
Turns his hand to glance at the ring, stone cut into a masculine square, set into heavy silver with some texture of design worked into the surface.
"Looted it," he admits, though it doesn't sound like admission. He is, anyway, talking to a whole pirate. "And learned it was near worthless when I took it to sell."
Or a merchant was attempting to con him, commonness of stone aside, but his tone lacks guile on the topic.
no subject
"Tourmaline. It's a disappointing stone more often than not," sounds vaguely approving regardless. If nothing else, it's a good shap.
The belt knife is hooked into place; his hand with its own smattering of rings comes away from it on favor of fishing through a sleeve on his cost. In short order, Flint once more looks the part of Whole Pirate instead of merely being one.
no subject
"Do you have a story for each one of yours," he asks, during, a tip of his chin down at Flint's hand, "or did you come by them all at once?"
A mild teasing, some small brushing against a more familiar register and rhythm than they would have indulged in before the mountains, or even after the mountains.
no subject
The last buckle on a gaiter is done up. The edge of the missed coverlet is flipped back to be certain nothing has strayed out of sight under the bed. And then there is no more benefit for the room, air thick and muggy even before the sweat of their exertions, to yield. It's possible that at this hour, the land breeze will finally be washing down through Kirkwall and carrying with something cool or at least the stir of the air with it as it hurries to meet the sea.
Might as well quit this place to take advantage of what little relief might be found from the heat while walking.
(no subject)
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