As they make their way North, they will find their way through autumn and into the wet cold of the Emprise du Lion, but they haven't yet traveled so far and here in the southern valley the rest of the Dales still lives green and gold in late summer. That camp should already be made when there is still so much light in the day is due entirely to the work of the afternoon - tracking and closing a rift in the hills, the associated work of which has left sword arms and horses exhausted.
So the tents having been pitched, the string of horses watered and fed, and with hours yet in which a real meal might be prepared so Marcoulf takes it upon himself to wander up the length of the meadow toward the treeline where he might find some firewood or mushrooms. He instead finds an apple tree with some fruit still ripe and undisturbed by birds on its lowest branches and spends his time shoving them into his bag. After-- well, the quiet is easy and the camp is well in sight from this higher vantage, so he has no qualms about sitting in the sun and eating a few apples before making his way back. Which, thanks to the stress of the morning and the warmth of the day, transitions nicely into taking a nap laid out in the yellowing grass.
Surely no trouble has ever been caused by wandering off and not coming back in a timely fashion.
Sure, Adaar could have woken her charge like a normal person -- but she was not a normal person. She was the Inquisitor, and more commonly, a Tal-Vashoth with remarkably little patience when she was tired. So, somewhere in the middle of his warm sunny nap, an arrow abruptly embeds itself in the tree trunk directly above his head. In addition to echoing a very loud sound, it shakes a few more apples from its branches to come raining down on top of him.
She emerges on the hilltop not long after, longbow in hand and dark lips lightly pursed in frustration. Her white-dragonscale coat has signs of soot dragged all across it -- no doubt one of the new recruits had gotten overzealous in their fire-starting.
"Sorry, did I wake you?" comes her accented voice, slightly snappish.
Ka-thunk. Whether that's the sound of the arrow finding the tree or the apple striking him isn't really important. He's snapped awake either way.
Rising on his elbow, Marcoulf's spare hand rubs the line of his collarbone. A bruise might form there, he thinks, then reaches for the apple that did the deed. He doesn't get much farther though, still laid out on his side in the golden sunlight of the afternoon like a cat in a windowsill. He closes one eyes, squinting against the sun up at her. She's very tall, but does an incomplete job of blocking the sun.
"You did." He turns the apple in his hand, presses it under his nose. Sniffs. Seems fine. Good color. No holes pecked by birds. Marcoulf rubs the dirt from it's skin against his shoulder. "Have I missed something?"
"The entire camp set up, for one," Mia counts off on her finger, eyelids drawing downward. "A brushfire, for two." She dusts some of the black off her leathers for emphasis. "And for three, the Inquisition isn't paying you to nap on the job."
With her height assisting her, she reaches up for an apple to pull off a branch. It isn't as if she doesn't sympathize, at least a little. She'd been a mercenary once -- in truth, it was a life she missed with every new responsibility piled on her shoulders. But they both had more important work to do right now.
"If I'm overworking you, you could have just said so."
There's an argument to be made there - pardon, he recalls pitching a fair share of tents and seeing to the string of horses and etcetera before climbing up here -, but saying as much is so transparently an effort to avoid scolding that it can do no good.
So instead Marcoulf takes some measure of the scorching on her outerwear and a bite from the apple. There. A moment to quite literally chew over his options. He eventually settles on:
"You'll need to speak with the Lady minding the coin then, as I'm afraid the Inquisition isn't paying me enough not to nap either." Keeping him fed and clothed is just about the extent of what can be mustered (which is just fine, really). "But I'll make a deal. In exchange for the nap I'll trade you half my stock," --with a pat to the rucksack of apples-- "And get the black out of those leathers."
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this is a useless starter and I'm sorry
So the tents having been pitched, the string of horses watered and fed, and with hours yet in which a real meal might be prepared so Marcoulf takes it upon himself to wander up the length of the meadow toward the treeline where he might find some firewood or mushrooms. He instead finds an apple tree with some fruit still ripe and undisturbed by birds on its lowest branches and spends his time shoving them into his bag. After-- well, the quiet is easy and the camp is well in sight from this higher vantage, so he has no qualms about sitting in the sun and eating a few apples before making his way back. Which, thanks to the stress of the morning and the warmth of the day, transitions nicely into taking a nap laid out in the yellowing grass.
Surely no trouble has ever been caused by wandering off and not coming back in a timely fashion.
no subject
She emerges on the hilltop not long after, longbow in hand and dark lips lightly pursed in frustration. Her white-dragonscale coat has signs of soot dragged all across it -- no doubt one of the new recruits had gotten overzealous in their fire-starting.
"Sorry, did I wake you?" comes her accented voice, slightly snappish.
no subject
Rising on his elbow, Marcoulf's spare hand rubs the line of his collarbone. A bruise might form there, he thinks, then reaches for the apple that did the deed. He doesn't get much farther though, still laid out on his side in the golden sunlight of the afternoon like a cat in a windowsill. He closes one eyes, squinting against the sun up at her. She's very tall, but does an incomplete job of blocking the sun.
"You did." He turns the apple in his hand, presses it under his nose. Sniffs. Seems fine. Good color. No holes pecked by birds. Marcoulf rubs the dirt from it's skin against his shoulder. "Have I missed something?"
no subject
With her height assisting her, she reaches up for an apple to pull off a branch. It isn't as if she doesn't sympathize, at least a little. She'd been a mercenary once -- in truth, it was a life she missed with every new responsibility piled on her shoulders. But they both had more important work to do right now.
"If I'm overworking you, you could have just said so."
no subject
So instead Marcoulf takes some measure of the scorching on her outerwear and a bite from the apple. There. A moment to quite literally chew over his options. He eventually settles on:
"You'll need to speak with the Lady minding the coin then, as I'm afraid the Inquisition isn't paying me enough not to nap either." Keeping him fed and clothed is just about the extent of what can be mustered (which is just fine, really). "But I'll make a deal. In exchange for the nap I'll trade you half my stock," --with a pat to the rucksack of apples-- "And get the black out of those leathers."