There's a difference between sense and superstition. Sense says get out of the rain; sense says make a fire; sense says the prickle at the back of his neck is cobwebs on the air or his own uneasiness growing from the roan mare's. But sense in the Emerald Graves also says spirits live here, that dark things come crawling where the Fade is thin. And the Fade is narrow here. It's so all over Thedas since the Breach and who knows what lives in ruined houses like this one now. Only a fool would dismiss the possibility of being watched in the Dales.
But in a dusty old house like this one-- not that it stops him from turning toward the gentle prickle at the back of his neck even as he keeps one hand cinched around the reins around the anxious horse's head. Tak, tak, tak, says the rain, the air muggy and low from the wet.
He feels along the base of his hairline. Listens again. Then pats the horse high on her neck and says to her, "Your man is going strange in his age. He'll spook at the smallest thing."
Still he keeps hold of her through the looped reins and busies himself making quick work of the saddle's girth. "Besides, there's no mages to eat here," he tells her. "Unless you've been hiding something from me."
Huff, huff, huff, thinks Katarina. Who sulks almost a moment that she gets no more than muttering for her subtle push. Where was the jump? The sudden looking around? Honestly, he wasn't being the least bit entertaining to her.
It was the least he could, after all. She was dead and he still had a pulse, he could oblige by sending it a little bit racing.
Time for something a bit more then. She looks around the room. Once it had been modestly but respectably decorated. A painting hung here. A candelabra there. The soft light that ebbed from the ornate stone fireplace that now was just full of old twigs, a fallen down and long empty birds nest, a bramble bush that had lived and died between flagstones. He could use it if his only purpose was to hide from the cold and rain.
If he could pick it out from the other fallen in things in front of it. A table overturned and chairs piled in the way. She blew on the horse's ear as she moved past, thinking, ignoring the nervous sound - there was no reason she couldn't be helpful, she supposed. He did just seem to shelter, he hadn't gone for the silverware just yet. She faded through the mess in the way, fishing for a handful of stones that she took up in one hand.
The other she lifted, watching him still, to click her fingers, drawing his pretty mares face. Hoping he would follow the suddenness of her turn, and then - just in case in he didn't look any further: she threw the stones against the back wall of the fireplace, clattering to make a noise and roll back down again. Disturbing cobwebs and branches aside.
He does follow the line of the animal's head. She might be startled and jumpy, but those tall eyes and big velvet nose are likely more trustworthy than his own senses and he's known her to be a good lookout - a sensible kind of animal as far as horses can be. If something in the house has her looking, it may very well be in his best interets to look too.
The clatter of stones is more than enough to draw his attention. For a moment, Marcoulf's hand clenches closed on the reins about the mare's thought. He presses his knuckles against her, bracing as if ready for her to start again (the room is large enough that he could get out from underfoot, but he'd rather not trip over a rotten section of carpet or stray bit of weather ruined furniture--). But then he makes a small noise, unloops the reins and discards the bridle in a mildewed chair. He moves toward the sound, the tangle of brambles, the overgrown barricade of green is discarded furniture.
--And laughs. It's a rough and short and sounds like, 'You idiot' because where there's a fireplace - and indeed there is one hidden there -, there's likely to be all kinds of animals inside it. Plenty to spook a horse and dislodge grit.
"Don't be too pleased," he warns the mare as he sets to clearing the rubbish from infront of the hearth. "The chimney will be blocked."
She keeps herself still by the stone walls. Keeps her body pressed in close, as she watches. Nothing dare stirs here save for her, bitter in her loneliness, she protects these walls - or what is left of them.
Just perhaps not... against the animals that have come to roost.
"Oh - shoot."
The words are out of her mouth before she thinks about it and immediately her hand claps out of her mouth. He'll have heard that, she's spent too long teasing him for him to ignore it now. She presses harder against the stone, feeling herself flicker with the mistake. He will catch sight of what he now knows to look for.
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But in a dusty old house like this one-- not that it stops him from turning toward the gentle prickle at the back of his neck even as he keeps one hand cinched around the reins around the anxious horse's head. Tak, tak, tak, says the rain, the air muggy and low from the wet.
He feels along the base of his hairline. Listens again. Then pats the horse high on her neck and says to her, "Your man is going strange in his age. He'll spook at the smallest thing."
Still he keeps hold of her through the looped reins and busies himself making quick work of the saddle's girth. "Besides, there's no mages to eat here," he tells her. "Unless you've been hiding something from me."
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It was the least he could, after all. She was dead and he still had a pulse, he could oblige by sending it a little bit racing.
Time for something a bit more then. She looks around the room. Once it had been modestly but respectably decorated. A painting hung here. A candelabra there. The soft light that ebbed from the ornate stone fireplace that now was just full of old twigs, a fallen down and long empty birds nest, a bramble bush that had lived and died between flagstones. He could use it if his only purpose was to hide from the cold and rain.
If he could pick it out from the other fallen in things in front of it. A table overturned and chairs piled in the way. She blew on the horse's ear as she moved past, thinking, ignoring the nervous sound - there was no reason she couldn't be helpful, she supposed. He did just seem to shelter, he hadn't gone for the silverware just yet. She faded through the mess in the way, fishing for a handful of stones that she took up in one hand.
The other she lifted, watching him still, to click her fingers, drawing his pretty mares face. Hoping he would follow the suddenness of her turn, and then - just in case in he didn't look any further: she threw the stones against the back wall of the fireplace, clattering to make a noise and roll back down again. Disturbing cobwebs and branches aside.
Come, pretty soldier, a hearth for you.
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The clatter of stones is more than enough to draw his attention. For a moment, Marcoulf's hand clenches closed on the reins about the mare's thought. He presses his knuckles against her, bracing as if ready for her to start again (the room is large enough that he could get out from underfoot, but he'd rather not trip over a rotten section of carpet or stray bit of weather ruined furniture--). But then he makes a small noise, unloops the reins and discards the bridle in a mildewed chair. He moves toward the sound, the tangle of brambles, the overgrown barricade of green is discarded furniture.
--And laughs. It's a rough and short and sounds like, 'You idiot' because where there's a fireplace - and indeed there is one hidden there -, there's likely to be all kinds of animals inside it. Plenty to spook a horse and dislodge grit.
"Don't be too pleased," he warns the mare as he sets to clearing the rubbish from infront of the hearth. "The chimney will be blocked."
no subject
Just perhaps not... against the animals that have come to roost.
"Oh - shoot."
The words are out of her mouth before she thinks about it and immediately her hand claps out of her mouth. He'll have heard that, she's spent too long teasing him for him to ignore it now. She presses harder against the stone, feeling herself flicker with the mistake. He will catch sight of what he now knows to look for.