An Old Man's Quest: Part 3

Marcus Biscay · 09-10-2010, 10:40 PM

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Marcus' ship looks roughly like the ship on this table. It's about 30-40 feet long, with sails about the same footage tall. Being a complete nerd like I am, I took the time to look up the area's natural geography, and noticed a medium sized river called the Mersey which flows NW up into Lake Rossignol (Rabbit Lake). With the right wind, it would be completely possible to sail up that river into the lake. The river in question is just to the East of Crimson Dreams territory. So size and transport accounted for, the only question is accommodation, which would include nothing more than a small flat area on which a boarding plank may be rested. Oh, and length means nothing as long as the substance is quality. Which, obviously, it is :-D!

The door before Marcus creaked open, emitting a faint squeak that surely only the old man's heightened sense of hearing could receive. By then, it had become normal for him to pick up small murmurs, and light whispers. Ever since the accident in Spain, and his loss of smell, his other perceptive mediums had seemed modified. Occasionally, he would spot a shadow from a few miles away, or feel the tremor of a cavalry call just in time to take cover. This had proved quite useful in his unique line of work.

Marcus regarded the figure before him with extreme curiosity. His eyes darted from place to place as he deduced his way into what he believed was a sound state of mind. Female, mother. Body suggests the past bearing of a child, child-- ren. Estimated: five. Eyes-- Marcus took a moment to soak in the piercing emerald gaze before him. Exceptional. His glance shifted downwards. Ornament. Jewellery. No-- no jewel... Necklace, sea shell necklace. Possible trophy? No. Prize? No. Token? Yes, token. No signs of battle, scars, wounds, bruises, lumps, nothing. Only conclusion: gift. Lovely colour. Colour-- Black. Black hair... Unoriginal-- though I suppose no choice was given. Marcus found himself funny. Humorous. perhaps I will share-- perhaps not... But here now, voice: pleasant, femanine-- Italian!.. Savina? No... No, highly unlikely. Colouration indicates separate family altogether-- wait... Ghita had said Savina was-- how did she put it? The oddball, colour wise. Yes, that was it. Yes-- The connection completed in the old man's head, and his eyes widened. "Savina Marino."

Realizing his informality, and also taking note of his formality's apparent futility, Marcus thrusted his mind back into the realm of conversation, and began introductions. "Ah, yes, I-- well--" Marcus sighed curiously, looking towards the threshold. He had no explanation for his attempts at being polite. "You'll forgive an old man, stuck in his ways?" Although posed facetiously, the question held a slightly serious tone. Marcus knew nothing yet of how Savina would take him, or even if she would take him. With such an idea in mind, he watched his steps carefully. "I am new here, yes." He paused between words, attempting to choose them wisely. "I just arrived on these shores three days ago. I thought it might be appropriate to pay you a visit." Glancing into the manor, Marcus wondered if the woman who he had deemed Savina had been taken from a chore to greet him. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything?" With that, a hand was lifted in a questioning manner. It tilted to the side, and stood silent in the air. Suddenly, it became heavy, and retracted to Marcus' vest, where it grabbed a lapel for support. Why does clothing work so well as shelving?

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