The Commander says, Deal with their supplies as you see fit, when he passes them the rolled map. It had been marked in three places, three camps of largely researchers. Easy targets.
Ellis understands he has been dispatched only to guarantee Marcus the space in which to destroy them. Even in his limited understanding, he is aware that Marcus might have been able to scuttle three small camps on his own.
Admittedly, Granitefall had colored his perception of what Marcus is capable of. Knowing a man can raise a volcano skews the scale in only one direction.
Still, there is enough to keep Ellis busy. The camps are destroyed, and the supplies burned, and what little notes or letters of interest are packed into a saddlebag. It is a straightforward affair. Marcus Rowntree is an easy man to work alongside. They can report a success, whenever it is they manage to wind their way back to Kirkwall.
Whenever only because they were in the air but a few minutes before the heavy clouds that had hung overhead throughout the day open and pour down such a deluge that it forces them from the sky. Butterball crawks his displeasure throughout the entire descent, a bad influence on his fellow, silencing only when freed of saddlebags and permitted to take cover beneath the shield of their wings as Ellis and Marcus make for the network of caverns they'd spotted earlier.
Leaving Marcus to take account of what can be salvaged from their packs and saddle bags, Ellis turns his attention to the low dip in the ground, clearly intentionally made. Someone has stayed here before, perhaps. Soaked through, mud spattered and weary, Ellis crouches to begin the process of striking a small fire. He is dripping. The dusty pile of logs and kindling at the back of the cave was a boon, but only if Ellis can avoid dousing any spark he manages to strike.
The oddly creaky, avian-feline purrs of the two griffons resonate against the natural walls of the cavern. The two are easily differentiated, with Monster's dryer, cracked-over sounding croaks coming quiet and sulky as Marcus loosens her saddlebags, a quiet activity off towards the entryway of the cave. Outside, he'd thought it darkly overcast, difficult to see. Here, with the blackness of the cavern at his back, grey light feels silver, overbright, and helplessly slow to recede.
It doesn't take long. With the two mounts informally guarding the entryway, Ellis can sense Marcus approach, the quiet impression of bootfalls on loose earth and stone.
Adjacent, he kneels down. In his hands are rations, canisters full now with rain water. Not many. They weren't anticipating a long stay, and there weren't even bedrolls taking up saddlespace. He is still dressed in his armor, the fur lining across the collar, the shoulder pieces, having done something (but not everything) to protect the linens beneath from the deluge they'd just flown through.
A glance to Ellis his task, as if noticing it's happening for the first time, and after a beat, he offers, "Let me."
A concession, demurring to Marcus' offered expertise. He wouldn't have demanded it, had Marcus not done so.
Sat back on his heels, Ellis is keenly aware of how little protection his own plate had provided. Where the rainwater had seeped and spread through his gambeson, the legs of his trousers. Having discarded his helmet, even his hair is damp. And their rations have not fared much better.
If they are lucky, the weather will turn. But if it doesn't—
He might put the possibility to Marcus. But not just yet. Ellis sits there, cold and drenched, and watches Marcus attend to the neat assembly of kindling and firewood Ellis had constructed. Observe how this man might bring forth fire from nothing at all.
The arrangement Ellis has made of wood and kindling is nothing in need of adjustment, a cursory handling that's more habit than an anything else.
Rather than simply summon flame as he might for the end of his cigarette, there is a moment of focus, one hand hovered over the gathering of dry wood and the other weaving a subtle pattern until that pattern writes faint lines of runic glow in the air. A gesture lays those down onto the wood, where they burn black lines into it, sending up fine ribbons of smoke.
A slight leaning back, and flame bursts forth, getting its teeth into the wood like a well tended fire should.
Gold and orange light to see by, now, rather than the distant silver. Rain water has made Marcus' hair near-black, a few loose strands that have escaped his tie now plastered to his face, still damp and shining. He rocks back to sit, firelight picking up brightly in the slightly gold-tinted breastplate nestled amongst the leather and fur.
Familiarity between them is limited, Ellis knows. They work very well together. They have found a good rhythm between Ellis’ mace and the work of Marcus’ stave. That has been all they’ve needed.
It’s made easier by appreciation. Ellis has a great deal of it for those who excel at their work. And there is something of that here, something pleasing to observe as Marcus draws his fingers through the air.
“Are the rations too water-logged to put over the fire?” Ellis asks, as the fire takes hold, springs up warm between them. He follows Marcus’ example, sitting back fully. Reaches for the straps securing the plate over his thigh, deftly undoing the buckle. Even had he worn full plate, he’d likely be in the same position as he is now. He has lined nothing with fur, let the griffon be his only embellishment.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Ellis understands he has been dispatched only to guarantee Marcus the space in which to destroy them. Even in his limited understanding, he is aware that Marcus might have been able to scuttle three small camps on his own.
Admittedly, Granitefall had colored his perception of what Marcus is capable of. Knowing a man can raise a volcano skews the scale in only one direction.
Still, there is enough to keep Ellis busy. The camps are destroyed, and the supplies burned, and what little notes or letters of interest are packed into a saddlebag. It is a straightforward affair. Marcus Rowntree is an easy man to work alongside. They can report a success, whenever it is they manage to wind their way back to Kirkwall.
Whenever only because they were in the air but a few minutes before the heavy clouds that had hung overhead throughout the day open and pour down such a deluge that it forces them from the sky. Butterball crawks his displeasure throughout the entire descent, a bad influence on his fellow, silencing only when freed of saddlebags and permitted to take cover beneath the shield of their wings as Ellis and Marcus make for the network of caverns they'd spotted earlier.
Leaving Marcus to take account of what can be salvaged from their packs and saddle bags, Ellis turns his attention to the low dip in the ground, clearly intentionally made. Someone has stayed here before, perhaps. Soaked through, mud spattered and weary, Ellis crouches to begin the process of striking a small fire. He is dripping. The dusty pile of logs and kindling at the back of the cave was a boon, but only if Ellis can avoid dousing any spark he manages to strike.
no subject
It doesn't take long. With the two mounts informally guarding the entryway, Ellis can sense Marcus approach, the quiet impression of bootfalls on loose earth and stone.
Adjacent, he kneels down. In his hands are rations, canisters full now with rain water. Not many. They weren't anticipating a long stay, and there weren't even bedrolls taking up saddlespace. He is still dressed in his armor, the fur lining across the collar, the shoulder pieces, having done something (but not everything) to protect the linens beneath from the deluge they'd just flown through.
A glance to Ellis his task, as if noticing it's happening for the first time, and after a beat, he offers, "Let me."
no subject
A concession, demurring to Marcus' offered expertise. He wouldn't have demanded it, had Marcus not done so.
Sat back on his heels, Ellis is keenly aware of how little protection his own plate had provided. Where the rainwater had seeped and spread through his gambeson, the legs of his trousers. Having discarded his helmet, even his hair is damp. And their rations have not fared much better.
If they are lucky, the weather will turn. But if it doesn't—
He might put the possibility to Marcus. But not just yet. Ellis sits there, cold and drenched, and watches Marcus attend to the neat assembly of kindling and firewood Ellis had constructed. Observe how this man might bring forth fire from nothing at all.
no subject
Rather than simply summon flame as he might for the end of his cigarette, there is a moment of focus, one hand hovered over the gathering of dry wood and the other weaving a subtle pattern until that pattern writes faint lines of runic glow in the air. A gesture lays those down onto the wood, where they burn black lines into it, sending up fine ribbons of smoke.
A slight leaning back, and flame bursts forth, getting its teeth into the wood like a well tended fire should.
Gold and orange light to see by, now, rather than the distant silver. Rain water has made Marcus' hair near-black, a few loose strands that have escaped his tie now plastered to his face, still damp and shining. He rocks back to sit, firelight picking up brightly in the slightly gold-tinted breastplate nestled amongst the leather and fur.
A glance over. Wry. Isn't this fun.
no subject
It’s made easier by appreciation. Ellis has a great deal of it for those who excel at their work. And there is something of that here, something pleasing to observe as Marcus draws his fingers through the air.
“Are the rations too water-logged to put over the fire?” Ellis asks, as the fire takes hold, springs up warm between them. He follows Marcus’ example, sitting back fully. Reaches for the straps securing the plate over his thigh, deftly undoing the buckle. Even had he worn full plate, he’d likely be in the same position as he is now. He has lined nothing with fur, let the griffon be his only embellishment.