Roleplay: Lucian x Marw

Dated: September 28, 2026

The Last Chance

Lucian sits uncomfortably close to the fire, with his back to the hearth to avoid surprises behind him. His guitar case is open on the ground beside him, drying out the liner, and he is meticulously cleaning, drying, oiling and restringing his wooden guitar.

Marw pushed open the door to the tavern and only took a few steps inside, the door groaning loudly as it closed behind her. From the look of her, it would take no genius to deduce that the probability of this woman being fresh from the lake was extremely high. Her clothes were sodden, dripping in a steady rhythm upon the floor. Her black hair with a couple of silver strands clung to her face and scalp. Though one of the rivulets from her hairline was red and not water. Her eyes, a sharp blue, glanced over to Lucian, then over the rest of the room in its barren state. A frustrated sigh left her as attention returned to the only other occupant "I will have a port. Make it a large one." No, please, no thank you, just an assumption. As much as in that moment the woman might have craved the warmth of the fire, her eyes had also caught the faded maps by the stairs. On the move again, she went towards them to inspect and see if they would give any clue as to where she was.

Lucian looks up at the creak of the door and the bold entrance of the equally bold woman. Having already had the pleasure of a warm, dry fire after his own lakely arrival, Lucian calls out casually, "¿Qué tal, linda?" as with exaggerated and exacting care he sets his guitar down a very calculated distance from the fire, to keep warming it slowly. Standing slowly and moving with a languid grace, the heels of his shoes clicking a gentle cadence against the floor, he moves to join Marw near the maps. "I don't work here, Miss, but they say 'Any port in a storm,' no?" Smiling, he fishes first a silver flask of tequila from his vest's inner pocket, holding it out to Marw as he stands just at arm's length from her. His other hand fishes out a now-dry handkerchief, monogrammed 'L.C.' which he dabs to his own forehead as demonstration before proffering to Marw.

Marw looked at the offered flask first and then to Lucian, suspicion settled in her features but she took it nonetheless. "Thank you." The words were clipped, distracted and seemed more out of performative habit than any other reason. She brought it to her lips that had little remains of her favoured purple lipstick and took a respectable swallow. Instant regret claimed her. Eyes clenched shut and she turned her head away as if all that she had swallowed would suddenly resurface. "Good Lord." is all she can mutter for a moment. She did not return it though, this time more steeled for this drink, she took a second swallow, regret was still there but smaller. Then a third ...for what could only be assumed as medicinal needs.

It is then she offered the flask back. "I do not speak elvish, or whatever it was that you uttered." There was no humour in the declaration, just straight dismissal of whatever he uttered in the foreign tongue. As the handkerchief was offered, a loft of a brow is how she demonstrated the new surge of suspicion though his demonstration at least gave her guidance. It was taken, her forehead dabbed and she let out a sigh as she saw the blood upon it as if it was an annoying inconvenience. The handkerchief was then balled up into her fist as her fingers moved into her wet black hair, manicured nails pressing along her scalp until she found the wound and once she had, a wince was quickly earned. There the handkerchief was pressed. Her attention had already returned to the maps, gaze tracing the roads, the unfamiliar markings and the names of the places. All unfamiliar. Though if you asked her what she was looking for, she might not be able to tell you, she could only deduce what was on these papers did not bring her what she wanted. Then still with handkerchief pressed to scalp she turned to Lucian and asked two questions: "Who are you? And where, precisely, are we?"

Lucian's eyes visibly brighten at Marw's first sip of tequila as he gets exactly the reaction he expected, and his smile grows as he gets the reaction he hoped for during her second and third tastes. He helps himself to a sip as well, eyebrows only slightly lofting to draw attention to the fact that he's sipping from the flask her lips so recently touched, before screwing on the cap and tucking it into his vest. He chuckles and clears his throat, answering, "Ahh, I am no duende, Miss, just a man. What I said, it means, 'Hello, pretty lady, what brings you to this beautiful inn?' but without so much," he mimes a yapping mouth with his hand, taking the opportunity to look at the maps himself over Marw's shoulder. "I am Lucian Corvo. The priests, they named me 'Corvo' because when I heard music I did not stop crowing." A practiced laugh follows his polished joke, and he looks around again taking in the rest of the room. "As for where we are, precisely, we are in The Last Chance. In the cozy village of Grimwych, beside a purple lake. More than that the signs and my eyes do not say." He gestures broadly at the maps on the wall, and assures Marw, "But I do know where we are not. We are not in Santa Cecilia, Sinaloa, Chihuahua. Sepa la bola." He shrugs, shaking his head.

Marw stared, just stared, at him throughout his talking and even for a few long seconds after he stopped. Then she blinked and shook her head. The handkerchief was lifted, glanced at, folded over so an unblemished patch of white was soon pressing against the small cut on her scalp. Her lips then parted, ready to offer her own name, but it did not come. A brief furrow of her brow; she knew her name, didn't she? It was there, on the tip of her tongue, and then it just when it was about to be spoken...it was gone. She does not admit that. Instead, she offered "There are many ways to silence a bird." A shallow nod of her head is done as she moved over to the fire where he first had been situated. She took the time to look over the belongings he had laid out there, though her mind was on what he had uttered, Grimwych, Purple Lake, Last Chance...and to try to recall her own name. Once again the handkerchief was lifted to be inspected, the blood was less, it would do. She starts to fold the handkerchief with the intention of holding it out for him to take back but one at the very least must pretend to be proper. "I will wash this and then return it to you Mr Corvo." she says. Her attention returned fully to the drying belongings, the fire and then back to him. "You came through the lake as well." Not a question, once again an assumption. "How long ago?"

Lucian moves graciously past the moment of Marw's distress, her quietly stilled tongue, and offers a comment only on her rejoinder, "Like the cat who catches the canary. Shall I call you Gatita, then?" He smiles and moves to close his hand over Marw's and the handkerchief, but pulls back before making contact. "You keep it. For the next bump in the road." He looks over at own belongings, drying by the fire, smile sliding out of his eyes but remaining plastered by force of will on his lips. "A day, maybe two. The sun comes and goes, but the song of the village is gone. Hard to focus, hard to sleep, in the silence. And my instruments..." He sighs finally and shakes his head. "My guitar should be fine, at least."

Marw offered an eye roll at the potential name. "In all honesty, what you call me, matters little." When he generously insisted she keep the handkerchief, she looked down upon the monogrammed square with a near glare, for he had just complicated an otherwise straightforward transaction. "I plan on avoiding further injuries." Her black velvet blazer was quickly unbuttoned; she would dry quicker with it off. A quick smooth of her shirt as if that would remove any wrinkles that had dared to form, before she moved to a chair, sliding the handkerchief into the pocket of the removed blazer. "A day or two." She echoed, unimpressed that he was unable to answer without accuracy. Her hand paused in the pocket as she rummaged around. Out of it she pulled a small tube of lipstick, a soaked packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She tests the latter, but not even a spark comes from it. The three are set upon a tabletop. Then to the next pocket she ventured, "I take it you are a musician then? You look too old to be chasing an unrealistic career path." Out of the next pocket she pulled out a small pocket watch, which she flipped open and quickly deduced that it did not tick, and a small bottle of pills. Once emptied, she hooked the blazer over the back of the chair and then crouched by the fire, letting the light of the dancing flames illuminate the label on the last object. Turning it over in her hand she asked, "What are the people like here?" The label held familiar words, a prescription of sleeping pills in a name she knew the moment she read it, that it was hers. "Marw Foxx. That is who I am."

Lucian strikes a hand to his heart when Marw dismisses his pet name, but follows her to the chair and table, lingering nearer his own items than hers. A second hand strikes his heart when she dismisses his vocation, but he smiles all the brighter for it. A genuine pain crosses his features when her lighter fails, and without much hope he offers, "Perhaps the striker is just wet." He looks longingly at his guitar case after that, until Marw steps closer to the fire and recaptures his attention. He draws in a deep breath at her first question, exhaling slowly through his pursed lips, and answers her final piece of information first. "Ahhhh, no Gatita you, then. La Zorro Hembra. Friend of the crow, no? As far as such sly things have friends. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Marw Foxx." He offers a slight bow, clearly making a joke of such an antiquated introduction, and looks back to the fire when he rises. "There are no people here, Miss Foxx. We are not alone, I mean. There are others. I see them scurry, like rats. Pillaging someone else's empty home. Like us. This village has lost its music."

Marw offers a dismissive wave of her hand, she was not fretting the death of a lighter. There would be others about, matches or even...a glance to the flames as she rises back to her feet. The bottle of sleeping pills and pocket watch are set on the table as she turns her attention to the cigarettes, glancing at her hands. No wedding ring. But Miss sat strangely odd for her. So did Mrs. She didn't strike herself as unmarried nor happily married. Perhaps she was divorced, perhaps her husband was dead, perhaps her husband was locked up in a prison and she had disowned him in shame though still legally bound to him. Those three options seemed far more palatable to her soul than the other options. "Ms." she corrects. "Ms Marw Foxx." The cigarette she pulled out looked like it would droop at any moment. Returning to the fire, she held it out for the end to catch, a sizzle as the water within protested but the flames won and the end was lit. A drag was taken first with a judgmental look before she settles in a chair. It is now and only now she takes the moment to fully assess her taverne companion, no attempt to hide the scrutiny upon her sharp face as she looks him up and down. "Firstly as I already said, I do not know the words in whatever language you keep on attempting to speak to me." Another drag is taken, though once again the wet tobacco sizzles first "Secondly, what is your game Mr Corvo? Your attempt at charming musician might be flattering to some and people might fall for it. Some of us never had music inside us to lose. So if you are attempting to play my heartstrings for whatever game you are playing, I should warn you, I have always preferred silence."

Lucian watches the cigarette lose its fight against lighting and finally succumb, before looking Marw dead in the eyes and smiling, "A sus órdenes, Doña Marw Foxx." He opens his mouth, again, still smirking, then looks to her forgotten lighter, and down to his empty guitar case. Nostrils flare to admit another deep breath, held in his chest for two beats more than necessary, and finally released in a slow stream past his lips. Without looking back up he shakes his head, "I will not try to trick the fox." He kneels and makes a brief gesture, touching two fingers to his forehead, sternum, then left and right shoulders, muttering to himself, "San Judas Tadeo, the causes do not come more lost than these." He unclips a catch and lifts up the false bottom of his guitar case, revealing gleaming, freshly cleaned and oiled metal devices set into recesses in the red velvet lining. He pulls one out reverently, holding it in one hand, kissing it, and pointing the gleaming barrel at a discarded empty bottle on the bar top. He squeezes a trigger, and the device makes a dull click. He ratchets back a slide on the top and it ejects a small cylinder, which he examines closely before placing into a slot with similar cylinders. He looks up at Marw as if this is all greatly meaningful. "I play no games, Ms. Foxx. I am a musician without my instruments. I needed a place to rest, but this place is... híjole...is no good." He sighs and sets the device back into its designated resting place. Several knife-shaped hollows are empty. He continues, addressing the words to his case as he closes the secret compartment, and carefully lifts his guitar to rest on top, "I don't have a game. I am lost. But, I don't have a home to get back to either. So, perhaps I do as I have always done. I tell the pretty doñas they are pretty, I share tequila, I play my guitar. Pues, ni modo. What else can be done?"

Marw watched his little ritual of fingers to forehead, chest and shoulders with a cool and attention she had afforded everything else about him. The muttered words meant nothing to her, though the tone gave some sort of clue. Her cigarette was lifted but only hovered near her lips as the bottom of the guitar case was lifted. That was...interesting. She scanned over the contents, the empty knife shaped recesses and finally the weapon he lifted and he kissed it, one brow rose. "How romantic." Smoke curled around her fingers as she waited, only for a click and no shot. "Well, that indicates that you may have more career prospects than I thought you had before." Because apparently useless weapons might still be more beneficial to the world than his music. A glance to the ash gathering upon her cigarette, and without thought she flicked it to the floor. Unfortunately, the paper, still wet, tore with the motion. A frustrated sigh, and she let it drop to the floor and crushed it under her shoe. His explanation caused her to purse her lips into a fine line. "You tell women they are pretty, ply them with tequila and serenade them until circumstance improves." A tilt of her head. "That is an interesting survival strategy." Perhaps there was a slight suggestion of amusement, dry, even all the water of all the lakes could not change that. A glance to her belongings as his later words echoed in her mind- No home to return to....Then she looked back at him, rising to a stand and moving over to the table. She grabbed the lipstick and removed the lid; she then said "I need to figure out my own strategy." A quick reapplication of the dark purple lipstick, muscle memory unaffected by head injuries. "I am going to find out some more about this place. It will allow you and your lover..." a pointed glance to the weapon "...some privacy." Her items collected, her blazer draped over an arm, and just like that, the woman who did not have much was ready to go find the place that would become her den."Mr Corvo, it has been ...interesting. Good luck finding the music." And with no further ado, out of the tavern and into the village she goes.

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