( open / closed — catch-all. )

[enactors]

WHO: marc spector (""mr. knight"") + various
WHERE: stygia, shadowlands — out and about, tbh
WHEN: december
WHAT: moon knighting.
WARNINGS: tba, however general content warnings for MK apply esp. descriptions and/or discussions of violence.

Comments

stygia — barrens / mirth ( open ).

[enactors]

o n e

( it hadn't taken marc long to settle on a dilapidated ruin not too far from the centre of the barrens. in terms of personal taste, it's not the sort of thing marc would ordinarily choose, but the mix of sentry patrols and apparent inherent appeal to less savoury characters means it suits marc's specific wants and needs.

mirth had held some appeal: it's not too different to manhattan, not compared to the rest of stygia, which is a far cry from the environments within which marc spends his time. however, being situated away from the populous, in the dark and in the ruins, fits his brand whilst he's attempting to establish himself. it's not a thousand miles apart — in sentiment, if not in anything else — from the mansion he'd once owned on long island.

the trek into mirth, then, isn't inherently alien in terms of concept and time. it gives him chance to learn the lay of the land, the creatures, the people. the different methods and modes of transport.

within both districts, marc can be found dressed in his usual attire: a white suit, which, as the night(s) wear on, becomes progressively and steadily less pristine, soiled with a mixture of dirt and blood alike.

if (when) marc is found being, in his words, interesting with rough and ready locals, it'll become quickly evident to those more attuned to understanding how fights work that, though marc is skilled, he has an inherent lack of care. his fighting style lacks grace and if he thinks he can gain something through being the recipient of a kick or a punch or a stab or a bite, he'll take it.

even if "gaining something" is nebulous. even if it's just the element of disbelief at how reckless he is.

the blood, then, is a mixture of his and the creatures he fights in the dark.

after dealing ("dealing") with whatever problem has taken his attention, he'll pause, attention fixed on the unmoving body in front of him. with the exception of creatures, marc doesn't seek to kill — not yet, not at the moment — in spite of the voice somewhere at the back of his mind that says it'd be easier if he did. simpler. that there'd be less trouble.

at the sound of someone moving near to him, his right hand will curl into a loose fist, though he makes no other immediate movements. a beat, then— )

Nice night. ( american-accented english. calm. level. )

t w o

( occasionally, he can be found at the cairn, though — perhaps interestingly, if you've spotted him elsewhere — he doesn't drink. if anything, he'll opt for water or for (really, really terrible) coffee from the presumably rarely used and infrequently refreshed coffee machine. here, his mask will be pulled up to the bridge of his nose, stubble, scars and bruises — both old and new — lining his jaw here and there. beyond this, in spite of the mask — designed to be as featureless as possible — marc is remarkably ordinary looking.

or at least, the bottom half of his face is. who knows what the top half looks like.

he tends to sit alone — does he have friends? associates? anyone he likes to spend time with? all the evidence points to no. he's not, however, actively confrontational or aggressive — if anything, he's simply quiet. watchful, with an edge of weariness that implies he either doesn't or can't sleep as much as he should.

should anyone want to join him, be it through lack of other available seating (sorry), pity, or any other reason, he won't decline, though the quirk at the corners of his mouth is questioning and curious. )

ONE!! but vaguely *seesaws hand*

[redsoil]

[ Some nights, he tracks Khonshu's champion across the Barrens. Watching his work, the violence inherent in his fists and the slaughter he leaves in his wake; monsters fall to the Knight, and some manner of security must fall over his area of guardianship in its wake. The might in him is a siren's call to the god of war-and-violence, who once - before all things - was a protector of land and people, one who had long lost his way.

In his world, he has no grudge with Khonshu. The god of the moon is as hermetic as they come, preferring to keep to senet matches and intellectual, thoughtful conversation with Thoth and Ma'at. Like all gods of the Ennead, Set thinks little of him. He also thinks little of him. All of them were subservient to him once, even the moon. Ra herself, did nothing to thwart his rule; her mind and methods even more remote and unfathomable than that of Set's own, full of intensity and contradictions.

The Knight ( Marc -- ) may not take comfort in his presence, but Set seeks him out here and there. Tonight, it is with the blood of beasts slick on his own arms and legs, his hands dutifully cleaned and full of naught but air. He looks from the masked man, to the body on the ground, and red hair falls across one shoulder as he tips his head. Curious, questioning. ]

chinhands

[enactors]

( marc doesn't have any powers. he doesn't have any abilities beyond the norm. marc is just a man, albeit one with a perceived duty. in his more — challenged moments, marc has never been sure how much of his duty has been given to him and how much of it is something he's created in his head to justify who he is and what he's done (what he does).

the majority of the time, he's of the mindset that it is his duty, and equally, he has to do it to make up for what he's done and because he has nothing else. nothing left.

if he's not khonshu's fist of vengeance, what is he? he doesn't know. doesn't want to know, and that's what brings him out, night after night, regardless of the fact that khonshu isn't here.

(not yet, anyway. marc's still not sure if khonshu can't reach him here or if he's just choosing to let marc suffer, letting marc wonder which of the two options it was.

on earth, in new york, it'd been fine. marc had almost enjoyed the distance between the two of them, taken relish — in a manner of speaking — in letting sterman know that they were estranged, but that had been built on the knowledge that he could demand khonshu's attention whenever he desired and vice versa.)

he doesn't know how long set's been watching him and following him, though marc would wager it's for far longer than marc's had any idea of. he stops in his movements and catches the glance.

he exhales heavily, audibly and looks from set to the body and back to set again as set's gaze shifts between the marc and the body. he doesn't know what set's thinking, what his thought process is, doesn't particularly care to, but there's something in the expression, something in his presence that demands answer.

in person, it's harder to ignore than it had been via text and via message. )

You know my duty. ( is what he settles on, then. )

[redsoil]

[ Briefly, he closes his eyes and digs at the stern crease between them with the back of his wrist, as if nursing the onset of a sudden headache. A headache named 'Marc', at that. Monitoring Khonshu's weaponized man was a task he'd taken on, not been burdened with, however - so, he really has no room to complain, nor judge. Whatever Set does in this place, it is apart from the Ennead's watchful gaze and entirely of his own making; save for his own promise, the solemn and difficult path commanded of him. They really wanted him to eat his words, one way or another.

His approach is quiet, even on uneven and rough terrain. The path he makes is a wide one, circling halfway around the scene with watchful, studious eyes. Eventually, his shoulders shrug and he shakes his head: ] Perhaps I do, one day.

[ He accepts it, of most things. The knowledge that people of the supposed 'future' have of him; the information found in tomes and records of histories he has yet to live. The inevitability of it all: he is Set, he is Typhon, he is Baal. The god of anarchists and esoterics, a confusing creature both reviled villain and reformed ally; things he does not know of himself, but does not doubt he will live one day. Time was not a line for a god.

The Knight tells him he knows of his duty. He does not, and also believes he will. ]

It would not hurt to hear of it. Are you an avenger, or protector? What does Khonshu ask of you?

"a headache named marc", never have truer words been spoken

[enactors]

( normally, marc prefaces his explanation of who and what moon knight is with an explanation of who and what khonshu is. this is different: set needs no such explanations and subsequently, it takes marc a moment to choose what words he wants to answer with.

protector of the travellers of the night is — well, it's true, but that's not really it. it's the simplest explanation of what he does. marc thinks that set knows it's more than that, too, based on the questions he asks.

he shifts his weight and drags his feet along the ground, the sound of the movement deliberately audible. what doesn't khonshu ask of him, he wants to ask in return: at first, it had just been vengeance, which was less definable than one might hope. more recently, it had been — what? what would one call the desire to take over the world, even if it had originally been born from a seemingly just desire? )

That I be his fist. ( avenger and protector, whichever is needed in the moment. ) They're not mutually exclusive.

if i know one thing about mk it's that

[redsoil]

The gods of your time are strange to me, [ he admits it, as he trails closer and closer.

His own limbs are sleek with red, the result of his own slaughter of encroaching dangers. There is no fist that he asks this of, nor would any human willingly take on such a role below the evil that was Set of the Ennead. With remarkably clean palms and fingers, he finds it easy to be in the Knight's presence. They are violent things, made for destruction, after all. The body at Marc's feet will either be punished by pain, or termination, he figures. It is not his place to determine which it is -- or is it? ] As I know the Ennead, we simply delivered our judgement with our own hands.

[ The gods of his time were their own arbiters, they took no knights like this. It's new to him, to imagine a time where the Ennead worked through others. It's painful for him, to try and envision what burden that must place upon the mortal life functioning in such a role -- he simply does not think that way, normally. Nowadays, he attempts to. Fails, mostly. ]

How does your memory of Khonshu's will ask you to judge this man, then?

[ Tell me of it, Set requests wordlessly, as he draws even with the white-robed Knight's shoulder, and looks down upon the man without pity or protectiveness. ]

noticeboard quests ( open ).

[enactors]

( the quests are a good way to earn a bit of money given that he doesn't have steven's investments to rely on, jake's cab fares, or his own 'bottomless pit of blood money', as frenchie had so kindly referred to it. sure, here, outgoings are less, but he has an identity to entrench. bona fides to establish. a moon knight to be, and he can't do that without some tools of his own behind him.

there aren't many of the appeals for help that appeal to him — he's not going to be dressing up as a clown any time soon, and he certainly isn't about to indulge in nude modelling — it's not that he's shy, but he's got a secret identity, ya feel? — which leaves esmerelda's trinkets, and zevra.

he's masked (of course), suited and booted (again, of course), all of which means that his expression is unreadable. if you've encountered "mr. knight" at some point over the previous nights ("nights"), it may be safe to assume he's slept or something since then, as his suit, whilst not impeccable — a few tears here and there, a bit of dirt and the odd stubborn blood stain — is certainly cleaner than it has been.

he hmms, head tilted in consideration. he reaches for one of the listings with a (white) gloved hand and pulls it off the board to re-read.

sorry if you were trying to read it yourself. )

> the darkling, notice board / esmerelda.

[enactors]

( the turn in the weather is abrupt and though marc isn't any stranger to cold winters — chicago, new york — the stark shift as compared to what he'd been experiencing to this is taking some adjustment, as is the comparative lack of mod cons in his chosen abode versus his office back home.

(central heating would be lovely.)

the "quest" (quote-unquote) slash request for assistance with regards to magical heating stones (question mark) isn't the sort of thing he'd normally sign up for, but needs must and being cold when it's not necessary is, like, something he'd prefer to skip out on.

he pointedly avoids the mistletoe and the sprites on his way to esmerelda's in mirth, where there's already one (1) other person waiting. compared to marc, he's dressed in far more regular daywear, whilst marc is still — as ever — attired in his suit. he removes his jacket and drapes it over a chair before rolling up his shirt sleeves to his elbow before pausing. )

—Do I remove my gloves? ( he asks his — soon-to-be hand-holding partner? shopworker? assistant to esmerelda? who knows. he'd assume so, but — just checking. perhaps in contrast to the mask and the suit, marc's voice is utterly normal. chicago-accented, male, polite. )

[cruelyethuman]

[Dressed almost as he would back home, the Darkling is wearing all black - which, while he looks at the man next to him, is almost laughable. Contrasting the man in the white suit, he stands with only his gloves removed and his sleeves barely pulled past his wrist.

Why is he even here, selling his hands for coins when he could be somewhere in the city. Or with Alina, reading through the heavy tomes with the history of this place and working on a way back.

But the only answer he allows himself, is the soft look on Alina's face as they walked past brightly coloured gifts and how her eyes had-- lingered.]

Do you know a way to make skin contact with them on. No?