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Marcus Flint (marcedflint) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

Marcus and Tristan
As draining as the service had been, Marcus would have been happy to shut himself up in his childhood bedroom with only his flask upon returning to the manor. But the socital demands of receiving guests meant that he had a breif respite between leaving the funeral home after confirming the arrangements for the private burial tomorrow, and entering the room he'd chosen for guests. He'd taken the time to sit in the kitchen for a few minutes, another few swigs of Firewhiskey to get him through the conversations he was going to be required to have. The effects of the alcohol were familiar, even after so many years - the emotional numbness he was striving for while still managing to walk and talk and think mostly clearly. He could remember them perfectly from his Death Eater days, glad to be able to replicate the state now that he wanted, or perhaps needed, to.

When Rakey advised that the first guests had started to trickle in, Marcus had thanked the house elf, took one last swig from his flask before stowing it in an inner pocket of his robes, applied another charm to mask the alcohol on his breath, and headed upstairs. Fortunately, the first few people he encountered weren't particularly extensive or emotional conversations - condolences from members of the Arrows management, or old business partners of his parents from years before. He circulated as expected, starting to feel as though he might actually be able to get through the rest of this event without emotionally taxing himself any more than he already was. Turning around at the sound of his name, he realized he may have had that thought too quickly and he inclined his head to the latest visitor. "Mrs. Travers," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the woman who had been such good friends with his mother while trying to ignore the fact that he could see Tristan standing behind her.