[ Redvers' flippant cooperation with this thorough inventory has continued unabated, mostly, save for a deepening slouch of his shoulders—he might be caught giving the chair he declined a longing glance, once, if Marcus looks up at the right moment—and increasing brevity as his patience wanes. ]

Rift,

[ is only his wheels sticking in that pattern of brevity. He's distracted, too, leaning over the desk, braced on his arms in a welcome change of posture and weight distribution, to scan Marcus' notes.

He unsticks, after a moment. ]

Not far from Montfort. A little one. It's still there, but it's out of the way, and it's only spitting out wraiths. They sent us to have a look, [ is all the truth, and he'd be a poor liar even if he were trying to mask the change in his tone and arch of his eyebrow as he adds, ] and I missed you so much, so I stuck out my hand, and—

[ A catching gesture, as if the anchor were lofted to him underhand. The same hand then reaches for Marcus' pen. ]