[ The corner of his mouth almost twitches. Very close to an expression that isn't pure contempt.
Marcus spends the time to ensure he has each Circle correct, assigned to the right name. He ascertains, what he can get out of Keen, the status and whereabouts of these people. It is a doggedly thorough mapping out of Redvers' existing sphere of influence (and influenced).
At some stage, when there is quite a lot written down, Marcus sets the book down on the desk, turns it, and pushes it to the opposite edge, for Redvers' review. He should not like to misrepresent him.
[ 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. ]
Mostly because it is unexpected, when there'd been distance maintained, but in the split second he has to decide, he decides perhaps the man is making a correction, and so. It doesn't prevent Marcus from a twitched look of aggravation, both for the action and the arch joke at the end. ]
[ He is making additions, more than corrections, reinvigorated by the change of pace into adding Johana’s first Circle, before Starkhaven, and a note that Berta is now in Orlais. ]
Bernie, Wallace, Geri were there.
[ Speaking of. He adds “Bernie” in parenthesis near Knight-Corporal Bernhard. ]
Some others. A local scout.
[ He slides the paper back. Checks the pen for signs of nibbling, because that would be fantastic, before setting it on top. ]
If you want a roster, you should ask the Knight-Commander. He’ll get a kick out of that.
[ There's probably at least one scrape of a tooth mark there. Only semi-fantastic.
Marcus takes his pen back along with his notes, drawing them to his side of the desk. He nods at this suggestion in a way that perhaps there will indeed be such a letter sent, and then spends a moment trying to consider whatever stones he has left unturned. Back down at the page, turning it back around so that he can see these new pen marks. "Bernie".
He pushes it aside to let the ink dry. ]
If there is more needed of you, I'll send word. You can leave.
[ Redvers answers that with a long pause, head creeping into a tilt. A silence that substitutes for I didn't need your permission with a touch of I was there to see your voice change and your face get spotty, serah.
He says, ]
Thanks.
[ Dry. But obliging. He shuffles out without further delay. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
We're dealing in the potential for corruption, Knight-Lieutenant. Influence. Such forces don't only travel through strict hierarchal obligation.
no subject
[ He's sleeping with none of them, in fact, so this is not a particularly useful hill to die on. ]
no subject
Marcus spends the time to ensure he has each Circle correct, assigned to the right name. He ascertains, what he can get out of Keen, the status and whereabouts of these people. It is a doggedly thorough mapping out of Redvers' existing sphere of influence (and influenced).
At some stage, when there is quite a lot written down, Marcus sets the book down on the desk, turns it, and pushes it to the opposite edge, for Redvers' review. He should not like to misrepresent him.
He asks, as he does so, ]
What happened? To get your shard.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Mostly because it is unexpected, when there'd been distance maintained, but in the split second he has to decide, he decides perhaps the man is making a correction, and so. It doesn't prevent Marcus from a twitched look of aggravation, both for the action and the arch joke at the end. ]
And who all was 'us'.
no subject
[ He is making additions, more than corrections, reinvigorated by the change of pace into adding Johana’s first Circle, before Starkhaven, and a note that Berta is now in Orlais. ]
Bernie, Wallace, Geri were there.
[ Speaking of. He adds “Bernie” in parenthesis near Knight-Corporal Bernhard. ]
Some others. A local scout.
[ He slides the paper back. Checks the pen for signs of nibbling, because that would be fantastic, before setting it on top. ]
If you want a roster, you should ask the Knight-Commander. He’ll get a kick out of that.
no subject
Marcus takes his pen back along with his notes, drawing them to his side of the desk. He nods at this suggestion in a way that perhaps there will indeed be such a letter sent, and then spends a moment trying to consider whatever stones he has left unturned. Back down at the page, turning it back around so that he can see these new pen marks. "Bernie".
He pushes it aside to let the ink dry. ]
If there is more needed of you, I'll send word. You can leave.
no subject
He says, ]
Thanks.
[ Dry. But obliging. He shuffles out without further delay. ]