[ which does not sound sarcastic so much as faintly entertained, underneath surface-level seriousness, as if he were happily indulging a child in a game of pretend.
This indulgence extends to actually showing up, later this same day. Plainclothes—he doesn't swagger around the Gallows in plate, routinely, and wearing the robes without it has always made him feel like a tool. His shoulders do not fill up the doorway as much as they could have. ]
[ Perhaps if Redvers had not shown, retaliation (of some kind) would have been all the more pointed for the simple insult of a slightly slanted tone. But here he is.
Marcus is at the window, abandoning paperwork to some amount of restlessness and skywatching. There are two desks. One of them belongs to Darras, who does not use his desk, so it has become a resting place for sundry items. The other belongs to Marcus, kept neat and spartan save for the ashtray he hasn't gotten around to emptying. ]
Two years ago, [ he says, instead of, like, a greeting, moving to sit ] a man arrived here in the Gallows, claiming that he'd been in contact with our leadership, that we'd promised him and his family assistance. He'd been driven to desperation and to anger, compelled to come here and have us answer for our abandonment.
He died. He was possessed and transformed. Put down, before what was left of him could do more harm than caving in the wall of the dining hall.
[ Two years ago is not a compelling start. Redvers stays in the doorway, one shoulder drifting toward the frame; it takes until possessed and transformed for the distant, put-upon patience on his face to crack and make way for something actually attentive.
Wary, still. Waiting for a point. Expecting it to be aimed at him.
When the pause starts to prolong, he offers, ] I'm sorry to hear that.
[ Marcus had pulled out his chair, and paused the impulse to sit once noting Redvers' lean in the doorway. The pause prolongs, and apologies are given, and Marcus allows that, too, to kind of hover awkwardly in the space between them.
[ Marcus straightens his posture by a matter of millimetres, thinks for a moment as his eyeline drifts down to the pages on his desk. Back up again. ]
I raise the death of Felix Naegle because it is among several incidents of outside interference and sabotage that Riftwatch has suffered. There is more I wish to say, and more I wish to ask you. Sit or don't, but we'll be speaking behind closed doors.
[ Maker, says the rise of Redvers' eyebrows, this asshole. But his curiosity is sufficiently piqued for him to come the rest of the way through the door and close it behind him. Quietly. ]
Go on, then.
[ Before he's fully turned back to face him. When he does, it's with enough insouciance to make up for losing his casual door lean. (For what it's worth, he was much the same with stuffy and/or power-tripping superior officers in the Order—though more often behind their backs than to their faces.) ]
[ Here are the people that Marcus has had any measure of authority over: wayward apprentices, aged between eight through sixteen, who think learning the alphabet is boring. Enchanters for whom he fielded complaints, protected from consequence, offered advice. Packs of frightened Circle mages, on the battlefield, or hidden in the wilderness, or starving and scared.
Never: men and women who wear plate when they aren't in his office, have operated in any formal militaristic hierarchy, do not passionately hold similar grievances and desires and care naught for his own.
But he's satisfied when Redvers closes the door, the quiet click of it. Whatever occurs next—
Well, Marcus remains standing, at a partial lean against the back of his chair, hands braced and arms straight. He continues. ]
Who of the Order and the Chantry do you keep in contact with, while you're here?
[ A sigh, closed eyes, the fingers of one hand counted off on in silence. Largely unnecessary mental preparation for the list he rattles off, in no particular order and without pauses. ]
Knight-Commander Beltrané Artiaga, Knight-Captain Evrard, Mother Leonarda, Brother Thevenin, Knight-Lieutenant Horst, Knight-Lieutenant Johana, Ser Wallace, Ser Geri, Knight-Corporal Bernhard, Sister Berta, Ser Elisa.
[ All of the Chantry personnel and all but one or two of the Templars, give or take some promotions changing their titles, might be familiar names to Marcus. Connections from a life spent in (and out of, for hunting mages down) the Starkhaven Circle. ]
At about the fourth name, Marcus pulls his inkwell closer to himself, flips open a writing book. Familiarity or not, he is not going to recall those names by heart. There's no rush on his end in flipping around to a relevant page, which means that by the time Redvers is offering to pass along a friendly message, Marcus is only just dipping pen in ink.
He writes out the first two in the span of silence that follows, hesitates, and then asks, to clarify, ] Evard?
[ A passing correction, on way to a more amused, ]
Think he’ll be confused, but alright.
[ He transfers a sprig of slightly wilted mint from the pouch at this hip to his mouth. If they’re in list-writing territory, this might take a while. ]
White Spire, I want to say, [ and is saying around the tooth-battered leaf in his mouth. ] One of the Orlesian ones for sure. Him I only met on the way to Andoral's Reach.
[ He transfers the mint to its intermittent home in the pocket of his cheek. ]
I take it if any of these people ambush you on the road now, I'm going to be in some trouble here.
[ This last thing manages to garner a less considered response, a slight exhale through Marcus' nose a little sharper than a breath as he takes his notes. This frankly ridiculous list of penpals. ]
Do you exchange a great deal of correspondence, with this man you met on the way to Andoral's Reach?
[ Marcus offers no response to this answer he did not really want, ensuring instead he has this list in full. None are Enchanters—not that Starkhaven had a great deal of Loyalists to boast about, nor is it surprising, given Redvers' occupation. Still.
He says, all in the tone of fact-stating, ]
You're a mage-hunter, unwillingly posted here, forced to work alongside those you'd see imprisoned or dead or worse. A dedicated servant of the Chantry, [ he lifts the corner of his notes, indicating the list of names there, ] even while so far afield of it. It's those dedicated servants that have endangered our ranks, damaged our reputation. Caused the death of an innocent man.
[ He lets the page corner drop. ] I wouldn't wait for another attempt against myself or any other mage to worry about your standing.
If it weren’t my sword arm, I’d let you cut it off yourself, [ is confirmation of his unwillingness.
Honest, too. He’s given serious thought to it—how he could maybe rig a shield to a stump and learn to fight with the other arm. But he’s getting old. Only so many more years of use in him, before the lyrium has its inevitable way. He doesn’t want to squander that time trying to learn to be half as effective as he was before.
As for the rest. ]
I don’t see why the Chantry would want to interfere with you while you’re trying to stop that monster and his legions. [ He pauses to get a shred of plant fiber out of his teeth with his tongue. ] Maybe they think you’re up to something else.
[ Marcus doesn't smile back. He does, briefly, entertain the fantasy of what it might be like to bloody that smile, and maybe there is something in the fixed point of his regard that implies it. ]
My connections aren't under scrutiny, [ he says, a seamless transition into, ] Who are your direct superior at the time of your leaving for Riftwatch?
Knight-Captain Evrard, [ is easy and even friendly, save the touch of extra emphasis on the r, as if Marcus might have forgotten in the last few minutes. ] Knight-Commander Rohesia Donnet, above him.
[ Information volunteered with the comfort of righteousness, like I pay my taxes. He doesn’t have anything to be sorry for. ]
I don’t write to her— [ a serious woman, formidable during the war with the mages, not much for making friends with her underlings or anyone else ] —but if I tell Evrard anything interesting, I’m sure she’ll hear about it.
[ This is noted down. He considers, in silence, this web of communication, and all that could spread along its lines. In the back of his mind, he is well aware that there is nothing for it, and never has been, and Riftwatch functions as it must, understaffed and desperate and easily exploited. That attempts to close these things down would be a kind of strangulation.
Maybe he can justify reading his mail.
A pivot, then; ]
Of these, are there those you consider personal, and not only professional? Close friends? Romantic partners?
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[ Hi?? ]
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Yes, ser,
[ which does not sound sarcastic so much as faintly entertained, underneath surface-level seriousness, as if he were happily indulging a child in a game of pretend.
This indulgence extends to actually showing up, later this same day. Plainclothes—he doesn't swagger around the Gallows in plate, routinely, and wearing the robes without it has always made him feel like a tool. His shoulders do not fill up the doorway as much as they could have. ]
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Marcus is at the window, abandoning paperwork to some amount of restlessness and skywatching. There are two desks. One of them belongs to Darras, who does not use his desk, so it has become a resting place for sundry items. The other belongs to Marcus, kept neat and spartan save for the ashtray he hasn't gotten around to emptying. ]
Two years ago, [ he says, instead of, like, a greeting, moving to sit ] a man arrived here in the Gallows, claiming that he'd been in contact with our leadership, that we'd promised him and his family assistance. He'd been driven to desperation and to anger, compelled to come here and have us answer for our abandonment.
He died. He was possessed and transformed. Put down, before what was left of him could do more harm than caving in the wall of the dining hall.
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Wary, still. Waiting for a point. Expecting it to be aimed at him.
When the pause starts to prolong, he offers, ] I'm sorry to hear that.
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Then, a gesture. ]
Sit.
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No, thank you.
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I raise the death of Felix Naegle because it is among several incidents of outside interference and sabotage that Riftwatch has suffered. There is more I wish to say, and more I wish to ask you. Sit or don't, but we'll be speaking behind closed doors.
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Go on, then.
[ Before he's fully turned back to face him. When he does, it's with enough insouciance to make up for losing his casual door lean. (For what it's worth, he was much the same with stuffy and/or power-tripping superior officers in the Order—though more often behind their backs than to their faces.) ]
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Never: men and women who wear plate when they aren't in his office, have operated in any formal militaristic hierarchy, do not passionately hold similar grievances and desires and care naught for his own.
But he's satisfied when Redvers closes the door, the quiet click of it. Whatever occurs next—
Well, Marcus remains standing, at a partial lean against the back of his chair, hands braced and arms straight. He continues. ]
Who of the Order and the Chantry do you keep in contact with, while you're here?
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Knight-Commander Beltrané Artiaga, Knight-Captain Evrard, Mother Leonarda, Brother Thevenin, Knight-Lieutenant Horst, Knight-Lieutenant Johana, Ser Wallace, Ser Geri, Knight-Corporal Bernhard, Sister Berta, Ser Elisa.
[ All of the Chantry personnel and all but one or two of the Templars, give or take some promotions changing their titles, might be familiar names to Marcus. Connections from a life spent in (and out of, for hunting mages down) the Starkhaven Circle. ]
I think that is everyone.
Want me to let any of them know you said hello?
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At about the fourth name, Marcus pulls his inkwell closer to himself, flips open a writing book. Familiarity or not, he is not going to recall those names by heart. There's no rush on his end in flipping around to a relevant page, which means that by the time Redvers is offering to pass along a friendly message, Marcus is only just dipping pen in ink.
He writes out the first two in the span of silence that follows, hesitates, and then asks, to clarify, ] Evard?
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[ A passing correction, on way to a more amused, ]
Think he’ll be confused, but alright.
[ He transfers a sprig of slightly wilted mint from the pouch at this hip to his mouth. If they’re in list-writing territory, this might take a while. ]
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And then; ]
The rest, again.
[ And he will methodically continue. When he hits the first name he doesn't recognise, he asks; ] From which Circle?
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[ He transfers the mint to its intermittent home in the pocket of his cheek. ]
I take it if any of these people ambush you on the road now, I'm going to be in some trouble here.
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Do you exchange a great deal of correspondence, with this man you met on the way to Andoral's Reach?
[ How pleasant. Making friends. ]
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Once a month since I got here, give or take.
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He says, all in the tone of fact-stating, ]
You're a mage-hunter, unwillingly posted here, forced to work alongside those you'd see imprisoned or dead or worse. A dedicated servant of the Chantry, [ he lifts the corner of his notes, indicating the list of names there, ] even while so far afield of it. It's those dedicated servants that have endangered our ranks, damaged our reputation. Caused the death of an innocent man.
[ He lets the page corner drop. ] I wouldn't wait for another attempt against myself or any other mage to worry about your standing.
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Honest, too. He’s given serious thought to it—how he could maybe rig a shield to a stump and learn to fight with the other arm. But he’s getting old. Only so many more years of use in him, before the lyrium has its inevitable way. He doesn’t want to squander that time trying to learn to be half as effective as he was before.
As for the rest. ]
I don’t see why the Chantry would want to interfere with you while you’re trying to stop that monster and his legions. [ He pauses to get a shred of plant fiber out of his teeth with his tongue. ] Maybe they think you’re up to something else.
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[ blandly, barely slanted into being a question. ]
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[ A one-second flash of a smile. ]
Who do you keep in touch with?
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My connections aren't under scrutiny, [ he says, a seamless transition into, ] Who are your direct superior at the time of your leaving for Riftwatch?
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[ Information volunteered with the comfort of righteousness, like I pay my taxes. He doesn’t have anything to be sorry for. ]
I don’t write to her— [ a serious woman, formidable during the war with the mages, not much for making friends with her underlings or anyone else ] —but if I tell Evrard anything interesting, I’m sure she’ll hear about it.
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Maybe he can justify reading his mail.
A pivot, then; ]
Of these, are there those you consider personal, and not only professional? Close friends? Romantic partners?
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He pauses. A first stumble. Ten points to Marcus. ]
Not sure how that's relevant.
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