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[redinside]

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the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined) paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time

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[esquive]

If it surprises him (and maybe it does, though maybe it shouldn't), then very little of it registers in his face or the lines of him. But Marcoulf does tip his head by a degree, turning his ear involuntarily as a dog might toward a whistle. That's fair, he thinks. And also: that's strange.

He makes a low noise, split somewhere between clearing his throat and a hum. Across the courtyard, the bulk of the straw bales have been loaded into their respective hand carts.

"All right." Then-- with a further tilt of the head, attention retiring from the pretense of the courtyard to Samson entirely. It's a hard break of a kind. "Are we finished with standing here?"

Technically he could just say they are. Marcoulf could decide he's tired of the sun, that it bothers his post satinalia-sensitive senses even from this shady vantage point. He could simply drive the man back up into his tower directly. But fair's fair.

[redinside]

He's thankful for the abrupt rerouting of this... whatever it is. (Conversation, sort of; steady tolerance of one another's company, certainly.) The best way to handle problems, by his reckoning, is either to run straight into them, headfirst and screaming, or ignore them entirely. The latter seems ideal in this case.

Eyes on him, now. He turns his head to meet them with the full attention of his own (once a perfectly ordinary hazel, now limned in a monster's blood). Much of the good humour has left the lines of his unusual face, and a weariness remains in its place. His mouth twitches into a momentary—not quite a smile, but the pretense of one, pushed just beyond a grimace.

Unhurried, his body leaves the wall, steps half into the light.

[esquive]

That's a relief. What would you do if he'd said no?

He lingers in the shadow with his shoulder still planted against the stone. Squinting, chin nearly set to his collar bone, Marcoulf regards Samson's dark lines against the drab sunlight. The man's a scraggly old fuck to be certain, drawn thin like a weary thread, but he's tall and there's no imagining him as being so brittle as all that--

The others might know a thing or two about beating men and steering captives around, but Marcoulf can't say he's a dab hand at it. As in every other situation imaginable, best to simply avoid any instance that might cause the old General to dig his heels in.

That, he knows just fine.

Once Samson is outside arm's reach, Marcoulf sways from the wall and out into the sunlight after him.