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Marcoulf. Weird fucking name. Samson will remember it, though, and maybe even do a decent job of saying it once he decides to try.

He snorts, and the amused curl of his lip lingers for a time. "If it were, you wouldn't need to think, you'd know." And you'd be incapable of coherent thought, with a brain full of red crystals, or at least on your way there. Is what he does not say. But perhaps it is implied. "That little twig of a sword wouldn't do you much good, either."

(He did notice that ever-so-casual shuffling, by the way. Good man.)

Oh, it's certainly being implied. Marcoulf's whiskers are long enough that they mostly disguise the way his mouth goes all crooked, a flash of macabre humor as his attention slides back to the courtyard. Or starts to anyway, before it's hooked in place by a strong, habitual sense self preservation. No, he'll keep him in the corner of his eye at least, thank you very much.

Templar or Guard he isn't, but neither is he dumb. If his dagger were on the near side of his belt, he might set his spare hand idly overtop that one too. Would it make much sense for the man beside him to go snatching for it in full view of the half dozen strong clean up crew with no easy way from the Gallows? Not especially, but who's to say what's growing in places that might make a man insensible. Better sure than stabbed.

But the dagger is on his other hip between him and the wall, so nevermind any of it.

"You might be surprised, ser." With how much good it does him; obviously not the other thing.

He might sneak a hand in between Marcoulf and the wall. You don't know. No, even if he wanted to, which he doesn't, he'd never get half that far. Unbelievable as it may seem, Raleigh Samson is not a subtle man—and this fellow seems quick, besides.

"Hmmm," he answers, lifting his chin to look down the aquiline length of his nose at some woman or other while she passes by at a distance, sparing nary a glance for either of them. "Won't argue with that. I could, mind you. But I won't."

"I appreciate your restraint." But then Samson's been getting practice with the idea, hasn't he? Ha ha, we have fun here.

He lapses into silence then, quiet and mostly still except for where his spare hand is fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. Maker, he'd prefer the man out ahead of him by a few paces. Does he say this much to Brice; is it better to keep his mouth shut? Should he shoo him back out into the sun? Tell him that if he's done with being outdoors, he'll happily return him to being shut up in his room.

He opts for: none of the above.

None of the above, eh.

Well, then, he'll soon have to deal with a decision being made for him, and it comes in the form of a boot. Just a brief tap, mind you, just a toe, soft on the side of one of Marcoulf's own boots. Familiar, like, as if they're old buddies that stand around together like this on the regular. Oi, the tap says. Wake up. The old general wants attention.

In the next second Samson's leaning toward him, shoulder first, one hand raised just enough to point at something across the yard without being obvious about it. "Take a gander over there," he says, his rough Marcher's voice hushed smooth, "those two by the cart. They've not looked one another in the eye once this whole time. See? Look how hard they're ignoring each other. They're in an affair, I'll bet."

He goes all briefly stiff, sharpening to angles in the taller man's shadow, and if he looks to follow the line of Samson's small gesture it's out of-- habit, he thinks. A bad one. Following because it's what he's most practiced at.

But Marcoulf does look, shifting faintly forward to peer about the corner and study the pair in question. The girl he doesn't know; from a distance, she looks-- short tempered as she assists some third hand in flinging hay bales into their shared hand cart. The tall slim lad with the long nose, though - that one he knows. Almost always on patrol rotation along the Inquisition's docks in afternoons. Jace? Jarris? Something J-sounding.

"No. No, I don't think so." Rolling back, he gently rearranges the hook of his ankle. Waggles his heel. Drums his fingers at the rapier's pommel. None of your business why. Think whatever you like. But-- a shrug. He tips his head and raises his spare hand to his mouth, nipping at a stray hangnail. "Wrong kind for him. As far as messing about goes anyway."

With all this shifting, leaning, poking and pointing, the prisoner is certainly testing his keeper's boundaries, but not for the reason one might expect. If he's getting a read on the man it's because he likes to know people—because he wants to know him. It's good to stay aware, mind, and if Samson were thinking about it—which he is, because he always is, judging with a commander's eye anyone who carries a sword and dares to call himself a soldier—he might point out that being so easily distracted could have proven fatal just now. But they're having a moment, so he doesn't.

"No?" Samson glances at Marcoulf's face, his mouth a crooked smile, then slides his attention back to the folks in question. In contrast to the twitching and nibbling happening by his side, he looks as relaxed as a cat in the sun. "What about her, then—what's her kind? As far's messing about goes."

Out there across the courtyard, the young woman is attempting to give clear instructions to how the hay bales ought to be stacked in the floor of the wagon. By the looks of it, she's-- frustrated with her co-workers. J-something trips over a crack in the cobbles. Marcoulf tips his face that scant degree further. He looks sideways at the general.

"Not one that dumb, I think."

Whether it's the trip or the quip that draws the chuckle out of him may be unclear; either way, this isn't some dry huff, but a few actual, distinct syllables of laughter. It's a warmish sound, even, coarsened only mildly by his throat. And with that, Samson removes himself from Marcoulf's personal space. He doesn't go far, of course—the shadow still hasn't made itself big enough for that—but perhaps it will be a relief nonetheless. There's only so much looming a man can do before it goes from chummy to creepy, besides. Don't want to overdo it on his first day. Or is it his only day?

Without looking at him, "So, then. Marcoulf." Aside from the interference of his Marcher's accent, he doesn't even butcher the name. "You've done some soldiering, you said—but not my kind. So what kind was it, then?"

That's better. The space is.

"The more usual kind," he says, mild and unbothered. The kind that doesn't have much to do with mages or Circles or the end of the world and so much poisonous lyrium (allegedly). "Fought in Orlais. With Gaspard's people."

That too comes easy and off the cuff. Sides only matter to people of import once you leave the battlefield.

The brief curl of Samson's lip is unavoidable—he doesn't think much of Gaspard, nor indeed of Chevaliers generally—but his tone remains benign. It's not as though he has much room to talk, given... givens.

"Is that so." Benign, and yet, "Last I heard," he should be nice, and yet, "the Grand Duke's big feathered head went on holiday while the rest of him stayed at home. Were you still around during that bit of business, or had you cut out by then?"

If there is a sharpening to the man beside Samson, it comes first very delicately - less idle shifting in the lay of Marcoulf's hands, maybe. Or something a little more pointed about the angle of his shoulders, a moment ago at least operating under the illusion of ease. Or something in his dark eyes flickers, gone all still against what is still a keen kind of disappointment.

"I didn't see it personally. But yes," he's all off the cuff too. Marcoulf's head tips like a shrug. "I've heard the same."

He'd liked Gaspard. He'd seen him twice from a distance, once fighting and once talking. He'd seemed straight forward and the idea of what he'd be clear as a reflection in a glass. It's more, he thinks, than he can say about the Empress and about Orlais in her hands. If he were given to worry about what comes after all this - Corypheus and the Inquisition and what may pass with the world -, he might have cause to be concerned for his future prospects. As it is--

Well. Maybe their luck's already soured. Maybe Gaspard losing his head was some early confirmation. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It's none of his business.

"I don't suppose you hear much from your men." He can be mild about it too. "Not the kind to write many letters."

Unlike the dynamic restlessness of his steward, Samson is quite still where he stands, seeming more the likeness of a man hewn from the very stone upon which he leans. Chest barely moving against his breath. No breeze to move his shirt nor any piece of his lank hair. His eyes have dropped to watch the ground before them, beyond the border of the shadow's shelter, where they see nothing.

At length, he draws a deep breath and shifts his weight against the wall.

"I deserved that," he says. His voice comes low—not by any desire for secrecy, but for patience. "For what I just said about Gaspard. I'll let you have that one."

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.

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.

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.

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