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[redinside]

for notes, letters, and other exchanges

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

Comments

[redinside]

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?"

[esquive]

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."

[redinside]

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."

[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.