Whatever mechanical shifts and turns that had to happen to have Marcus freed in the manner that he was—less efficiency? More? A massacre on the road, a dead Riftwatch agent or two, or a single Templar with an arrow protruding from the gap in his helm, or perhaps a calm conversation and some deal struck—whatever they are, he is freed. It was arranged, and it was done. There is a simplicity to it that he could complicate, quite easily.
Or he could offer gratitude, and maybe it was only a little bit physically painful to do.
Flint says that, and Marcus nods, once. "Aye," stated simply, apparently truthful, apparently satisfied that this gesture crossed the desk and stayed there.
Across the desk, the shape of his hand turns—some small, open palmed gesture which says Good talk or some similar sentiment. Indeed, what more is there to be said on the subject? Marcus is here. Julius is whole. Tsenka is a dreamer walking among them, and no one has made any motion toward paranoid overtures to check that, no matter how much the impulse might live right there under his fingertips. If there are any thoughts to the contrary which had kept him awake at night during their return trip from Orlais, then they're better left right where they'd begun—in his head, where they might be carefully turned over in private. Examined so thoroughly that hopefully he never has cause to do so while asleep.
(He had, if nothing else, steered Silver in Petrana's direction before climbing all those stairs to the griffon's eyrie.)
"You know," he says, as if he's only just remembered something. Maybe he has—some latent form sharpening under the influence of relevance. "That dream we all shared some time ago where we were warned of the Gates. It's a little strange to think of it now, but I believe I recall Julius and I searching after Madame de Cedoux."
His hand turns further, finally moving toward his half-filled cup.
Small as it is, that initial gesture is enough to indicate dismissal. Marcus gets as far as leaning forwards by a matter of a fraction, fingers hooking around the spine of the book, before pausing when Flint speaks up again.
It is unexpected, the thing he says. Marcus' expression had already been reflexively neutral, already thinking onto the next thing, but now there's a frosting over, fine tensions pulling subtle at the edges and a more needling focus in his stare across the desk. But it's more winter than fire beneath surface, less animated. Withdraw.
He flexes his fingers where he grips the book, relieving some tension, the couple of rings he wears purchased in Lowtown, adorned in dull stone and glass. He continues his paused momentum, turning to leave with the same dismissal of something being snapped free and discarded.
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Or he could offer gratitude, and maybe it was only a little bit physically painful to do.
Flint says that, and Marcus nods, once. "Aye," stated simply, apparently truthful, apparently satisfied that this gesture crossed the desk and stayed there.
no subject
(He had, if nothing else, steered Silver in Petrana's direction before climbing all those stairs to the griffon's eyrie.)
"You know," he says, as if he's only just remembered something. Maybe he has—some latent form sharpening under the influence of relevance. "That dream we all shared some time ago where we were warned of the Gates. It's a little strange to think of it now, but I believe I recall Julius and I searching after Madame de Cedoux."
His hand turns further, finally moving toward his half-filled cup.
"Let's hope this is the end of my rescuing days."
no subject
It is unexpected, the thing he says. Marcus' expression had already been reflexively neutral, already thinking onto the next thing, but now there's a frosting over, fine tensions pulling subtle at the edges and a more needling focus in his stare across the desk. But it's more winter than fire beneath surface, less animated. Withdraw.
He flexes his fingers where he grips the book, relieving some tension, the couple of rings he wears purchased in Lowtown, adorned in dull stone and glass. He continues his paused momentum, turning to leave with the same dismissal of something being snapped free and discarded.