is not what Marcus says out loud, with his mouth and his words, but a little communicated in a slanted up glance past Flint's head in a way that the arrangement of an otherwise neutral expression barely avoids as being cast as insolent. Even with Flint adept at keeping personal distaste at bay, he hardly needs to express it for Marcus to assume it.
"Aye," he says. Sure.
Switches his hand to the better map, drawing that closer. "In the event they live, we can take some measures to conceal our identities, unless you believe it doesn't matter. Rifter powers," he adds, to clarify. "Adjei is a good tracker, but turning into a wolf or even just running with one is uncommon enough to be remarkable."
Even so, this very slight alteration of trajectory seems to ease some pinched element at the corner of Flint's mouth. Something in the forward thinking nature of it—
"It would be best to avoid being made outright. As you said, they're not Venatori. Better to see the thing done without obvious attribution if possible, but all things being even, better to see it done than to keep our involvement secret."
A thumb tabs absently at the edge of the table. The angle of Flint's temple cocks faintly in the other direction, considering the two imperfect twin maps from the wrong direction.
"There are shapeshifters in the Imperium. Adjei may be less singular than we anticipate. Or at least excusable."
But, his tone doesn't raise this as a real argument, head tipping without looking up from the maps. He would be too useful to leave behind, and there's likely still some margin for excusability. They don't have Google to check for the existence of canine megafauna, after all, which is a reference I can make in the narrative of a character who has visited a semblance of Earth.
Now, looking back up at Flint, Marcus says, "How many men are you sparing for this?"
"Four. Five, if a spare hand should surface between now and when you go." Something about duty rosters and Riftwatch members already afield on other work. Presumably someone is always going and coming back, and it's possible one of them might be plucked from their too short return to the Gallows and ushered off again under Marcus' temporary command. Staffing—an eternal agony.
"But that should give you plenty of leverage, assuming you find them in the right moment. Mind," he says, lifting his attention from the pages to look at Marcus. "These won't be southern mercenaries or caravan traders. They're like to have a mage of their own and won't be frightened of you unless you work at it."
There's a thought interrupted, as his gaze wanders back down to the maps, of compiling a list predictably free of names of Templars past or present—
A glance back up to meet Flint's, and if it occurs to Marcus that this insight might make a Templar a worthwhile asset to have in their number, it doesn't show on his face (or it doesn't occur to him). The nod he gives is slight and brisk but comprehending, and his hands move to collect up the pages and maps he will need, some to be returned, some to be taken with.
"I'll confirm a list today, tomorrow morning," he says, eyes back to his task. "Do you need more before we go?"
"Only to be notified when you've set off," he says, the line of his shoulder straightening. Supplying the trip, sorting the route according to the time table provided—presumably, these things are well within Marcus' abilities and don't require discussion.
But not of the form he's been asking, logistics and timing and body counts. There are broader questions at play that are difficult to put into the narrow space permitted by Any other questions?, but are demanding enough that Marcus doesn't say 'no' right away.
He silently rolls the maps together, taking care with the paper, thinking it over. Settles on, before Flint can prompt or dismiss him, "Where is it they stand, the Broken Blades?"
It's a near thing. The That will be all then, is right there on the tip of his tongue, and requires temporary reservation when Marcus actually does prompt him with a question.
Flint makes to gather the small collection of writing instruments from where they've been scattered across the table top. Bundles them together.
"In what sense?"
There's a tin cup with other pencil stubs and a straight edge within arm's reach, but he doesn't yet extend his hand toward it. There are a half dozen legitimate answers to that question; best to know which one Marcus is after.
"In the sense of the war," Marcus says, not impatiently. Collects up the cording that holds the scroll of maps together, coils it around, equally unhurried. "The mage Calpernia's part in it. What it's taking from the south."
If Riftwatch's leadership is so ready to do favours, they must have an idea of it, says the expectant cant to his head.
A brief turning of the bundled writing instruments in his hand, twisting the collection idly in the circle of his closed fist. A half beat of consideration.
"I don't think they give a shit about the war," he says, decided. "We've known for some time that there has been a risk of Tevene slaves collaborating with Calpernia, but clearly there's been little satisfaction to be had on that front. I imagine that their position at this stage is one not unfamiliar to yourself—a force that might safeguard their freedoms if only they act to further the causes of their homelands, regardless of what those places have historically withheld."
A shrug. He sets the collected writing instruments into the waiting cup with a clack of graphite ends and hardwood, and metal on metal.
"The war is an instrument to them, same as it is to anyone else. Their problems are not our problems, but I would prefer to take whatever opportunity we can to emphasize that we might all gain some ground were we to point our efforts in the same direction."
The scrolls are bound, held. Nothing else needs gathering (he's fallen out of the habit of handwritten notation during meetings, since having had to relearn the skill due to its erasure a year ago) and so all that keeps him tethered is listening to the answer his question has produced.
The tipping of his chin, some calibration—
"Do you mean the dreams we all had or the rebel mages being offered passage into Tevinter? My familiarity."
There's no particular tone that dogs this question: a clean-cut and direct bid for clarity, aimed with steady held attention across the table.
Flint looks at him. It's an exceptionally plain and direct catch of eyes. Not studying—more like the sensation of turning down a corner and finding a dead end.
"I mean the Chantry encouraging southern mages to feel some obligation to the Inquisition and Divine Beatrix's March."
The news that there was no hidden barb for Marcus to uncover is met with a tip of his head, something relenting in his sharply neutral default that stops itself from listing all the way into apologetic.
"The Chantry," he says, after a moment, "and its dismantling is what I recall being promised, in that dream. I suppose I've never viewed our institutions here as offering its hand out in quite the same way the Imperium has appeared to. But," a glance down at the scrolls, a fidget of them between his hands, "its promises end in the same way. Further enslavement, annihilation. The Red Templars. Whatever southern mages it manages to recruit to fill out its frontline. These allies of ours might look to the south to understand the cost of it."
A look back up follows a subtle turn of his hand, signalling he has no further questions.
"I daresay both sides might benefit from a look across the water," has the air of an idle remark, pleased enough as he is with this—not giving of ground, exactly, but certainly having found a footpath which promises less difficult going. He does, occasionally, tire of hiking up hill.
"I would be surprised to discover that any southern defector has avoided outright conscription. Some of your fellows may very well be on the other side of Starkhaven's wall as we speak."
Who knows. Had Riftwatch been engaged more directly with the Tevinter force rather than attempting to avoid the bulk of it, there might have been one or two faces to prompt recognition. —Is a grim thought, and prudently not one he gives actual voice to. Instead, Flint nods to the rough reproduction of the map in Marcus' possession, saying, "See that you study that and destroy it before your landing. I'd not have it fall into the wrong hands should something not go to plan."
An easier sort of neutral, here, seemingly unruffled at the suggestion of southern mages forced to participate in the battle that took the Grand Enchanter—at least, unruffled in Flint's direction. If there is some thought spared towards what could be said or done about it, how they might pry loose those mages somehow, or find some lever of advantage—
Well, best to break off now before one finds something else irritating about the other. The lingering pause that contains that thought is ended with a tap of the scrolls against his open palm in gesture—good talk—before turning to take his leave.
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no subject
is not what Marcus says out loud, with his mouth and his words, but a little communicated in a slanted up glance past Flint's head in a way that the arrangement of an otherwise neutral expression barely avoids as being cast as insolent. Even with Flint adept at keeping personal distaste at bay, he hardly needs to express it for Marcus to assume it.
"Aye," he says. Sure.
Switches his hand to the better map, drawing that closer. "In the event they live, we can take some measures to conceal our identities, unless you believe it doesn't matter. Rifter powers," he adds, to clarify. "Adjei is a good tracker, but turning into a wolf or even just running with one is uncommon enough to be remarkable."
no subject
"It would be best to avoid being made outright. As you said, they're not Venatori. Better to see the thing done without obvious attribution if possible, but all things being even, better to see it done than to keep our involvement secret."
A thumb tabs absently at the edge of the table. The angle of Flint's temple cocks faintly in the other direction, considering the two imperfect twin maps from the wrong direction.
"There are shapeshifters in the Imperium. Adjei may be less singular than we anticipate. Or at least excusable."
no subject
But, his tone doesn't raise this as a real argument, head tipping without looking up from the maps. He would be too useful to leave behind, and there's likely still some margin for excusability. They don't have Google to check for the existence of canine megafauna, after all, which is a reference I can make in the narrative of a character who has visited a semblance of Earth.
Now, looking back up at Flint, Marcus says, "How many men are you sparing for this?"
no subject
"But that should give you plenty of leverage, assuming you find them in the right moment. Mind," he says, lifting his attention from the pages to look at Marcus. "These won't be southern mercenaries or caravan traders. They're like to have a mage of their own and won't be frightened of you unless you work at it."
no subject
A glance back up to meet Flint's, and if it occurs to Marcus that this insight might make a Templar a worthwhile asset to have in their number, it doesn't show on his face (or it doesn't occur to him). The nod he gives is slight and brisk but comprehending, and his hands move to collect up the pages and maps he will need, some to be returned, some to be taken with.
"I'll confirm a list today, tomorrow morning," he says, eyes back to his task. "Do you need more before we go?"
no subject
"Any other questions?"
no subject
But not of the form he's been asking, logistics and timing and body counts. There are broader questions at play that are difficult to put into the narrow space permitted by Any other questions?, but are demanding enough that Marcus doesn't say 'no' right away.
He silently rolls the maps together, taking care with the paper, thinking it over. Settles on, before Flint can prompt or dismiss him, "Where is it they stand, the Broken Blades?"
no subject
Flint makes to gather the small collection of writing instruments from where they've been scattered across the table top. Bundles them together.
"In what sense?"
There's a tin cup with other pencil stubs and a straight edge within arm's reach, but he doesn't yet extend his hand toward it. There are a half dozen legitimate answers to that question; best to know which one Marcus is after.
no subject
If Riftwatch's leadership is so ready to do favours, they must have an idea of it, says the expectant cant to his head.
no subject
A brief turning of the bundled writing instruments in his hand, twisting the collection idly in the circle of his closed fist. A half beat of consideration.
"I don't think they give a shit about the war," he says, decided. "We've known for some time that there has been a risk of Tevene slaves collaborating with Calpernia, but clearly there's been little satisfaction to be had on that front. I imagine that their position at this stage is one not unfamiliar to yourself—a force that might safeguard their freedoms if only they act to further the causes of their homelands, regardless of what those places have historically withheld."
A shrug. He sets the collected writing instruments into the waiting cup with a clack of graphite ends and hardwood, and metal on metal.
"The war is an instrument to them, same as it is to anyone else. Their problems are not our problems, but I would prefer to take whatever opportunity we can to emphasize that we might all gain some ground were we to point our efforts in the same direction."
no subject
The tipping of his chin, some calibration—
"Do you mean the dreams we all had or the rebel mages being offered passage into Tevinter? My familiarity."
There's no particular tone that dogs this question: a clean-cut and direct bid for clarity, aimed with steady held attention across the table.
no subject
"I mean the Chantry encouraging southern mages to feel some obligation to the Inquisition and Divine Beatrix's March."
no subject
"The Chantry," he says, after a moment, "and its dismantling is what I recall being promised, in that dream. I suppose I've never viewed our institutions here as offering its hand out in quite the same way the Imperium has appeared to. But," a glance down at the scrolls, a fidget of them between his hands, "its promises end in the same way. Further enslavement, annihilation. The Red Templars. Whatever southern mages it manages to recruit to fill out its frontline. These allies of ours might look to the south to understand the cost of it."
A look back up follows a subtle turn of his hand, signalling he has no further questions.
no subject
"I would be surprised to discover that any southern defector has avoided outright conscription. Some of your fellows may very well be on the other side of Starkhaven's wall as we speak."
Who knows. Had Riftwatch been engaged more directly with the Tevinter force rather than attempting to avoid the bulk of it, there might have been one or two faces to prompt recognition. —Is a grim thought, and prudently not one he gives actual voice to. Instead, Flint nods to the rough reproduction of the map in Marcus' possession, saying, "See that you study that and destroy it before your landing. I'd not have it fall into the wrong hands should something not go to plan."
no subject
An easier sort of neutral, here, seemingly unruffled at the suggestion of southern mages forced to participate in the battle that took the Grand Enchanter—at least, unruffled in Flint's direction. If there is some thought spared towards what could be said or done about it, how they might pry loose those mages somehow, or find some lever of advantage—
Well, best to break off now before one finds something else irritating about the other. The lingering pause that contains that thought is ended with a tap of the scrolls against his open palm in gesture—good talk—before turning to take his leave.