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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"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.