He does, though, take a little time to consider his answer. A few strides, another lungful pulled and blown, walking through his own smoke. An emotional exhibitionist might snatch at this chance to unload some trauma, but he has never been that.
This mage, Rowntree—he seems the type to be fluent in simplicity. The stoic is often interested in what remains undisclosed. The private ones, they love a secret.
With the ghost of a smile—glint of a hook in the dark—]
[ Certainly, Leander has Marcus's attention to whatever the answer might be, and after as they walk, perhaps with the expectation he might elaborate. It is, after all, a lot of how mages might speak to one another -- comparing horrors with those who did not share exactly them, but near enough to understand. ]
I would like to know about it, [ he prompts, mild manners as ever making direct ways of going about things a little softer than they look on paper. But he adds, too-- ] Or occupy our stroll with easier matters.
[ He flicks his fingers, lets ash dust away. ]
I've friends who suffered that place, is all. I'd like to understand it, after what happened today.
[Friends who suffered. Leander himself not counted among them, he expects, with no ill feeling about it. This unsubtle approach made quietly civilized—it pleases him.]
Why not ask them? [His glance, the way he turns his head, tips his chin just so, is a little subtler. Purely to see if it lands, whether he can see it landing. (He has no particular designs.)] I mean it as a question, truly. Will they not speak of it?
I've only asked you, [ Marcus says, after another sighed release of smoke. The prod within the question doesn't seem to jab anything very tender.
He is also now watching their path, content to ponder Leander's question -- it is meant, and so he thinks on his answer, content to lapse into some quiet to do so before he eventually says; ]
I don't want my asking to seem a matter of politics. I don't know what yours are, or if it matters to you, all that.
[As if that can be avoided. Everything is politics; everything is art. Leander strolls easily at Rowntree's side, accepting of any pause and likewise unhurried in his speech. An echo of their first assignment, then a pair of strangers walking companionably through the snow, this time well after the kill.]
If you wouldn't mind first indulging me—I'm curious what they say about it.
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no subject
He does, though, take a little time to consider his answer. A few strides, another lungful pulled and blown, walking through his own smoke. An emotional exhibitionist might snatch at this chance to unload some trauma, but he has never been that.
This mage, Rowntree—he seems the type to be fluent in simplicity. The stoic is often interested in what remains undisclosed. The private ones, they love a secret.
With the ghost of a smile—glint of a hook in the dark—]
It was bad.
no subject
I would like to know about it, [ he prompts, mild manners as ever making direct ways of going about things a little softer than they look on paper. But he adds, too-- ] Or occupy our stroll with easier matters.
[ He flicks his fingers, lets ash dust away. ]
I've friends who suffered that place, is all. I'd like to understand it, after what happened today.
no subject
Why not ask them? [His glance, the way he turns his head, tips his chin just so, is a little subtler. Purely to see if it lands, whether he can see it landing. (He has no particular designs.)] I mean it as a question, truly. Will they not speak of it?
no subject
He is also now watching their path, content to ponder Leander's question -- it is meant, and so he thinks on his answer, content to lapse into some quiet to do so before he eventually says; ]
I don't want my asking to seem a matter of politics. I don't know what yours are, or if it matters to you, all that.
no subject
[As if that can be avoided. Everything is politics; everything is art. Leander strolls easily at Rowntree's side, accepting of any pause and likewise unhurried in his speech. An echo of their first assignment, then a pair of strangers walking companionably through the snow, this time well after the kill.]
If you wouldn't mind first indulging me—I'm curious what they say about it.