Unlike some of the other items Edgard has been looking for (mostly cutlery), a bowl is harder to hide. Edgard walks toward the desk and looks at the ashtray. What did that bowl look like again? It was probably larger than that. He glances at himself in the mirror: hello there.
He opts to open the drawers. They slide open easily.
A box of tobacco and a pipe, some writing implements, loose sheets of paper, and some pages of various textures folded and bound in twine. Another skinny drawer displays a neat set of men's grooming implements, simple, perhaps Edgard is acquainted with these concepts, perhaps not.
No bowls, though.
Before he can get much further, there's the scuff of boot heel on stone floor, and Marcus Rowntree appears in the frame of the door, looking at first confused, and then something more fixed in the way he stares across at Edgard bent over his desk.
He keeps his hand on the edge of the door, as if in the process of making a decision.
Edgard looks into the drawers, sighing. No bowls in there. He shuts the drawers and continues looking downward thinking. If he received a bowl as a gift, what would he do with it?
If he didn't store it away somewhere, he'd probably put it on display. Maybe even put a plant inside it. He slowly turns as he looks around the room. He surely just missed it somewhere.
As he turns, he finds himself making eye contact with Marcus, standing in the doorway. His mouth drops open in shock. Quick, cause a diversion.
"What brings you here?" He says to him pleasantly.
The question is stupid. Inane. At best: a distraction. He discards it.
He doesn't have his staff—his hair is still damp from the baths, privileging the empty early mornings, and he doesn't normally go there armed. It's in his wardrobe, but he doesn't make a move for it. Really, he doesn't need it.
From where Edgard stands, he may catch a distinct smell in the air. Smoke. In the shaft of light coming in through the window, he'll see the faint shape of ashy air beginning to form, all around.
Marcus's eyebrows twitch, a silent suggestion that Edgard try again.
Edgard is aware that something is happening, but isn't altogether sure what it is. He glances at the window, thinking about his odds of getting away. They are not great. He tries again.
"I think I might be in the wrong room."
It is unlikely he can talk his way out of this, but he's sure going to try.
And he clearly expects the man to, indeed, try to talk to his way out of this, his manner as inquisitive as it is slowly threatening, in its mild way. Smoke continues to drift and twist around, sourceless, earthy, tickling at Edgard's lungs the next time he breathes in.
Where maybe Edgard's play may make a man second guess whether he did in fact lock his own door, it instead chips away a piece of patience that really only needs so many excuses to crumble. The effect is a lack of warning before Marcus brings up his hands, seeming to claw magic from the air as trailing green glimmers like light in smoke between his fingers—
Stone and jagged rock enters the material world already in kinetic motion, slamming into Edgard's chest with enough force to stagger, and certainly to bruise, maybe break if he's unlucky.
There's no immediate second attack, but Marcus is moving in on steady steps forward, making the room smaller.
Edgard hits the floor, pain radiating in his chest. He breathes in and it's too sharp, he's probably cracked a rib. He glances up at Marcus coming forward.
"Please," He whispers as anything louder would hurt too much. "don't kill me!"
He tries to find a reason, but he cannot land on a good one.
The next motion of Marcus's hands does not bring pain, but numbness. Not where pain is present, but from the extremities, creeping up through Edgard's body from the soles of his feet, the joints of his knees, the tips of his fingers. Magical Petrification, and it sounds like the brittle crack of stone if he flexes against it. If he glances down at his how hands, concrete grey has creeped as far as his knuckles from where he's touched the ground.
He can still move, though standing would be difficult. He can still talk.
"Alright," Marcus says, like he is agreeing to something. "Then tell me why you're in my room. The truth, aye."
He has other questions. Like who sent this man, what was he looking for, what does he want. Paranoid questions, simmering ready at the base of his skull, but: one step at a time.
Edgard's heart races and his breath is heavier which mean his pain is increased. The pins and needles prick his fingers and toes and work its way upward. He doesn't know what is happening and his eyes widen hugely. He rejects the lie he was working towards. If his life is on the line, all bets are off. Still though, speaking is difficult. Fear and pain is a bad combination.
"A bowl." He rasps. "I was looking for a bowl. That's all."
Marcus remains standing over him, hands holding the enchantment that has seized through Edgard's body. At first, his expression doesn't flicker as Edgard offers this answer. Fingers flexing, the sound of cracking rock creaking distressingly from around Edgard.
It's clear, in the silence that follows, he has no idea what to make of this answer.
"What bowl," is very flat. The truth sounds pretty stupid on this side too.
Sweat starts to gather at Edgard's brow as his heart continues to crash wildly in his chest. His eyes flick from Marcus to the door to the window looking for anything or anyone who could help him. He heaves a deep breath out and manages to speak again.
Impossibly, his own mind struggles through the constriction of latent violence to offer up a memory of: finding a mixing bowl on Satinalia. Marcus says, "I returned it to the kitchens," in such a baffled way that his voice is almost expressive, rather than the steely even-toned edge he normally adopts.
His hands relax. Immediately, that odd stiffness in Edgard's joints leak out as the spell releases him, that grey tinge to fingertips simply vanishing as though it were never there.
Anger roils, still. There is still an offense to answer for. But not one deserving of death. Marcus isn't sure what answer there ought to be, but he takes a few steps back to give Edgard space to stand, still with the keyed in tension of a cornered wolf, standing between Edgard and the door. Still with that trace of smoke in the air.
Edgard wants to leap to his feet and run the second he's released, but his body won't allow this. He creaks slowly to all fours, still breathing heavily and rises up to his feet, arms out to keep his balance.
Once standing he clutches his chest and tries to take a few breaths, but they're too sharp.
"If you returned it, why are they still looking for it?"
It comes out a little frustrated rather than accusatory.
It is not snapped or snarled, nor is this a prelude to some kind of threatening qualifier. No instruction to tell no one what just happened, nor description of what may happen if Edgard comes back.
On the flipside, no sympathy extended for the misunderstanding either, and certainly no apology.
Marcus steps aside, leaving a clear path between Edgard and the closed door.
He lurches towards the door limping as quickly as he's allowed under the circumstances, but keeps stealing a glance back at Marcus, as if that would prepare him for another attack.
As he reaches the door, he coughs out a muffled "sorry" and opens it. It takes a moment. It's a heavy door and he's injured.
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He opts to open the drawers. They slide open easily.
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No bowls, though.
Before he can get much further, there's the scuff of boot heel on stone floor, and Marcus Rowntree appears in the frame of the door, looking at first confused, and then something more fixed in the way he stares across at Edgard bent over his desk.
He keeps his hand on the edge of the door, as if in the process of making a decision.
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If he didn't store it away somewhere, he'd probably put it on display. Maybe even put a plant inside it. He slowly turns as he looks around the room. He surely just missed it somewhere.
As he turns, he finds himself making eye contact with Marcus, standing in the doorway. His mouth drops open in shock. Quick, cause a diversion.
"What brings you here?" He says to him pleasantly.
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The question is stupid. Inane. At best: a distraction. He discards it.
He doesn't have his staff—his hair is still damp from the baths, privileging the empty early mornings, and he doesn't normally go there armed. It's in his wardrobe, but he doesn't make a move for it. Really, he doesn't need it.
From where Edgard stands, he may catch a distinct smell in the air. Smoke. In the shaft of light coming in through the window, he'll see the faint shape of ashy air beginning to form, all around.
Marcus's eyebrows twitch, a silent suggestion that Edgard try again.
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"I think I might be in the wrong room."
It is unlikely he can talk his way out of this, but he's sure going to try.
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And he clearly expects the man to, indeed, try to talk to his way out of this, his manner as inquisitive as it is slowly threatening, in its mild way. Smoke continues to drift and twist around, sourceless, earthy, tickling at Edgard's lungs the next time he breathes in.
"It was locked," he adds. "Against intruders."
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"I thought it was--someone else's room and it wasn't locked, it opened very easily."
Extremely easily, Marcus should probably get different locks.
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Stone and jagged rock enters the material world already in kinetic motion, slamming into Edgard's chest with enough force to stagger, and certainly to bruise, maybe break if he's unlucky.
There's no immediate second attack, but Marcus is moving in on steady steps forward, making the room smaller.
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"Please," He whispers as anything louder would hurt too much. "don't kill me!"
He tries to find a reason, but he cannot land on a good one.
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He can still move, though standing would be difficult. He can still talk.
"Alright," Marcus says, like he is agreeing to something. "Then tell me why you're in my room. The truth, aye."
He has other questions. Like who sent this man, what was he looking for, what does he want. Paranoid questions, simmering ready at the base of his skull, but: one step at a time.
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"A bowl." He rasps. "I was looking for a bowl. That's all."
He winces. The truth sounds pretty stupid.
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It's clear, in the silence that follows, he has no idea what to make of this answer.
"What bowl," is very flat. The truth sounds pretty stupid on this side too.
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"Big one. Mixing bowl. Satinalia."
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His hands relax. Immediately, that odd stiffness in Edgard's joints leak out as the spell releases him, that grey tinge to fingertips simply vanishing as though it were never there.
Anger roils, still. There is still an offense to answer for. But not one deserving of death. Marcus isn't sure what answer there ought to be, but he takes a few steps back to give Edgard space to stand, still with the keyed in tension of a cornered wolf, standing between Edgard and the door. Still with that trace of smoke in the air.
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Once standing he clutches his chest and tries to take a few breaths, but they're too sharp.
"If you returned it, why are they still looking for it?"
It comes out a little frustrated rather than accusatory.
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It is not snapped or snarled, nor is this a prelude to some kind of threatening qualifier. No instruction to tell no one what just happened, nor description of what may happen if Edgard comes back.
On the flipside, no sympathy extended for the misunderstanding either, and certainly no apology.
Marcus steps aside, leaving a clear path between Edgard and the closed door.
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He lurches towards the door limping as quickly as he's allowed under the circumstances, but keeps stealing a glance back at Marcus, as if that would prepare him for another attack.
As he reaches the door, he coughs out a muffled "sorry" and opens it. It takes a moment. It's a heavy door and he's injured.