Inbox - Fade Rift

[portcullis]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/anything in between.

Comments

note.

[luaithre]

[ Found amongst Vincent's mail; ]

Knight-Lieutenant,

Upon your return, I would speak with you on matters of security here in the Gallows. Meet with me when you are settled.


Marcus
Captain of the Guard

[portcullis]

[ Rovente and Rowntree met in the mud and blood on the outskirts of the siege at Starkhaven, hellfire and holy light, dogs and cats living together in a smog of ozone charred flesh. Vincent’d been in armor then, Templar plate crusty with soot and gore, beard black with the stuff under his helmet.

He’s in armor now, leaned up into the jamb of the office door on one vambrace.

The plate is fresh-polished, dark metal rubbed to a sheen over trace evidence of dozens of landed blows. The seams in his face are harder to hide, over his ear and through the scruff of his beard. The longsword at his hip hangs nearly to his ankle. “Settled.” ]

Guard Captain, [ he announces himself, by way of good morning, I hope this isn't a bad time. ] You wanted to see me?

[luaithre]

[ No armor, on this side of the desk. No robes either, at that, all layers of ash-grey and clean white, decent tailoring but worn edges. It makes for quiet movement through the halls and into rooms, unlike plate, which in its approach has Marcus' attention already half-raised by the time Rovente appears in his doorway.

'Settled'. Well, he's not going to suggest anyone make themselves more comfortable. ]

I did, [ closing the book in front of him, the broad square shape of a ledger of inventory (and gladly set aside). ] Come in.

[portcullis]

[ The rhythmic rattle and scrape has a dog on a chain lead quality about it, resumed with Rovente’s crossing of the office. Familiar, if not at this particular clip. Sitting down neatly in a chair requires a glance down behind him, steel bristled shoulders set carefully back to spare the wood. ]

This is a nice office, [ he says, after a beat taken to look it over. Mostly the desk. Not overtly covetous, in his thinking he'd look better than Marcus seated on the other side of it.

He rests hands at his knees, thick in their gauntlets. ]

[luaithre]

[ Marcus opens a drawer with a rattle, extracting some loose leaf pages bound into a rough scroll. Undoing that, weighting them down, and then glancing up at the room at large as Vincent's observation. Grey stone, narrow windows, lacking in decoration. There's a faint smell of tobacco. There's a second desk. It seems to have becoming a landing place for anything in Marcus' hand that didn't at the time have a home.

But it's a space with a door that locks from the inside and out. He can make Templars sit in it and ask them questions. It'll do. ]

You were based in Hasmal, [ as he picks up a pen. ] And Tantervale, before that. Is that right?

[portcullis]

Yes, that’s correct.

[ Wow not even a ‘thank you,’ okay.

The itch of tobacco smoke at his senses lends the space a nice masculine energy. Some thematic dressing wouldn’t hurt. A little green here and there. An armor stand.

Vincent keeps his focus leveled on Marcus and his pen. ]

This isn’t about you being ambushed and captured by a couple of hood-winked Templars is it? [ He furrows his brow. ] I specifically requested an alibi.

[luaithre]

[ In short sharp pen twitches, Vincent's name, his title, his past stations are noted, and he has gotten midway through Tantervale when he pauses at this question, that comment.

And then finishes, before looking back up. ]

A group of six, and one other Chantry affiliated, [ you know, for the record. ] They'd been fed false information from within our organisation. It isn't the first time we've been misrepresented.

Aye, this is to do with it.

[portcullis]

[ Six of them, wow. Vincent lofts his eyebrows to himself.

In a way, it’s a flattering number.

He hasn’t moved much otherwise, watching Marcus write in silence. A muffled scrape from one greave, a creak from the chair. ]

I don't suppose they apologized for the misunderstanding.

[luaithre]

Not to my knowledge.

[ —spoken in the tone of a man who does not expect one soon, and perhaps would only welcome it for the comedic potential. ]

It isn't the first time that those apparently aligned with the Chantry have meddled in our affairs, to dire consequence. [ Without really a pause, save to look back down at what he's written so far; ] Did you not come up in Antiva?

[portcullis]

[ Ser Vincent reflects on what he knows of the incidents in question in silence. His study of Marcus across the desk is mild, his eyes dark in the scarred dome of his skull. The silver in his beard is tired, thickest at his chops.

Were they that dire? ]

You’ve done an admirable job of keeping casualties down to a minimum.

[ He is very level in saying so. ]

I did come up in Antiva.

[luaithre]

[ It's true, none of their company has died. None of their number, despite the best efforts of Brother Gideon, and the terrible ravenous rage of an Abomination who was a father to a small girl and carried her keepsake, and the neat percussive sound of a sword pommel to the back of Julius' blonde head.

Riftwatch is resilient, and you can't argue otherwise. All the same— ]

Any others?

[ —with a faint, chill flicker of unease for the implications that might exist for the first part. ]

[portcullis]

Sure.

[ Some others. Knight Lieutenant Rovente is an open book, easy confidence through his shoulders, armored as they are, the tenor of his voice unchallenged by the situation he’s in. The tiger in a man suit seated across the desk from him with a pen curled in its claws. It’s just business. ]

Tantervale, [ he gives Marcus time to write. ] Hasmal.

[ What a track record. ]

[luaithre]

[ He writes. He doesn't look up, as he asks, ]

And who gave the order, for you to leave Hasmal and join our ranks?