open.

[tender]

WHO: Derrica + OTA
WHAT: Office Hours
WHEN: Guardian
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Drop in, door's open.

There is nothing technically wrong with the Project Haven conference room and office. They are orderly, without any tangible sign of the intentions of their former owner.

Still, Derrica has thrown open the single window in the office wide in spite of the cold. There is a small crate just beside the doorway between office and conference room, where Derrica has been pitching anything she finds questionable. (Chantry texts to be relocated to records or the chapel, small items that might be personal affects, or are simply not to her taste.) She's left the doors open behind her, the one leading into the conference room, the one leading into the corridor, and the one leading into the Forces and Diplomacy workspaces as well, as if to promote circulation to the highest degree possible.

What comes after the cleaning is something Derrica is still working out.

She's never had an office. She's yet to even sit down at her allotted desk in the Forces workroom. But here she is, and she make something of the space. It's expected, she's certain.

Her hands are full of Chantry hymnals when the sound of footsteps pulls her attention from them.

"Watch out for the box," is her first, immediate word of caution. It's only partly blocking the doorway, but just enough to be a hazard to the unsuspecting.

Welcome to Project Haven. Don't mind the momentary clutter.

Comments

[satinet]

"I assure you, I've survived worse than a dry mouth and having to stand on my own two feet."

If he punctuates this with a flash of the anchor in his palm and a waggled of the fingers, it's clearly an off the cuff gesture—more comic than he is serious (or at least meant to be; genuinely, the chunk of fade-touched-whatever lodged into his arm has indeed been the source of all manner of grief).

With a further turn of that self same wrist, Cassius tucks the manuscript thoughtlessly under his arm.

"Similarly, I might offer to congratulate you on your new post, but I gather this office has something of a curse over it."

[tender]

"I'm going to cleanse it after I've removed the last of his things," Derrica reassures. It's very seriously said, so much so that who knows, maybe Derrica does intend to do so. But—

"What can I do for you, Enchanter?" she offers, eyes flicking from the manuscript to him, questioning. Is it a social call? She isn't entirely certain, and doesn't know him well enough to judge whether or not he is the type to make pleasant conversation while Derrica moves furniture.

She does have a clear enough impression to assume Cassius Black will not be moving any furniture.

[satinet]

"Funnily enough, that was going to be the exact question I put to you."

No, Cassius Black will not be moving any heavy furniture. Certainly not with his own two hands, anyway. Those he reserves for more important work like signing his name to letters or sliding up skirts.

"I realize that the resources we have to accomplish our work with can sometimes be limited." Blah blah blah, Riftwatch operating on a shoe string budget; that's weird, isn't it? Given all the rich benefactors the denizens of the Gallows spend so much of their time bowing and scraping to and doing favors for. "But should you ever find yourself in need of a little extra assistance, I'd be more than happy to help your project in whatever way I can. I've one or two friends among the Chantry. To say nothing of the fact that I oversee our spending here."

[tender]

"That's very kind."

True of both parts of his offer. Yes, this is a kindness.

And yes, he is an unknown quantity. But the idea of friends—

"I admit, I don't know where I might start," she says slowly, leaning back against the edge of her desk. "I've assumed I will have to read my way back to Speaker Fabria's notes to understand exactly what's been left undone."

For obvious reasons. Who can assume that a saboteur bent on doing harm to their organization was doing the necessary work of keeping up the project?

"If something occurs to you, I'd hear it. Or if your friends send word, I would welcome any suggestion they might have."

Within reason surely goes unspoken. She's a Rivaini mage, with very obvious loyalties. Not exactly a predictable choice for this work.

[satinet]

"Of course. May I be but a perfect conduit for their words to reach your ear." And so on and so forth, says the idle flicking motion of Cassius's unencumbered hand. The green of the anchor flashes, brief and inconsequential in his palm. Yadda yadda yadda, he is but a humble servant of the Inquisition. I mean Riftwatch.

"But forgive me," is sudden, and as if the thought has only just occurred to him (although there's little doubt that it can be the reason he came trotting all the way over here to begin with). "But it is a little strange, isn't it? You taking this post. I'm surprised you can think about the Chantry, much less are willing to engage them in conversation. That's very,"—hm—"Patient of you."

Unspoken evidently isn't a practice he puts much credence in.

[tender]

Cassius is certainly not the first person to assign the word to Derrica.

There is a beat of quiet in the wake of this statement that carries a question along with it. Tsenka had asked as much, but it had been easier to be candid with her than it is with Cassius.

Unfair, maybe. He has done nothing to provoke mistrust. And he is valuable. Derrica finds it easier to ask his help with the Chantry than she ever would Byerly.

"There are no mages among our Division heads," she says, looking up from the twisting of a gold bangle upon her wrist. "There should be someone to speak for us, if opportunity comes."

And there should be someone in this office who can be trusted to advocate on their behalf, when dealing with the Chantry.

[satinet]

"With the Chantry, or with the Division heads?"

It's a briskly returned question, so whip crack swift that the curve of his smile hardly alters around it. In fact, maybe it's little more than a joke given the twinkle of amusement lurking there in Cassius' crocodile colored eye.

But he waits for an answer. So maybe not.

[tender]

"Both."

Cassius does not strike her as a man who ignores the conversations that happen over the crystal. Nor does he give her the impression that he is a man unconcerned with his station in life.

Of course, that doesn't always mean a person is concerned with the position of mages as a whole. Derrica knows that. But she gives him the benefit of the doubt, the assumption that the connective tissue she imagines is there between them.

"We should have at least one option to carry our problems forth, when they arise."

[satinet]

"I'm positively devastated that you don't think I'm up to the task myself."

This is a joke, says Cassius's crooked smile and the jaunty waggle of his elbow where the dusty book is still safely in the crook of his arm. And it is. Partly. Ish.

Taking this as his cue, Cassius shifts fully into the room—side stepping the errant box and other clutter so he may drift a little about the room more or less at his leisure while they continue this conversation.

"When they arise. My, what a pessimistic lot we are, aren't we?"

Connective tissue indeed.

[tender]

"We have reason to be."

Still we, until proven otherwise.

As he moves, so does Derrica. There isn't any heated water that she might offer tea, but—

"I've some wine," she offers. "If you would like."

While they have this discussion, since one can assume it will require some kind of fortification. (And because it's polite, isn't it, to offer?)