Deeply neutral, that 'alright'. Understated, for something of which he knows little, save for the thing he is very certain about. There is a beat of silence where Marcus is considering why Richard might feel compelled to say this thing, and continues with, "It would still get you killed out there. They don't care why a mage does anything."
A 'they' of which Fitcher—surely—is a part. Marcus keeps searching, quietly, as if a direct enough stare could peel back enough scale and layers to read how these connections work in this rifter's mind.
"One slip from you, for that, and she'd have arranged Templars to haul you to Val Chevin quicker than me. Why are you protecting her at your own expense?"
“She protects herself,” Mr. Dickerson is all too quick to counter. “Or am I so charming you believe she’d show me her throat unbidden?”
He doesn’t quite sling the closed journal past Marcus onto the table at the room’s center, a little too much snap to the release. It lands flat at the edge with a leathery smack. The cat at his shoulders flinches.
Relieved of it as a distraction, he’s free to square back to Marcus’ scrutiny, rough-ridden as his former horse and with a nastier disposition.
“I trusted her for what she was. She trusted me. We kept secrets.” Bold, really, to assume she had no inklings about his extracurriculars. She’d know the signs, surely -- recognize the scars. He’s given the matter plenty of thought on his own time, nothing new for him to mull over at the knifepoint of this hypothetical slip. “I’m sorry she prioritized a vendetta over the destruction of your world.” Resentment keeps his eyes bright. “Humans are notoriously fickle.”
The path of the journal is tracked with a glance—no flinch for sudden movements, but alert to them. Back to Richard, unyielding and impassive scrutiny locked back into place.
This last thing does get a response: a twinge of what could almost pass as a smile, an exhale that could almost pass as a laugh. When these things burn off, there is a blacker, bleaker anger that simmers low.
"You went missing, Dickerson," he says. "No follow up report, no response, no request for further advisement from your superiors. It is not your decision to make if the actions of Madame Fitcher are insignificant in the scheme of Riftwatch's priorities. This is done when I say it is."
Richard is not in the dungeon. He is in his room. That alone is indication enough on where Riftwatch is choosing to put its focus. All the same—
"You are a mage," does not quite easy up on the intensity, but there is an earnest grasp to it that is not simply aggressive. "One who may well live to see what the world is like after we're done saving it. I advise you to start caring, because people like Fitcher certainly do, and are already attempting to shape it."
Mr. Dickerson is snake still, motionless for a long moment save for the push and pull of breath tight under his jerkin.
The creature on his shoulder bundles in on herself, knuckles twisted, bowstring tension boiled flat along the contours of velvet muscle, a bolo of gristle and bone primed to unfurl itself upon Marcus’ exposed face. There’s a sickly sweet tang to the air, cloying, faint, familiar, as if from a dream. Intrusive thought.
Thot vanishes mid-hiss, a spin of vapor flushed clean off his collar.
“I understand.”
He looks down, blanched and drawn and also composed. Papers tapped, files straightened.
“I’ll notify you if I recall anything else of import.”
The tension that Marcus matches in turn is more readied and defensive than a rise in anger. As Thot's poisonous hiss begins to fill the room, white fangs and blue gullet, he once again transfers his attention to her, as if seriously considering her input and response to the conversation just as much as the real possibility she might attack. That Richard might attack.
She disappears. Marcus stops short of glancing back into the room, restraint helped along by Dick's answer. Just barely.
This next assurance gets only flat regard. That it's also dismissal does not compel Marcus for the door, but there is a resentment in his expression—matte with resignation, more than Richard's brightness—that seems to recognise an end of something, at least in this conversation. Still. The temptation to keep worrying at this bone in particular locks through his posture.
"You know," and now he does glance back, more comfortable in search of a missing cat on his own terms than when it was his instinct, then back to Richard, "I would have thanked you for your actions in our shared dream, but it wasn't my place to do so. It wasn't for my sake but Derrica's, I would think. But I don't mind saying that I'm grateful."
The resentment hasn't left his voice, the ashy leftovers of brief flame colouring his tone, but it doesn't sound like a lie, really, too direct, no hint of irony.
"Notify me," Marcus says, and then goes to see himself out, "if you change your mind."
Marcus' hand rests on the handle of the door without yet curling, gripping.
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.
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no subject
Deeply neutral, that 'alright'. Understated, for something of which he knows little, save for the thing he is very certain about. There is a beat of silence where Marcus is considering why Richard might feel compelled to say this thing, and continues with, "It would still get you killed out there. They don't care why a mage does anything."
A 'they' of which Fitcher—surely—is a part. Marcus keeps searching, quietly, as if a direct enough stare could peel back enough scale and layers to read how these connections work in this rifter's mind.
"One slip from you, for that, and she'd have arranged Templars to haul you to Val Chevin quicker than me. Why are you protecting her at your own expense?"
no subject
He doesn’t quite sling the closed journal past Marcus onto the table at the room’s center, a little too much snap to the release. It lands flat at the edge with a leathery smack. The cat at his shoulders flinches.
Relieved of it as a distraction, he’s free to square back to Marcus’ scrutiny, rough-ridden as his former horse and with a nastier disposition.
“I trusted her for what she was. She trusted me. We kept secrets.” Bold, really, to assume she had no inklings about his extracurriculars. She’d know the signs, surely -- recognize the scars. He’s given the matter plenty of thought on his own time, nothing new for him to mull over at the knifepoint of this hypothetical slip. “I’m sorry she prioritized a vendetta over the destruction of your world.” Resentment keeps his eyes bright. “Humans are notoriously fickle.”
no subject
This last thing does get a response: a twinge of what could almost pass as a smile, an exhale that could almost pass as a laugh. When these things burn off, there is a blacker, bleaker anger that simmers low.
"You went missing, Dickerson," he says. "No follow up report, no response, no request for further advisement from your superiors. It is not your decision to make if the actions of Madame Fitcher are insignificant in the scheme of Riftwatch's priorities. This is done when I say it is."
Richard is not in the dungeon. He is in his room. That alone is indication enough on where Riftwatch is choosing to put its focus. All the same—
"You are a mage," does not quite easy up on the intensity, but there is an earnest grasp to it that is not simply aggressive. "One who may well live to see what the world is like after we're done saving it. I advise you to start caring, because people like Fitcher certainly do, and are already attempting to shape it."
no subject
The creature on his shoulder bundles in on herself, knuckles twisted, bowstring tension boiled flat along the contours of velvet muscle, a bolo of gristle and bone primed to unfurl itself upon Marcus’ exposed face. There’s a sickly sweet tang to the air, cloying, faint, familiar, as if from a dream. Intrusive thought.
Thot vanishes mid-hiss, a spin of vapor flushed clean off his collar.
“I understand.”
He looks down, blanched and drawn and also composed. Papers tapped, files straightened.
“I’ll notify you if I recall anything else of import.”
no subject
She disappears. Marcus stops short of glancing back into the room, restraint helped along by Dick's answer. Just barely.
This next assurance gets only flat regard. That it's also dismissal does not compel Marcus for the door, but there is a resentment in his expression—matte with resignation, more than Richard's brightness—that seems to recognise an end of something, at least in this conversation. Still. The temptation to keep worrying at this bone in particular locks through his posture.
"You know," and now he does glance back, more comfortable in search of a missing cat on his own terms than when it was his instinct, then back to Richard, "I would have thanked you for your actions in our shared dream, but it wasn't my place to do so. It wasn't for my sake but Derrica's, I would think. But I don't mind saying that I'm grateful."
The resentment hasn't left his voice, the ashy leftovers of brief flame colouring his tone, but it doesn't sound like a lie, really, too direct, no hint of irony.
"Notify me," Marcus says, and then goes to see himself out, "if you change your mind."
no subject
The words leave him while he’s still looking down, vinegar from the belly of a slit bladder, nothing left to hem them in.
A two for one deal. Think of all the nightmare trauma the rest of Riftwatch might have been spared.
“I’m sure your intentions were noble,” he adds. “Thank you for the warning.”
no subject
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.