Marcus drops the page onto the desk. It is tatty at the edges, the seam that folds it worn down. It would take very little to pry it into halves, if you were so inclined.
It is addressed to a 'Felix'. It is signed by 'Riftwatch'. ]
This letter refers to past correspondence with a man named Felix Naegle. He and his partner believed themselves to be agents of Riftwatch. I want our archives seached for the letter this refers to, and any other reference that exists.
[ This is not the first time they'd looked, of course. There had been a check before they'd set off the first time. And yet here he is, speaking in neutral and orderly tones, and not without a sense of importance about him. ]
[The idle turning of the pen continues as her attention shifts to the page. As she does so, her head cocks by a degree toward him like an attentive shepherding dog lest anyone think her not capable of doing two things at once. After a moment's review—of both the page and him, although the second is done privately; what does she know about Marcus Rowntree?—she remarks,]
Ah, our mysterious gentleman caller. It sounds as if you had some success tracing his path to us.
[—and looks back to him. Her eyebrows have leveled out on account of how it seems they are taking themselves seriously today.]
I'm sure you are welcome to search where you like. Excepting, naturally, those papers which are confidential.
[Fitcher refreshes the ink on her pen in preparation for returning to the task of copying before her.]
[ Which you'd hope to be the end of the conversation.
Instead, when Marcus steps sideways, it's not to amble over to the cabinets where such things might be stored, but to grip the back of a wooden chair and draw it in centre, the scrape and thump of wooden legs breaking the peace of the office.
He sits down across from her, a hand out to touch the letter, adjusting its position. ]
I've consulted on this with the Scoutmaster, who claims she's never heard of Felix, and his partner, Catrin, but the latter believed whole-heartedly they'd had such correspondence. The other died believing it too.
[ He pushes the letter forwards, insistent. ]
I'll look for a letter I'm sure doesn't exist, but I'd also wish to know what other letters have gone missing. And if you've seen any documents written with this hand.
[The pen hovers. Fitcher fixes him with a steady look, and then lowers her attention to the page a second time. After a moment, her attention flickers back to Marcus' face—some edge of a smile tugging just there at the corner of her mouth.]
Are you attempting to recruit me to solve a mystery for you?
[ Marcus's expression can be best described as blank, doing some vital interpretive work in the background for a seconds. Is that what he is attempting.
He looks at her mouth, then back at her eyes. ]
No, [ he decides. ] But you are well placed to help me do it.
[ He didn't expect resistance, that much is obvious, but being met with it doesn't seem to outwardly fluster him. A line at his brow, eyes narrowed.
He continues in his customary, level way, a stubbornness to his patience; ]
But I'll explain the import of the matter. I believe there is sabotage at work, whether within the Gallows or among our messengers, or some other external party penning letters on our behalf. As a result, a man died in our courtyard.
If that moves you, I'd appreciate your assistance.
[In reply—she laughs. It's a low, well rounded thing and might be pleasingly smoky were it not so inconveniently timed.]
I suppose they don't teach children in Circles to say please. Only to do as instructed.
[With one long hand and a sidelong look, Fitcher plucks up the delicate scrap of paper and sets it up the upright angled section of her workspace.]
You must realize how many documents we file. I don't suppose our friend Catrin mentioned how long she and Felix had been acting as agents of Riftwatch? A starting point would be most helpful.
[ Outwardly, his reaction is fairly minimal, but maybe Fitcher can catch the flash of something in eyes that are (maybe unfortunately, in the moment) as bright and clear as the sky. Marcus is very still, and quiet.
She says some things. There is a pause that is spent on re-absorbing the rest of what any of it was, his attention darting to the letter as if just noticing it had moved as well.
He shakes his head, but says; ]
Months,
[ the word dropping heavy between them, like a stone. ]
[If Fitcher takes note of the shifting temperature in the air, it shows not at all in her bearing. Instead, she devotes herself to turning the slip of paper over - checking first the blank side of the page and then plucking it up again to hold it up to the light.]
Months is preferable to years. Did she say where they were working or under what guise they had originally written? —Given the context of the note, I think we might safely assume they recieved this letter shortly before Felix's arrival here. Where did you find her?
[Here, she looks at him again. And pauses, as if only in this moment recognizing something in his face.]
Come now, Marcus. A woman is allowed her barbs when a strange man appears under the pretense of telling her what to do.
helps, as if her noticing his displeasure is motivation enough to raise tighter defenses, something slithering into retreat behind a mildly neutral expression, points of tension loosened. Later, he won't like that either, habits slipping and reapplied, but for now— ]
We hadn't the luxury of a proper conversation.
[ —he glides by this last thing, speaking in bland terms. ]
But she and her daughter were being escorted from Wildervale, and we caught up near the Nevarran border. They were originally of Ferelden, but I know not how long ago. Catrin mentioned they'd been operating out of northern territories, but she was reticent to say much more.
Perhaps you might consider taking it up again. I find it a fine way to get to know one's compatriots. Might I keep this? [She drums her fingers near, though not over for it is delicate enough to warrant careful handling, the page.]
It would be helpful to have it on hand for comparison.
No hesitation, but he does feel an odd reluctance, which is in itself not hard to divine from the stiffness of his posture. Perhaps it would have been there had this conversation had gone without a hitch—but the hitch didn't help. ]
I've handed you an intensive task, [ he says. ] You may consider me at your disposal to see it completed and thoroughly.
[The flicking once over she gives what she can see of him from behind her writing desk suggestions she hasn't yet formed an opinion on exactly what having him in such a position is worth. He makes for rather prickly company, does he not?
That there is something arch, some trace of humor, in that examination may or may not be appreciated but it is there. This is, after all, a kind of comedy of errors. Fitcher tips her attention back to the battered page.]
[ With recollection comes something of a withdrawing. Less the intent stare back at flicking once overs, attention instead lowering to the surface of the desk between them.
He adds, ]
She had her daughter with her. Arrangements were made, and I know not what they were, nor did the Templars escorting them both. Livia.
[Something in that draws her attention - a flicker like surprise catching at the very edge of her expression. It's a flat, quiet thing. It's possible he sees it not at all, given that the desk has become so interesting.]
Poor child.
[It is one of those stock expressions of sympathies - words trimmed from a pamphlet, or printed in a press, an echo of something someone somewhere has said so many times that the shape of it is trite. It is not unfeeling, it is just uncreative.
(These rote things are the easiest to say when you are surprised by information and some twinge of regret both. Collateral damage should be upsetting as a guiding principle.)]
Given all that is on the table I would hesitate to make inquiries with the Chantry to divine either of their locations for further interview, but if no alternative reveals itself then we--as an organization, I mean--might consider it. But I'll see what can be rooted out from the Gallows' records first.
[ Hard to say if it's missed or not, drawing his attention up to see how the news is received and snagging on that trite marching out of pity. Probably, there's nothing to see anymore, and she can probably sense and see his search of her.
If he comes away with anything, it doesn't show. ]
Aye, [ he agrees, the word delivered sedately, before his tone adopts again a strident pace. ] My concern for her wellbeing aside, I'm concerned more for the state of things that brought about this mess. If she and Felix were lied to, how that lie began, how we've missed their reaching to us.
I was speaking more to the possibility that she or her mother would be able to give us additional information if they were at their leisure to do so. But--
[Fitcher tips her head in place of a shrug. Considerations for later, should it be necessary.]
Should there be anything on record to help you see that we're not responsible for anything near to this a second time, you may trust that I'll find it for you.
[That delicate scrap of paper is carefully removed from the slanted section of the writing desk and placed instead into the slim topmost drawer where it will be safe from the half finished work which remains before her.]
Should you find yourself at loose ends in the mean time, I do have a weekly card game you would be welcome at.
[ At the very least, it seems the import and intent of his request has made it over the line, at least partways. If there is more he could wring out of it, he doesn't see a way to do it in this conversation. He sits straighter as she takes the letter and stows it away, tracking it with a predictable interest, like a plate of stew over the head of an attentive hound.
And then back to her in time for the invitation at cards. His expression does nothing. ]
I'll bear that in mind, [ he says, then nods, a courteous gesture, and stands, hand smoothing down his coat. ] I'll leave you then to your tasks. My thanks.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Marcus drops the page onto the desk. It is tatty at the edges, the seam that folds it worn down. It would take very little to pry it into halves, if you were so inclined.
It is addressed to a 'Felix'. It is signed by 'Riftwatch'. ]
This letter refers to past correspondence with a man named Felix Naegle. He and his partner believed themselves to be agents of Riftwatch. I want our archives seached for the letter this refers to, and any other reference that exists.
[ This is not the first time they'd looked, of course. There had been a check before they'd set off the first time. And yet here he is, speaking in neutral and orderly tones, and not without a sense of importance about him. ]
no subject
Ah, our mysterious gentleman caller. It sounds as if you had some success tracing his path to us.
[—and looks back to him. Her eyebrows have leveled out on account of how it seems they are taking themselves seriously today.]
I'm sure you are welcome to search where you like. Excepting, naturally, those papers which are confidential.
[Fitcher refreshes the ink on her pen in preparation for returning to the task of copying before her.]
no subject
[ Which you'd hope to be the end of the conversation.
Instead, when Marcus steps sideways, it's not to amble over to the cabinets where such things might be stored, but to grip the back of a wooden chair and draw it in centre, the scrape and thump of wooden legs breaking the peace of the office.
He sits down across from her, a hand out to touch the letter, adjusting its position. ]
I've consulted on this with the Scoutmaster, who claims she's never heard of Felix, and his partner, Catrin, but the latter believed whole-heartedly they'd had such correspondence. The other died believing it too.
[ He pushes the letter forwards, insistent. ]
I'll look for a letter I'm sure doesn't exist, but I'd also wish to know what other letters have gone missing. And if you've seen any documents written with this hand.
no subject
Are you attempting to recruit me to solve a mystery for you?
no subject
He looks at her mouth, then back at her eyes. ]
No, [ he decides. ] But you are well placed to help me do it.
no subject
[Without looking away from him, Fitcher sets her pen aside.]
no subject
[ He didn't expect resistance, that much is obvious, but being met with it doesn't seem to outwardly fluster him. A line at his brow, eyes narrowed.
He continues in his customary, level way, a stubbornness to his patience; ]
But I'll explain the import of the matter. I believe there is sabotage at work, whether within the Gallows or among our messengers, or some other external party penning letters on our behalf. As a result, a man died in our courtyard.
If that moves you, I'd appreciate your assistance.
no subject
I suppose they don't teach children in Circles to say please. Only to do as instructed.
[With one long hand and a sidelong look, Fitcher plucks up the delicate scrap of paper and sets it up the upright angled section of her workspace.]
You must realize how many documents we file. I don't suppose our friend Catrin mentioned how long she and Felix had been acting as agents of Riftwatch? A starting point would be most helpful.
no subject
She says some things. There is a pause that is spent on re-absorbing the rest of what any of it was, his attention darting to the letter as if just noticing it had moved as well.
He shakes his head, but says; ]
Months,
[ the word dropping heavy between them, like a stone. ]
no subject
Months is preferable to years. Did she say where they were working or under what guise they had originally written? —Given the context of the note, I think we might safely assume they recieved this letter shortly before Felix's arrival here. Where did you find her?
[Here, she looks at him again. And pauses, as if only in this moment recognizing something in his face.]
Come now, Marcus. A woman is allowed her barbs when a strange man appears under the pretense of telling her what to do.
no subject
helps, as if her noticing his displeasure is motivation enough to raise tighter defenses, something slithering into retreat behind a mildly neutral expression, points of tension loosened. Later, he won't like that either, habits slipping and reapplied, but for now— ]
We hadn't the luxury of a proper conversation.
[ —he glides by this last thing, speaking in bland terms. ]
But she and her daughter were being escorted from Wildervale, and we caught up near the Nevarran border. They were originally of Ferelden, but I know not how long ago. Catrin mentioned they'd been operating out of northern territories, but she was reticent to say much more.
no subject
That is a better starting point than the whole wide world, I suppose. Let us assume the Marches and everything north and east from them.
You are not much for cards, I take it?
no subject
We played cards in the Circle, [ he says. ] When permitted.
[ His tone stays even, although his accent hits the consonants a little harder than most. Like certain words are bitten when spoken.
His eyebrows lift. ]
I was alright.
no subject
It would be helpful to have it on hand for comparison.
no subject
No hesitation, but he does feel an odd reluctance, which is in itself not hard to divine from the stiffness of his posture. Perhaps it would have been there had this conversation had gone without a hitch—but the hitch didn't help. ]
I've handed you an intensive task, [ he says. ] You may consider me at your disposal to see it completed and thoroughly.
no subject
That there is something arch, some trace of humor, in that examination may or may not be appreciated but it is there. This is, after all, a kind of comedy of errors. Fitcher tips her attention back to the battered page.]
And Catrin? What became of her?
no subject
[ With recollection comes something of a withdrawing. Less the intent stare back at flicking once overs, attention instead lowering to the surface of the desk between them.
He adds, ]
She had her daughter with her. Arrangements were made, and I know not what they were, nor did the Templars escorting them both. Livia.
no subject
Poor child.
[It is one of those stock expressions of sympathies - words trimmed from a pamphlet, or printed in a press, an echo of something someone somewhere has said so many times that the shape of it is trite. It is not unfeeling, it is just uncreative.
(These rote things are the easiest to say when you are surprised by information and some twinge of regret both. Collateral damage should be upsetting as a guiding principle.)]
Given all that is on the table I would hesitate to make inquiries with the Chantry to divine either of their locations for further interview, but if no alternative reveals itself then we--as an organization, I mean--might consider it. But I'll see what can be rooted out from the Gallows' records first.
no subject
If he comes away with anything, it doesn't show. ]
Aye, [ he agrees, the word delivered sedately, before his tone adopts again a strident pace. ] My concern for her wellbeing aside, I'm concerned more for the state of things that brought about this mess. If she and Felix were lied to, how that lie began, how we've missed their reaching to us.
no subject
[Fitcher tips her head in place of a shrug. Considerations for later, should it be necessary.]
Should there be anything on record to help you see that we're not responsible for anything near to this a second time, you may trust that I'll find it for you.
[That delicate scrap of paper is carefully removed from the slanted section of the writing desk and placed instead into the slim topmost drawer where it will be safe from the half finished work which remains before her.]
Should you find yourself at loose ends in the mean time, I do have a weekly card game you would be welcome at.
no subject
And then back to her in time for the invitation at cards. His expression does nothing. ]
I'll bear that in mind, [ he says, then nods, a courteous gesture, and stands, hand smoothing down his coat. ] I'll leave you then to your tasks. My thanks.
no subject
It was good to meet you properly, Enchanter.
[It's important in this business to sometimes make contact with one's objects of study, after all.]