[ When the cigarette case emerges, Bastien reaches into his own pocket to produce the fire-starting runestone—a little taste of magic he has yet to tire of. If Marcus hadn't been in a sharing mood, he still would have offered only to light his.
Now he offers both, and activates the flame a couple times just for fun besides. ]
Of course. Not a problem.
[ An errand barely out of his way. ]
And if there is something to be worried about, I bring it to you?
[ Once Bastien catches the end of the cigarette in the flame, Marcus ducks the short way down to properly ignite with a quick and practiced breath before settling back. ]
He's a mage, [ feels right to say, after a second. Some flicker of an old memory, some snippet of a thing that Bastien did not say but his partner said, once, and maybe it has him study Bastien a little more deliberately as he continues. ] We're giving him magebane for the evenings, not so for the day, but he's stated that whatever this urge is, it prefers knives over spellwork.
[ He doesn't ask if Bastien has his own supply on hand, in case that turns out to be false. That would be a bridge too far, and he assumes the man is clever enough to not need it so spelled out. ]
[ Bastien's head tilts in consideration while he inhales smoke.
The first mage he ever met was named Thomin. Mid-twenties or so. On loan from the Montsimmard Circle, on paper to a baroness, but the baroness so far in Bastien's bardmaster's debt that Thomin lived in the house with them instead. He was a quiet presence in the corner, tall and looming to an undersized fourteen-year-old, quick to follow the old woman's orders. Once he froze Bastien where he stood, the cold burning for an instant and numb for many more, to allow time for the poor positioning of his feet to be thoroughly examined and eviscerated. There was no fighting that. There was nothing.
Thomin died the same night their bardmaster did. Rassin crept into his room and slit his throat before the body was cool, before anyone else could make a bid for his allegiance—though now, taller and older, Bastien suspects he might have preferred to just go home.
Anyway: there's are touches of understanding and acknowledgment in his reshaping smile, but no smidgen of apology for the magebane he is rarely without. Even now, sitting here. ]
That works for me,
[ contrastingly cavalier, is not about the magic, only the knives. Exaggerated cockiness. He's nearly forty, a little paunchy, deaf in one ear, out of practice. He'll be careful.
He has a clay ashtray on his desk, for the days he has not run out of his own tobacco. He pushes it a little further away from him, closer to Marcus. ]
Does it bother you? Locking him up. [ More importantly, ] Here. I guess under the circumstances are not many other options.
[ There's a small nod to that exaggerated cockiness. Perhaps Marcus would have approached any random person in this room. Perhaps not. Perhaps he wouldn't have asked it of Gela, for whom there is some stupid desire to shield from harm despite everything. Just as likely, Bastien is marked as capable enough to handle himself.
He taps ash from his cigarette as Bastien asks this next thing, and a minor twitch at the brow might communicate that it's unexpected. A pause, then, ]
Yes.
[ Withdraws his hand from the ashtray, still settled. ]
Here, at its worst, mages spent most of their waking hours behind locked doors for no clear reason. A prison by any measure, not just that of Circles. [ The corner of his mouth turns up, bringing his cigarette back up as he adds, ] I'm aware of the differences. He volunteered, for one.
[ with a tip of his head. His gaze stays aimed primarily at the desk, the middle distance, anywhere, but he checks Marcus' face without subtlety—not trying to ferret anything out of him, only watching for signs he's overstepping. ]
And would you say it's more like possession? Like he is already possessed, I mean, more than the usual it could happen to anyone, who knows. I should have asked that Anders more questions while he was here, but there never was a moment it wouldn't have felt rude.
[ Mild. There's no indication of overstep, at least, meeting frank appraisal with his own. ]
If he's able to conduct himself normally otherwise, that implies to me something more than madness or ailment. And then, if it were possession, he should be able to say so. But demons can be subtle.
[ The tip of his hand implies: that leaves us with fewer options, and therefore, all the options. ]
It might be worth looking for shifts in demeanor, personality. Not just violence. I never met Anders, [ sounds a little like he would have liked to. ]
[ Bastien nods occasionally through this advice. Forthcoming, interested in not hurting people. The rest he will figure out. Watch for changes. Maybe see under what circumstances, if any, he can provoke some. Sure.
Then a flicker of oh right passes over Bastien's face, at this reminder that Marcus has not in fact always been here. ]
He was not what I expected. [ Compliment? Insult? Befuddled but not particularly judgmental observation? Mostly the last one. ] I can't begin to guess whether or not you would like him. I liked him more than I thought I would, but, [ given Bastien's known taste in people, ] that might not bode well for your opinion if you ever meet him.
[ A short breath out has a tone of mirth to it, along with the smoke, as to whether Marcus would like Anders. He shouldn't laugh, considering the somewhat lukewarm things his partners have had to say about the man, but there is within him the stubborn refusal to dislike a person he would identify as a hero.
Did you read his work? he might ask. Instead, he snags on something else. ]
What do you mean?
[ Bastien may not necessarily be one of those people who live in insinuation and equivocation so much that such a question would knock him off balance, but it's a question Marcus has grown more than accustomed to asking, with certain kinds of people. ]
[ An easy grin and a wave of his free hand together: he means nothing important. Certainly nothing fraught enough for him to be embarrassed to clarify. ]
I have controversial taste. Terrible puns, changeable moods, talking too much—
[ He tugs his collar as if a bit hot beneath it.
And maybe that’s too much hyperbolic information—but they’re apparently on what do you mean terms.
Plus, that was almost a laugh before. Close enough to be emboldening. ]
[ The level of Marcus' focus seems to imply that he is awaiting Bastien's specificity, and so a redirection is less expected. One that cleaves more personal, suddenly, and there is a split second where he must decide if Bastien's teasing him has hidden malice to or is a simpler, friendlier thing.
There's a lot of reasons he doesn't particularly enjoy Rutyer's company. They give him further reason to suspect Bastien's.
But the next breath out is tolerant, deciding that some guarded prickle of feeling could stand to smooth itself out rather than tense and brace. He taps ash, again, off his cigarette, the set of his focus shifting. ]
When there're two of them, [ blondes, presumably, ] changeable moods and a lot of talk is inevitable. You don't know what I like.
[ Sharp on paper, but the delivery is mild without straying all the way into tentative, a faint twinge of amusement as he brings cigarette back up. ]
Whether intentionally or not, it's a good a reminder as any of where he is and what he came here for, and the fact that it's done. A nod seems to conclude their business, and there's nothing hasty or pointed in the last tap of ash, and the removing of his weight off the desk behind him. ]
Someone ought to've taken up the mantle of Madame Fitcher's card games, [ throughout this motion. Dry, ] A pity.
[ As Bastien lowers one surrendering hand and pivots the other around to pull on the cigarette, he hums. A little too low for pure unmitigated agreement. Calling them Madame Fitcher's card games, specifically, or otherwise giving her any ongoing credit, might not send the right signal to her victims.
But otherwise: good point, immediately sparking into plans. ]
Thank you, [ for the cigarette, wiggled between his fingers illustratively on its way out to the ash tray. ] I will bring you one when I report back on Monsieur soif de sang.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Now he offers both, and activates the flame a couple times just for fun besides. ]
Of course. Not a problem.
[ An errand barely out of his way. ]
And if there is something to be worried about, I bring it to you?
no subject
[ Once Bastien catches the end of the cigarette in the flame, Marcus ducks the short way down to properly ignite with a quick and practiced breath before settling back. ]
He's a mage, [ feels right to say, after a second. Some flicker of an old memory, some snippet of a thing that Bastien did not say but his partner said, once, and maybe it has him study Bastien a little more deliberately as he continues. ] We're giving him magebane for the evenings, not so for the day, but he's stated that whatever this urge is, it prefers knives over spellwork.
[ He doesn't ask if Bastien has his own supply on hand, in case that turns out to be false. That would be a bridge too far, and he assumes the man is clever enough to not need it so spelled out. ]
no subject
The first mage he ever met was named Thomin. Mid-twenties or so. On loan from the Montsimmard Circle, on paper to a baroness, but the baroness so far in Bastien's bardmaster's debt that Thomin lived in the house with them instead. He was a quiet presence in the corner, tall and looming to an undersized fourteen-year-old, quick to follow the old woman's orders. Once he froze Bastien where he stood, the cold burning for an instant and numb for many more, to allow time for the poor positioning of his feet to be thoroughly examined and eviscerated. There was no fighting that. There was nothing.
Thomin died the same night their bardmaster did. Rassin crept into his room and slit his throat before the body was cool, before anyone else could make a bid for his allegiance—though now, taller and older, Bastien suspects he might have preferred to just go home.
Anyway: there's are touches of understanding and acknowledgment in his reshaping smile, but no smidgen of apology for the magebane he is rarely without. Even now, sitting here. ]
That works for me,
[ contrastingly cavalier, is not about the magic, only the knives. Exaggerated cockiness. He's nearly forty, a little paunchy, deaf in one ear, out of practice. He'll be careful.
He has a clay ashtray on his desk, for the days he has not run out of his own tobacco. He pushes it a little further away from him, closer to Marcus. ]
Does it bother you? Locking him up. [ More importantly, ] Here. I guess under the circumstances are not many other options.
no subject
He taps ash from his cigarette as Bastien asks this next thing, and a minor twitch at the brow might communicate that it's unexpected. A pause, then, ]
Yes.
[ Withdraws his hand from the ashtray, still settled. ]
Here, at its worst, mages spent most of their waking hours behind locked doors for no clear reason. A prison by any measure, not just that of Circles. [ The corner of his mouth turns up, bringing his cigarette back up as he adds, ] I'm aware of the differences. He volunteered, for one.
no subject
[ with a tip of his head. His gaze stays aimed primarily at the desk, the middle distance, anywhere, but he checks Marcus' face without subtlety—not trying to ferret anything out of him, only watching for signs he's overstepping. ]
And would you say it's more like possession? Like he is already possessed, I mean, more than the usual it could happen to anyone, who knows. I should have asked that Anders more questions while he was here, but there never was a moment it wouldn't have felt rude.
no subject
[ Mild. There's no indication of overstep, at least, meeting frank appraisal with his own. ]
If he's able to conduct himself normally otherwise, that implies to me something more than madness or ailment. And then, if it were possession, he should be able to say so. But demons can be subtle.
[ The tip of his hand implies: that leaves us with fewer options, and therefore, all the options. ]
It might be worth looking for shifts in demeanor, personality. Not just violence. I never met Anders, [ sounds a little like he would have liked to. ]
no subject
Then a flicker of oh right passes over Bastien's face, at this reminder that Marcus has not in fact always been here. ]
He was not what I expected. [ Compliment? Insult? Befuddled but not particularly judgmental observation? Mostly the last one. ] I can't begin to guess whether or not you would like him. I liked him more than I thought I would, but, [ given Bastien's known taste in people, ] that might not bode well for your opinion if you ever meet him.
no subject
Did you read his work? he might ask. Instead, he snags on something else. ]
What do you mean?
[ Bastien may not necessarily be one of those people who live in insinuation and equivocation so much that such a question would knock him off balance, but it's a question Marcus has grown more than accustomed to asking, with certain kinds of people. ]
no subject
I have controversial taste. Terrible puns, changeable moods, talking too much—
[ He tugs his collar as if a bit hot beneath it.
And maybe that’s too much hyperbolic information—but they’re apparently on what do you mean terms.
Plus, that was almost a laugh before. Close enough to be emboldening. ]
On the other hand, he is blond.
no subject
There's a lot of reasons he doesn't particularly enjoy Rutyer's company. They give him further reason to suspect Bastien's.
But the next breath out is tolerant, deciding that some guarded prickle of feeling could stand to smooth itself out rather than tense and brace. He taps ash, again, off his cigarette, the set of his focus shifting. ]
When there're two of them, [ blondes, presumably, ] changeable moods and a lot of talk is inevitable. You don't know what I like.
[ Sharp on paper, but the delivery is mild without straying all the way into tentative, a faint twinge of amusement as he brings cigarette back up. ]
no subject
[ Bastien circles back to agreeably—aside from blondes, of course, and magic, with publicly decorous now only in the maybe column.
Then that earlier what do you mean also circles back to make him raise both hands, jaw-height in muted gesture of surrender, one wafting smoke. ]
Because I do not know you very well.
[ Not because the appeal of Enchanter Julius and Madame de Cedoux is so dubious and inscrutable that he cannot make any sense of it. ]
no subject
[ Agreeable, in kind, and vice versa.
Whether intentionally or not, it's a good a reminder as any of where he is and what he came here for, and the fact that it's done. A nod seems to conclude their business, and there's nothing hasty or pointed in the last tap of ash, and the removing of his weight off the desk behind him. ]
Someone ought to've taken up the mantle of Madame Fitcher's card games, [ throughout this motion. Dry, ] A pity.
no subject
But otherwise: good point, immediately sparking into plans. ]
Thank you, [ for the cigarette, wiggled between his fingers illustratively on its way out to the ash tray. ] I will bring you one when I report back on Monsieur soif de sang.