"For me?" comes the question from behind the desk.
There is an assortment of paperwork. A map. Letters, creased three times with broken seals set at her elbow. A heavy green mug filled with tea pins down an errant corner.
"The Provost is up one floor," she advises gently, drawing a conclusion from the items in hand.
Being acknowledged is evidently all the invitation Brother Vesperus requires to cross the threshold with his collection. Though there he pauses, a severe scarecrow of a man looming in an ominous dark coat.
A beat of contemplation. He is serious, and he is here with questions for her.
"Please," she invites, straightening from where she had been bent over her work. There are chairs, a mismatched assortment of heavy-carved wood and only slightly threadbare upholstery, but comfortable. "Would you like tea?"
Polite.
No one has actually come to her yet, so all she has to go off is Ilias and how he had invited her in, offered her something to drink, made space for her to speak.
"No, but thank you," is polite in return, however rote the reflex. He moves briskly to take one of those available chairs, piling the scrolls in a neat stack against its leg and depositing the heavy tome in his lap.
Opening the front page reveals a blank piece of parchment pressed there for easy transport. Reaching inside his coat— Laurentius pauses, then checks the pocket on the other side. A snub nosed scrab of a pencil is produced from it. He's come prepared.
"You oversee communications between Riftwatch and the Orlesian Chantry. What can you tell me about the state of that relationship?"
The questions draws her out from behind the desk, migrating to one of the remaining chairs. Maybe it is best to conduct the conversation from a more official position, but that isn't enough to override the instinct.
If the question rankles, it doesn't bear out in any change of Laurentius' demeanor or expression. That gloomy look, all dark shadows and a wide mouth designed to be tightly pursed, sticks exactly as it is; his answer comes at the same, metronome-like clip as his initial intrusion.
"Barring some specifics of names and the internal politics, I understand the Southern Chantry."
(No, he knows a little of those things too. You can tell a lot about a thing from the scholarship it produces and endorses. But best to be safe about his assessment of what he does know versus what he might not.)
"But if I don't get how yours and Riftwatch's interest align—beyond just stopping Corypheus—, then any recommendations I might make are going to be less than useless."
A pause in which Derrica weighs this answer up. Draws a conclusion from it, that prompts some further study of his face, and then the book pillowed in his lap.
"You intend to join the Project," is not a question.
She has been alone in this office, without much expectation of company. The abruptness with which he's presented himself is a surprise. Based on their last conversation, Derrica wouldn't have expected his interest to lead him here.
Derrica had simply shown up to the office to clear out a dead traitor's possessions, and had found no particular instruction on it, so this will have to do.
Appeased, she returns to the initial question as she draws up one leg to tuck beneath her.
"It's disordered," she tells him. "The last occupant of this office didn't have the best interests of the organization at heart. And it was empty for a time before that."
And now there's Derrica.
"And we've had an incident that will need to be dealt with, I think."
"Oh?" The snub of his pencil has yet to descend far enough to make a mark on that ready page. "What kind of incident?"
That the answer breeds further questions—who was the last occupant? What did they do? And the person before that? What became of them?—can be momentarily sidelined in favor of the present.
It seemed like a safe assumption. He'd arrived with more than enough material to take notes. It seemed like a sign.
"And you realize I have a good reason not to share them yet?"
If only because one question leads to another leads to another and until she is given some specific indication that they've dealt with the mole who caused all the trouble. How to explain the entirety of what occurred on the road without touching on the factor that had caused all of it?
From inside that quiet, serpent's face, he considers her for a long beat. His eyes are very brown; under the shade of his brow and the influence of the office's narrow windows, they seem almost black.
And then Laurentius flicks his pencil, spinning it absently between his fingers before jotting a brief note on the page under it.
"Fair enough," he says, and segues smoothly in the direction a less prickly topic. Differently prickly? Maker, who can say. "How would you describe your ambitions for this office?"
Here, a pause. Derrica has slouched to one side of the chair, weight distributed gracefully against one arm as she laces her fingers together in her lap.
Considers the question, yes, but him alongside it. She is not unaware that Byerly Rutyer had objections to her filling this role. She is not unaware that he might perhaps wish to see her removed from this office if opportunity arises.
And she does not know Laurentius. This is enough to remind her that whatever answer she gives cannot be as thorough as what she might give to Marcus Rowntree, or to Julius or Kostos or Petrana.
"I would like it to be a shield for the work we do here that may otherwise be considered...objectionable. And to improve the Chantry's impression of our people through our shared work, along with whatever favors they would put to us."
Our people. Riftwatch, or mages and rifters? Who can say to which she refers.
The answer apparently doesn't warrant a note either due to its breadth (No—it's not very thorough, is it? But he was hardly expecting it to be), or because he's prudent enough not to write down 'Sneak heresies around the edge of the Southern Divine's hem.' Regardless, Laurentius appears to absorb this answer in the same fashion as the ones which have come prior to it—feeding it into the tumbler working between his ears where it may rattle slowly and methodically about until it either polishes or is reduced to sand.
"I know Riftwatch has a handful of Templars here in the Gallows." His work hasn't kept him completely blinkered to the social politics of the Gallows. "Who here represents the Orlesian Chantry?"
Derrica delivers this fact without any change in inflection, though it is likely not difficult to divine her preference: she is not dismayed by this absence.
"The nearest we ever had was the man who previously occupied this office, and he attempted to blow up our Satinalia gathering," is only one of Brother Gideon's sins, but rather than detail further, she adds, "We receive visitors. They are usually given a tour of the Gallows, before we hear whatever they actually came to ask of us."
Derrica may not find this absence a point of concern, but the wrinkle that forms briefly just above Laurentius' brow seems to suggest he might. His frown is very slight, though it creases marginally harder over the recitation of this apparent Satinalia issue and remains so after.
The point of that squat pencil shifts absently at the page, setting down and then rising again without actually making any mark of note.
"Would it be inaccurate, then—to describe the relationship as more or less transactional? You do things for them, they—" What exactly? "Promise to look the other way while Riftwatch does as it pleases?
Though there is a pause after that, a sigh of discontent.
"Riftwatch was a part of the Inquisition, before breaking with them some time before the new Divine was elected and began the Exalted March. We have worked together as needed, and yes, there is something transactional in our relationship, but it isn't..."
A break, casting for the words.
"We are a small company. We tend to smaller problems. It is beneficial to avoid close scrutiny, so if there is a request or opportunity to maintain this good working relationship, I believe the Division heads are keen to make use of any that arise. To my knowledge, we have yet to ask anything in return of them."
He doesn't write any of that either. Instead, Laurentius sets the stub of a pencil in the joint between the open book's facing page and its cover. His long, knobby hands follow it—absently folding one over the other, both lain across the scrap page which has hardly had any notation taken down on it at all. The only motion that follows it is an absent tapping of one of his small fingers against the page. A soft, metronome beat that isn't a fidget yet isn't really anything else either.
"Would you say that any of this ties into your efforts with the south's mages?"
The kind of honesty that may get her in trouble. Laurentius is a mage, yes, but he hails from Tevinter. His outlook is drastically different. It is not a bad thing or a good thing, it simply is.
But she gives him this honesty. Yes, of course her presence in this office is only meant to better the position of mages within Riftwatch.
The look she directs to him is prompting. He has opinions. She knows this.
He does. Obviously he must. Otherwise, what possible reason could he have to venture free of the library or the little room he and his wife share? No one is forcing him to make him to attach himself to the ranks of Riftwatch. And even if there were some requirement that he put his name on the roster in exchange for the security of staying here in the Gallows, there are dozens of members of the company who do their duty without ever setting foot in one of these offices. There's no reason for him to be here if not for his opinion.
Still.
That small finger taps a few more beats on the page, considering, before he volunteers it.
"I have a colleague who works extensively in Seheron. Addressing the native population, countering the spread of the Qun into Tevinter settlements. So on and so forth." Well. He'd had such a colleague. But the point stands. "The lesson I always took from his lectures was that however vulnerable asking questions might make you seem, you usually gain more ground than you lose by asking them. People like to talk about what they know, right?"
This is a hypothetical. He knows that's as true here in Kirkwall as it is in Vyrantium. One might say he'd tested the theory in that basement a few weeks ago.
"But there's another practice of his that I never really had much use for, but I think might be to your benefit. He's always been remarkably good at conscripting people outside of the Chantry to do some of his work for him, in the sense that he focuses on changing one or two minds and then encourages them to talk to anyone they know about it. Obviously it doesn't always work, but I think my point with is that you're right. This is a small company against a few Ages worth of theology saying the exact opposite of what you are. If it were me," isn't strictly delicate, but punctuated with enough of a pause and a significant look to suggest that he's perfectly aware that it isn't. "I might start looking for a few minds to focus on changing outside of it. In addition to doing what the southern Chantry asks. Possibly."
As he speaks, Derrica has straightened in her chair. Tucked her leg more directly beneath her, attentive as he recounts this information. The invocation of Seheron, the Qun. His colleague.
His description of how they might proceed.
"I met some mages at the Conclave, who I think can be convinced," she says slowly, gaze locked onto his face. "And that isn't nothing. But your colleague would want people beyond mages. People with...influence? Who others regard highly?"
"Sometimes, but not always. —Or it depends on what you mean by influence."
Here, Laurentius turns his topmost hand, the gesture carrying something like the spirit of a shrug without getting as far as waggling his shoulders around.
"To be fair, Seheron is an odd case. It's fairly isolated. But I think you could replicate some of the effects by looking for people in communities who are both reasonably influential inside their circles, and unlikely travel or communicate outside of them before your ideas have time to set. Land owners with tenets, or minor magistrates for smaller communities. That sort of thing. They might be willing to expand their understanding of the Chant given good reason to."
A considering pause, before Derrica rises from her seat.
Returns to her desk, where several books are closed and stacked to the side. Freeing up a long curl of parchment bearing a map, which she carries to set between them.
Not to presume that he isn't familiar with the geography. They both hail from the far north. The assistance of the map is good, so when Derrica points, they might both consider the distance involved.
"We do much work within the Free Marches," she tells him. "Where there are such individuals as you describe. It is mostly in the context of settling refugees, but it requires speaking to the leaders of the communities we are dealing with."
Again, Derrica wishes for Holden. He would have known how to present this argument. But she doesn't have Holden, and so she is obliged to admit—
"I know little of the Chant."
Surely not a surprise, coming from a Rivaini mage.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
There is an assortment of paperwork. A map. Letters, creased three times with broken seals set at her elbow. A heavy green mug filled with tea pins down an errant corner.
"The Provost is up one floor," she advises gently, drawing a conclusion from the items in hand.
no subject
Being acknowledged is evidently all the invitation Brother Vesperus requires to cross the threshold with his collection. Though there he pauses, a severe scarecrow of a man looming in an ominous dark coat.
"Do you mind if I sit?"
no subject
"Please," she invites, straightening from where she had been bent over her work. There are chairs, a mismatched assortment of heavy-carved wood and only slightly threadbare upholstery, but comfortable. "Would you like tea?"
Polite.
No one has actually come to her yet, so all she has to go off is Ilias and how he had invited her in, offered her something to drink, made space for her to speak.
no subject
Opening the front page reveals a blank piece of parchment pressed there for easy transport. Reaching inside his coat— Laurentius pauses, then checks the pocket on the other side. A snub nosed scrab of a pencil is produced from it. He's come prepared.
"You oversee communications between Riftwatch and the Orlesian Chantry. What can you tell me about the state of that relationship?"
no subject
"If you tell me what prompts the question."
Not accusation, just curiosity.
no subject
"Barring some specifics of names and the internal politics, I understand the Southern Chantry."
(No, he knows a little of those things too. You can tell a lot about a thing from the scholarship it produces and endorses. But best to be safe about his assessment of what he does know versus what he might not.)
"But if I don't get how yours and Riftwatch's interest align—beyond just stopping Corypheus—, then any recommendations I might make are going to be less than useless."
no subject
"You intend to join the Project," is not a question.
She has been alone in this office, without much expectation of company. The abruptness with which he's presented himself is a surprise. Based on their last conversation, Derrica wouldn't have expected his interest to lead him here.
no subject
"That's right."
One of Vyrantium's foremost composers of lyrical verse, ladies and gentlemen.
no subject
Derrica had simply shown up to the office to clear out a dead traitor's possessions, and had found no particular instruction on it, so this will have to do.
Appeased, she returns to the initial question as she draws up one leg to tuck beneath her.
"It's disordered," she tells him. "The last occupant of this office didn't have the best interests of the organization at heart. And it was empty for a time before that."
And now there's Derrica.
"And we've had an incident that will need to be dealt with, I think."
no subject
That the answer breeds further questions—who was the last occupant? What did they do? And the person before that? What became of them?—can be momentarily sidelined in favor of the present.
no subject
Delicately put.
"It's something that's going to need some untangling. There's still information being gathered."
no subject
What doesn't say so is his mouth. That says:
"You realize that I'm just going to ask a series of increasingly annoying questions about all of this until I know some of the details, yes?"
no subject
It seemed like a safe assumption. He'd arrived with more than enough material to take notes. It seemed like a sign.
"And you realize I have a good reason not to share them yet?"
If only because one question leads to another leads to another and until she is given some specific indication that they've dealt with the mole who caused all the trouble. How to explain the entirety of what occurred on the road without touching on the factor that had caused all of it?
no subject
And then Laurentius flicks his pencil, spinning it absently between his fingers before jotting a brief note on the page under it.
"Fair enough," he says, and segues smoothly in the direction a less prickly topic. Differently prickly? Maker, who can say. "How would you describe your ambitions for this office?"
no subject
Considers the question, yes, but him alongside it. She is not unaware that Byerly Rutyer had objections to her filling this role. She is not unaware that he might perhaps wish to see her removed from this office if opportunity arises.
And she does not know Laurentius. This is enough to remind her that whatever answer she gives cannot be as thorough as what she might give to Marcus Rowntree, or to Julius or Kostos or Petrana.
"I would like it to be a shield for the work we do here that may otherwise be considered...objectionable. And to improve the Chantry's impression of our people through our shared work, along with whatever favors they would put to us."
Our people. Riftwatch, or mages and rifters? Who can say to which she refers.
no subject
"I know Riftwatch has a handful of Templars here in the Gallows." His work hasn't kept him completely blinkered to the social politics of the Gallows. "Who here represents the Orlesian Chantry?"
no subject
Derrica delivers this fact without any change in inflection, though it is likely not difficult to divine her preference: she is not dismayed by this absence.
"The nearest we ever had was the man who previously occupied this office, and he attempted to blow up our Satinalia gathering," is only one of Brother Gideon's sins, but rather than detail further, she adds, "We receive visitors. They are usually given a tour of the Gallows, before we hear whatever they actually came to ask of us."
no subject
The point of that squat pencil shifts absently at the page, setting down and then rising again without actually making any mark of note.
"Would it be inaccurate, then—to describe the relationship as more or less transactional? You do things for them, they—" What exactly? "Promise to look the other way while Riftwatch does as it pleases?
no subject
Though there is a pause after that, a sigh of discontent.
"Riftwatch was a part of the Inquisition, before breaking with them some time before the new Divine was elected and began the Exalted March. We have worked together as needed, and yes, there is something transactional in our relationship, but it isn't..."
A break, casting for the words.
"We are a small company. We tend to smaller problems. It is beneficial to avoid close scrutiny, so if there is a request or opportunity to maintain this good working relationship, I believe the Division heads are keen to make use of any that arise. To my knowledge, we have yet to ask anything in return of them."
no subject
He doesn't write any of that either. Instead, Laurentius sets the stub of a pencil in the joint between the open book's facing page and its cover. His long, knobby hands follow it—absently folding one over the other, both lain across the scrap page which has hardly had any notation taken down on it at all. The only motion that follows it is an absent tapping of one of his small fingers against the page. A soft, metronome beat that isn't a fidget yet isn't really anything else either.
"Would you say that any of this ties into your efforts with the south's mages?"
no subject
The kind of honesty that may get her in trouble. Laurentius is a mage, yes, but he hails from Tevinter. His outlook is drastically different. It is not a bad thing or a good thing, it simply is.
But she gives him this honesty. Yes, of course her presence in this office is only meant to better the position of mages within Riftwatch.
The look she directs to him is prompting. He has opinions. She knows this.
no subject
Still.
That small finger taps a few more beats on the page, considering, before he volunteers it.
"I have a colleague who works extensively in Seheron. Addressing the native population, countering the spread of the Qun into Tevinter settlements. So on and so forth." Well. He'd had such a colleague. But the point stands. "The lesson I always took from his lectures was that however vulnerable asking questions might make you seem, you usually gain more ground than you lose by asking them. People like to talk about what they know, right?"
This is a hypothetical. He knows that's as true here in Kirkwall as it is in Vyrantium. One might say he'd tested the theory in that basement a few weeks ago.
"But there's another practice of his that I never really had much use for, but I think might be to your benefit. He's always been remarkably good at conscripting people outside of the Chantry to do some of his work for him, in the sense that he focuses on changing one or two minds and then encourages them to talk to anyone they know about it. Obviously it doesn't always work, but I think my point with is that you're right. This is a small company against a few Ages worth of theology saying the exact opposite of what you are. If it were me," isn't strictly delicate, but punctuated with enough of a pause and a significant look to suggest that he's perfectly aware that it isn't. "I might start looking for a few minds to focus on changing outside of it. In addition to doing what the southern Chantry asks. Possibly."
no subject
His description of how they might proceed.
"I met some mages at the Conclave, who I think can be convinced," she says slowly, gaze locked onto his face. "And that isn't nothing. But your colleague would want people beyond mages. People with...influence? Who others regard highly?"
no subject
Here, Laurentius turns his topmost hand, the gesture carrying something like the spirit of a shrug without getting as far as waggling his shoulders around.
"To be fair, Seheron is an odd case. It's fairly isolated. But I think you could replicate some of the effects by looking for people in communities who are both reasonably influential inside their circles, and unlikely travel or communicate outside of them before your ideas have time to set. Land owners with tenets, or minor magistrates for smaller communities. That sort of thing. They might be willing to expand their understanding of the Chant given good reason to."
no subject
Returns to her desk, where several books are closed and stacked to the side. Freeing up a long curl of parchment bearing a map, which she carries to set between them.
Not to presume that he isn't familiar with the geography. They both hail from the far north. The assistance of the map is good, so when Derrica points, they might both consider the distance involved.
"We do much work within the Free Marches," she tells him. "Where there are such individuals as you describe. It is mostly in the context of settling refugees, but it requires speaking to the leaders of the communities we are dealing with."
Again, Derrica wishes for Holden. He would have known how to present this argument. But she doesn't have Holden, and so she is obliged to admit—
"I know little of the Chant."
Surely not a surprise, coming from a Rivaini mage.
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