[ Marcus is not sat at his desk, waiting, but taking a cigarette by one of the narrow windows in his office. Not that he minds the smoke, and the whole place has that scent to it, acrid and bitter, but it is nice to watch the harbour as he attempts to smooth out his nerves. Nerves that promise to become agitated once more as Mobius steps in, starts speaking.
He breathes out smoke, a draconic rush of it through his nostrils, and pushes off his lean to move back to his desk. (It is obvious which one is his, neatly arranged, while the other has amassed a small collection of random items as an available surface.)
Marcus makes his way to his desk, but doesn't seat himself yet. ]
No, [ he answers, reaching to pull his ashtray nearer. ] But a former Templar in our own ranks, undeclared until he spoke in error, will do for today.
no subject
He breathes out smoke, a draconic rush of it through his nostrils, and pushes off his lean to move back to his desk. (It is obvious which one is his, neatly arranged, while the other has amassed a small collection of random items as an available surface.)
Marcus makes his way to his desk, but doesn't seat himself yet. ]
No, [ he answers, reaching to pull his ashtray nearer. ] But a former Templar in our own ranks, undeclared until he spoke in error, will do for today.