Not out loud, anyway, just a chilly flickered flattening of his already naturally icy regard. Riftwatch isn't a hierarchy, unlike the Order. Unlike the Circles. If the lady that oversees the laundry requested a word without explanation, Marcus would attend her. This is the bargain they all enter into, the same one that sees their socks cleaned, or the walls watched at night so everyone can sleep safely.
But then, he is a mage, and this is a Templar, caught in lies of omission. That it's an easy assumption that a non-mage might command this man's respect is a given. He'll spare him the lecture.
Also: there is approximately zero part of Marcus that wishes to watch Mobius finish his plate, so he is already listing his weight back on a heel by the time this offer is made. ]
No, [ blandly.
And moves to make his way out of the dining hall, either habouring the expectation he will be followed or will be attended to when Mobius is finished. ]
[There is a part of him that very much enjoys needling others. Marcus delivers his answer with no change in tone, but Mobius can see just that little change in his look, that coldness blunting whatever was already there. Can see the opinion of him dropping in real time.
Marcus walks away, and Mobius makes no immediate move to follow. He'll finish his meal in peace, then meander his way to the office where his head-sanctioned interrogation awaits. Polite knock at the door, poking his head in.]
So, are we questioning everyone devout, or just people who have ever held any kind of official-sounding title?
[Yes, that's surely the best way to start, with further needling. He slides in far enough to close the door again.]
Given the breach was through Chantry affiliation, well, there must be plenty here that go to a chantry to pray or have done so in the past. Not keeping tabs on the local chantries that have popped up through the city, are you?
[ 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.
[He doesn't actually expect anyone to ever truly make the wild suggestion of keeping tabs on the local chantries and who makes use of them in some fit of paranoia. But it won't keep him from making the insinuation, that perhaps there's a yet that worries him.
If Mobius disapproves of the smoking, he makes no indication. To each their own. One addiction is more than enough for him, thanks. But he doesn't move from the door. This shouldn't take long, but he knows his own impetuousness is going to drag it all out.]
Oh no, [drolly.] A former Templar in our own ranks. Terrible shame, that. Surely there's no precedent for such a thing ever happening before without incident.
[ Marcus hooks his hand over the edge of the chairback, but doesn't yet shift it out from under the desk as Mobius stands across the room. Taps ash into his ashtray, but doesn't bring the cigarette back to his mouth as the other man speaks, and he watches him talk.
Calculating, tense, all stiff-locked bone to Mobius' flippancy. Marcus lets a short span of silence pass, before he says, ]
[ Marcus' regard flattens at the news that this process is annoying. For Mobius. And then considers him more thoughtfully, posted at the door, before speaking, ]
When our food was contaminated by that truth potion, I took it upon myself to look into what happened. That all of our kitchen staff had eaten from the soup made that easier, but none had anything to hide. They submitted to my questioning, they offered their answers. They didn't whine, or talk back, or demand that I offer the express approval of the Commander for me to do my job.
[ As he speaks, his lilting tone gains more of an edge, but he doesn't raise his voice. ]
They understood, and had nothing to hide. If the 13-year-old boy tasked with cutting carrots can intuit this reasoning, I would expect you to do the same. Sit down.
Unfortunately for you, you're not a Sister about to whack me one for talking back, so you're just gonna have to put up with it.
[Of course kitchen staff are going to go along with it. They'd want to find out as much as anyone what happened. Of course a young lad is going to go along with it. He'll certainly get in trouble otherwise.
This is about being a Templar, which puts him in the hot seat. He in no way has to appreciate it or play nice about it. If they're going to start acting this way, they need to put a sign on the fucking door: No Templars Allowed. Until that happens, fuck and also this.
His petulance does not extent, currently, as far as ignoring the order to sit as given. He thinks about it, though. Considers suggesting he's fine standing and staying right where he's at. Marcus can probably see the thought go though his mind by the way he takes a few long moments before he finally pushes from the door and sits with a slouch.]
So we're going to get to actual questions at some point, I'm guessing.
[ Marcus (after waiting for Mobius to make his way over, after watching him sit) pulls out his chair, wood scraping stone, and sits opposite. No slouching from him. The cigarette is set down in the crystal ashtray as he retrieves a writing volume from a drawer, some ink, a pen, all close at hand in general preparation to work. The quiet flicker of pages.
The scratching of pen on paper, soon after. Without looking up; ]
Seeing as it hasn't been active since the Circles fell, I don't see how that's relevant to anything.
[Would it kill him to say? No. It's not like he'd be saying Kirkwall; it's not like he'd say somewhere that would cast any suspicion on him for anything by reputation alone. But if this whole situation is annoying to Mobius, then he doesn't see why it shouldn't be annoying for his interrogator.
He'd never been the best at following orders without question. Had he been the best little soldier he could be, he probably would've made captain, even commander. But no, he usually had to open his mouth or see just where the lines were with what he could get away with.
Like now. What can he get away with? How far does this bend before it breaks?]
[ The look up from his page—only printed with this man's name and former rank, so far—lacks much in the way of tolerance. This territory is a little beyond annoyed, landing somewhere colder. It is, he thinks, a simple question, and while he may land on the conclusion that perhaps Mobius has a past to be ashamed of, and while he does not dismiss it out of hand, instinct (and a history of looking after children and teenagers who equally do not wish to be where they are) says that he is only attempting to aggravate.
Marcus turns his pen between his fingers. ]
It's relevant because we have good cause not to trust those of like affiliations who refuse to declare them, as the last person who did carried out a long and effective campaign of sabotage against us. It's relevant [ he sits back in his chair, a little ] because we require a better image of what influences the Chantry and the Order might exert themselves on our company, and as long as you're interested in inserting yourself in affairs such as our appearance in Cumberland, I don't care how remote you feel your past may be. It's relevant because I say it is.
Now, I will be asking you of your Circle, your former superiors and close colleagues, any contacts you may continue to have within the Order or the Chantry, and the events that led you to breaking from the Order, that led you to Riftwatch.
[ He picks up his cigarette, tapping away the ash that's collected there as it smoulders. ]
Are you going to comply with that line of questioning, and any questions that may occur as we continue?
[ It is not a challenge, the way he says it, different to the lash in his tone a moment ago. It's a question that wants an answer, ready for whatever it might be. ]
[The very objective and unprejudiced and impartial recently Templar-napped mage who was very, very clear on his position of Fight Anyone Who Disagrees back at Cumberland. If he says.
Mobius counts off answers on his fingers:] None of your business, none of your business and none of your business, no one and no one [an actual answer? gasp], and definitely no business of yours. If you want to know what led me here, I imagine 'the Maker told me to' isn't an answer that'll fly.
[But that is...also not really a lie. If ever there was a sign from something divine what he needed to do and where he needed to go, griffons above Starkhaven was it.]
Isn't sniffing out liars and traitors something more suited to a spymaster?
[ And he crushes out his nearly spent cigarette, applying pen to ink and then to paper. A few things are written down in the relative silence of metal scratching paper. Mobius would probably have to lean to see what they are.
Marcus doesn't wait to be finished, nor look up, before he says, ]
[That's all? Not even a threat of punishment? That's almost disappointing. Almost. Will there be consequences at all, he wonders, or was this all just a passing fancy Marcus had that the Commander allowed him to indulge?
Mobius doesn't hesitate. He's up the moment it's indicated.]
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no subject
Not out loud, anyway, just a chilly flickered flattening of his already naturally icy regard. Riftwatch isn't a hierarchy, unlike the Order. Unlike the Circles. If the lady that oversees the laundry requested a word without explanation, Marcus would attend her. This is the bargain they all enter into, the same one that sees their socks cleaned, or the walls watched at night so everyone can sleep safely.
But then, he is a mage, and this is a Templar, caught in lies of omission. That it's an easy assumption that a non-mage might command this man's respect is a given. He'll spare him the lecture.
Also: there is approximately zero part of Marcus that wishes to watch Mobius finish his plate, so he is already listing his weight back on a heel by the time this offer is made. ]
No, [ blandly.
And moves to make his way out of the dining hall, either habouring the expectation he will be followed or will be attended to when Mobius is finished. ]
no subject
Marcus walks away, and Mobius makes no immediate move to follow. He'll finish his meal in peace, then meander his way to the office where his head-sanctioned interrogation awaits. Polite knock at the door, poking his head in.]
So, are we questioning everyone devout, or just people who have ever held any kind of official-sounding title?
[Yes, that's surely the best way to start, with further needling. He slides in far enough to close the door again.]
Given the breach was through Chantry affiliation, well, there must be plenty here that go to a chantry to pray or have done so in the past. Not keeping tabs on the local chantries that have popped up through the city, are you?
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.
no subject
[He doesn't actually expect anyone to ever truly make the wild suggestion of keeping tabs on the local chantries and who makes use of them in some fit of paranoia. But it won't keep him from making the insinuation, that perhaps there's a yet that worries him.
If Mobius disapproves of the smoking, he makes no indication. To each their own. One addiction is more than enough for him, thanks. But he doesn't move from the door. This shouldn't take long, but he knows his own impetuousness is going to drag it all out.]
Oh no, [drolly.] A former Templar in our own ranks. Terrible shame, that. Surely there's no precedent for such a thing ever happening before without incident.
[Like that.]
no subject
Calculating, tense, all stiff-locked bone to Mobius' flippancy. Marcus lets a short span of silence pass, before he says, ]
This is amusing, to you.
no subject
[With a small flourish of his arms, as though about to take a bow.]
I doubt most people take kindly to their motives being questioned.
no subject
When our food was contaminated by that truth potion, I took it upon myself to look into what happened. That all of our kitchen staff had eaten from the soup made that easier, but none had anything to hide. They submitted to my questioning, they offered their answers. They didn't whine, or talk back, or demand that I offer the express approval of the Commander for me to do my job.
[ As he speaks, his lilting tone gains more of an edge, but he doesn't raise his voice. ]
They understood, and had nothing to hide. If the 13-year-old boy tasked with cutting carrots can intuit this reasoning, I would expect you to do the same. Sit down.
no subject
[Of course kitchen staff are going to go along with it. They'd want to find out as much as anyone what happened. Of course a young lad is going to go along with it. He'll certainly get in trouble otherwise.
This is about being a Templar, which puts him in the hot seat. He in no way has to appreciate it or play nice about it. If they're going to start acting this way, they need to put a sign on the fucking door: No Templars Allowed. Until that happens, fuck and also this.
His petulance does not extent, currently, as far as ignoring the order to sit as given. He thinks about it, though. Considers suggesting he's fine standing and staying right where he's at. Marcus can probably see the thought go though his mind by the way he takes a few long moments before he finally pushes from the door and sits with a slouch.]
So we're going to get to actual questions at some point, I'm guessing.
no subject
[ Marcus (after waiting for Mobius to make his way over, after watching him sit) pulls out his chair, wood scraping stone, and sits opposite. No slouching from him. The cigarette is set down in the crystal ashtray as he retrieves a writing volume from a drawer, some ink, a pen, all close at hand in general preparation to work. The quiet flicker of pages.
The scratching of pen on paper, soon after. Without looking up; ]
What Circle did you serve?
no subject
[Would it kill him to say? No. It's not like he'd be saying Kirkwall; it's not like he'd say somewhere that would cast any suspicion on him for anything by reputation alone. But if this whole situation is annoying to Mobius, then he doesn't see why it shouldn't be annoying for his interrogator.
He'd never been the best at following orders without question. Had he been the best little soldier he could be, he probably would've made captain, even commander. But no, he usually had to open his mouth or see just where the lines were with what he could get away with.
Like now. What can he get away with? How far does this bend before it breaks?]
no subject
Marcus turns his pen between his fingers. ]
It's relevant because we have good cause not to trust those of like affiliations who refuse to declare them, as the last person who did carried out a long and effective campaign of sabotage against us. It's relevant [ he sits back in his chair, a little ] because we require a better image of what influences the Chantry and the Order might exert themselves on our company, and as long as you're interested in inserting yourself in affairs such as our appearance in Cumberland, I don't care how remote you feel your past may be. It's relevant because I say it is.
Now, I will be asking you of your Circle, your former superiors and close colleagues, any contacts you may continue to have within the Order or the Chantry, and the events that led you to breaking from the Order, that led you to Riftwatch.
[ He picks up his cigarette, tapping away the ash that's collected there as it smoulders. ]
Are you going to comply with that line of questioning, and any questions that may occur as we continue?
[ It is not a challenge, the way he says it, different to the lash in his tone a moment ago. It's a question that wants an answer, ready for whatever it might be. ]
no subject
[The very objective and unprejudiced and impartial recently Templar-napped mage who was very, very clear on his position of Fight Anyone Who Disagrees back at Cumberland. If he says.
Mobius counts off answers on his fingers:] None of your business, none of your business and none of your business, no one and no one [an actual answer? gasp], and definitely no business of yours. If you want to know what led me here, I imagine 'the Maker told me to' isn't an answer that'll fly.
[But that is...also not really a lie. If ever there was a sign from something divine what he needed to do and where he needed to go, griffons above Starkhaven was it.]
Isn't sniffing out liars and traitors something more suited to a spymaster?
no subject
I'm sure she has her methods.
[ And he crushes out his nearly spent cigarette, applying pen to ink and then to paper. A few things are written down in the relative silence of metal scratching paper. Mobius would probably have to lean to see what they are.
Marcus doesn't wait to be finished, nor look up, before he says, ]
You can go.
no subject
Mobius doesn't hesitate. He's up the moment it's indicated.]
Messere.
[Aaaaand he's outie 3000 bye]