Good. So he won't mind if Flint settles in, palms flattening on the desk and weight seating forward across his shoulder so he might lean in loomingly across the desk.

The width of him casts a grim shadow over Benedict's work. He lets him proceed like that for a number of trembling lines, before—

(A name, familiar to his own eye maybe, materializes on the page.)

"How did you spend your summers in Tevinter, Artemaeus?" This is presumably not pleasant chit chat with which to pass the time.