"Blessed day," Funny, to see your manner mirrored. His own hair is carefully arranged over mangled ear. It took the better work of five flights. "Any more stairs and you'd be arranging a funeral."
Cedric smiles, squints back. That accent's Tevene, but a Carsus can hardly quibble.
"Just joined up, and I heard you're the man to see." He steps forward, inclines his head to the spare chair. "This a good time?"
The smile is returned unthinkingly-- he's got a good face, is all. And Benedict isn't smiled at all that often, so it's difficult not to mirror.
"Certainly," he replies, and gestures to the seat before lacing his fingers together on the desk, a bit nervous. "Although, ah, you should know I haven't been doing this long. You're actually my first..." Client?? "victim." He is joking.
"Never done this, either." Seems past time to try. "So don't bite hard. Name's Cedric,"
A hand out to shake (palm shimmering with new Anchor-mark). There's an oilskin pouch, a shuffle of pages. He licks a finger to peel the pages apart, passes one over.
A letter of transfer: Affirming the temporary reassignment of Ser Cedric Carsus to Riftwatch until such a time as the matter of his Anchor is resolved or alternative arrangements are made, his service to which does not discharge a sworn duty to the Chantry, Divine, and nation of Nevarra -
"We might've met actually, in the Plains. I wasn't in camp much."
"Nevarra City," Cedric says, like he held the job more than six weeks. "Then the Inquisition."
There's a nagging year between - the Conclave didn't arise from a period of peace. But he's alive and he isn't red: That's about as clean a record as they come.
"Been with the March the last few years, under Captain Broward."
That isn't the name on those papers (Vidal). He holds eye contact, steady; painfully aware of the dirt under his nails.
Even if Benedict does notice the discrepancy, his job isn't really to grill anyone or ferret out lies: this is a branch of Diplomacy, after all, not Scouting. If Cedric is lying, it's Yseult's problem.
Hopefully.
"Am I correct in assuming your strength is in combat and the like?" He's been scanning the papers, but looks up to ask.
"Sure, it's been half my life," He says, and could leave off there, shuffle into yet another watch rotation. Only he's been practicing this bit since he first decided to leave, "But speaking plain, I,"
The papers have a list of recent assignments, something about abomination retrieval; then a reprimand for a fistfight, not long before Riftwatch's arrival.
"I've been hoping there's more use for it than that." A life. Cedric follows up: "'Course, I'll lend an arm wherever I'm needed."
"I've got my letters. Nevarran and Orlesian," The latter's a stretch. He can do the Chant. "And if you don't mind me saying, Messere -"
It's not as if they don't know.
"- I've got standing in places Riftwatch has trouble making nice." There's a reason they shipped the louder rebels out here. A hand presses forward, blots an incidental thumb over that fight, "I keep a cool head."
"Shutting down that nightmare magic bought a lot of goodwill," He ought to know. "But soldiers are quick to forget. I don't only mean Templars, you saw how many are out there. Mercenaries and conscripts."
"There's a narrative - and I'm not saying it's everywhere - about Riftwatch being where you go when you wash up. It shouldn't be." A breath in, "Fucksakes, you kill dragons."
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"Blessed day," Funny, to see your manner mirrored. His own hair is carefully arranged over mangled ear. It took the better work of five flights. "Any more stairs and you'd be arranging a funeral."
Cedric smiles, squints back. That accent's Tevene, but a Carsus can hardly quibble.
"Just joined up, and I heard you're the man to see." He steps forward, inclines his head to the spare chair. "This a good time?"
no subject
"Certainly," he replies, and gestures to the seat before lacing his fingers together on the desk, a bit nervous. "Although, ah, you should know I haven't been doing this long. You're actually my first..." Client?? "victim." He is joking.
no subject
A hand out to shake (palm shimmering with new Anchor-mark). There's an oilskin pouch, a shuffle of pages. He licks a finger to peel the pages apart, passes one over.
A letter of transfer: Affirming the temporary reassignment of Ser Cedric Carsus to Riftwatch until such a time as the matter of his Anchor is resolved or alternative arrangements are made, his service to which does not discharge a sworn duty to the Chantry, Divine, and nation of Nevarra -
"We might've met actually, in the Plains. I wasn't in camp much."
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Still smiling, Benedict shakes Cedric's hand (his own shard glints through its glove on the desk) and accepts the parchment to look it over.
"Ser," he says aloud, and flicks his eyes up to meet the newcomer's. "You're a Templar?" Between that and 'Chantry' it seems a fair guess.
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There's a nagging year between - the Conclave didn't arise from a period of peace. But he's alive and he isn't red: That's about as clean a record as they come.
"Been with the March the last few years, under Captain Broward."
That isn't the name on those papers (Vidal). He holds eye contact, steady; painfully aware of the dirt under his nails.
no subject
Hopefully.
"Am I correct in assuming your strength is in combat and the like?" He's been scanning the papers, but looks up to ask.
no subject
The papers have a list of recent assignments, something about abomination retrieval; then a reprimand for a fistfight, not long before Riftwatch's arrival.
"I've been hoping there's more use for it than that." A life. Cedric follows up: "'Course, I'll lend an arm wherever I'm needed."
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"What do you have in mind?"
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It's not as if they don't know.
"- I've got standing in places Riftwatch has trouble making nice." There's a reason they shipped the louder rebels out here. A hand presses forward, blots an incidental thumb over that fight, "I keep a cool head."
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"There's a narrative - and I'm not saying it's everywhere - about Riftwatch being where you go when you wash up. It shouldn't be." A breath in, "Fucksakes, you kill dragons."
no subject