It's the middle of the night, and Isaac is on shift — for now.
The room is clean, if little lived-in: A sharp contrast to his sprawling workspace downstairs. A double bed, a trunk (locked), a fireplace and the pokers set beside. The blankets must be new, not yet run to ragged edge.
His desk boasts a drawer or two, the surface swept into a neat, short stack of papers and ink.
Edgard has up to four tags before he returns. Like, less if you get bored. Just let me know.
Edgard looks around the room, trying to assess the best place to keep a fork. The desk seems the most likely. He wipes his hand across it. It's very clean, probably not somewhere someone's been eating. But, who's to say that Isaac isn't very clean? Or perhaps he didn't want to use a gift fork?
He is tempted to look at the pile of papers, but he's not here to spy, he just needs that fork. He thumbs through them just to make sure no fork lies there. It doesn't.
The drawers don't smoothly open. Edgard pulls at one lightly and it doesn't budge, so he tries the other with the same result. He's going to have to put some force into it. He whispers a curse, he knows it won't be quiet. He considers not checking, but the moment he considers it the more certain he becomes that it must be in there.
Edgard decides that his best bet is to open them both at once. It will make a loud noise, but just one loud noise. He grips the handles of both of them side by side. One, two, THREE.
They are pulled open with a loud scraping noise. Edgard falls backwards both in shock and unbalanced by the force used to open. He hits the floor with a smack.
Edgard stays motionless on the floor for a moment, listening with every inch of his body. Once he's certain all he can hear is his rocketing heartbeat and shallow breaths, he pulls himself upward to look inside the drawers.
His eyes widen as he blinks into them, both a gaping abyss of nothing. They are completely empty, what the fuck! He places his palms in the bottom and checks the corners. No fork.
He turns his eyes to the trunk. Doubt that is empty.
The trunk is where the fork must be! Of course, a precious gift item would be locked away. Edgard gracelessly slides across the floor towards it and tries to pry it open with his fingers. No luck.
He checks his pockets and under his shirt. He doesn't have anything to pick a lock on him. He turns in a circle thinking. The fire pokers! He leans to grab one and inserts it into the lock.
It a great deal of effort and Edgard finds himself with his ear pressed to the trunk listening when it clicks. The top of the trunk opens and hits him hard on the head. He curses loudly forgetting his location.
The door opens with the cold, deliberate click of some advancing spider. Isaac's face draws thin, expression and posture composed as though this is merely an unwelcome surprise and not an occasion for deadly alert —
(It does not match the bloodless pale of his face, or the precise way his fingers are crooked toward casting: Tangling already for the webbed strands of sleep.)
His eyes fall first on the trunk, its top layer of linen unrumpled, then Edgard beside. It takes it out of him. Exasperation,
"What the fuck," Isaac slams the door the rest of the way open. "Are you doing in here?"
Edited (how many times can i say click before it's the movie w adam sandler) 2020-11-21 05:52 (UTC)
Edgard flips over at the voice and is now lying with his back flat on the floor, next to an open trunk, unarmed, with Isaac standing threateningly over him. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! The truth is shocked out of him.
"Looking for a fork." He squeaks. "Have you seen one?"
There are a number of things that Isaac would like to do right now. None of them are what he does. Hissing out a hard breath, he stoops, hand reaching for Edgard's to roughly tug him up.
"Sit," He points emphatically to the rifled desk, the chair beside. If he's doing some brief mental calculus as to whether Edgard is actually that stupid — "You and I are going to talk."
Well. It matters less than underlining consequence.
He doesn't shut the door. If there are passerby, better for Isaac to be seen as patient. Harmless to the degree any mage is capable.
"Where were you before Riftwatch?" Some village, some field; his accent is not cosmopolitan. Isaac knows how his own blends, that particular educated placelessness of the Circle. "I was born in Jader. Where were you before you came here?"
"Mn," Isaac says, and thinks: Yes, Edgard seems like he'd be run out of town — "Before they came here, half of Riftwatch were washing blood from their hands."
He gestures. Scrub-a-dub.
"Assassins, wardens, knights." Mages. The log in the fireplace crackles into sudden flame. "I'll wager that you got away with a bit on the road. It's chaos out there, plenty of cover. Fewer shits with the free time to play murder."
Edgard shifts uncomfortably around on his seat. Isaac's expectant stare unnerves him more than an attack would. He coughs.
"Believe it or not, wasn't trying to antagonize. Least not now." He shrugs defensively.
"Opposite actually."
He could explain further how this was all an attempt to right a mistake, but the look Isaac is giving him is preventing him from being too terribly chatty.
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no subject
The room is clean, if little lived-in: A sharp contrast to his sprawling workspace downstairs. A double bed, a trunk (locked), a fireplace and the pokers set beside. The blankets must be new, not yet run to ragged edge.
His desk boasts a drawer or two, the surface swept into a neat, short stack of papers and ink.
Edgard has up to four tags before he returns. Like, less if you get bored. Just let me know.
Number 1
He is tempted to look at the pile of papers, but he's not here to spy, he just needs that fork. He thumbs through them just to make sure no fork lies there. It doesn't.
He squats down to the drawers.
Number 2
Edgard decides that his best bet is to open them both at once. It will make a loud noise, but just one loud noise. He grips the handles of both of them side by side. One, two, THREE.
They are pulled open with a loud scraping noise. Edgard falls backwards both in shock and unbalanced by the force used to open. He hits the floor with a smack.
Number 3
His eyes widen as he blinks into them, both a gaping abyss of nothing. They are completely empty, what the fuck! He places his palms in the bottom and checks the corners. No fork.
He turns his eyes to the trunk. Doubt that is empty.
Number 4
He checks his pockets and under his shirt. He doesn't have anything to pick a lock on him. He turns in a circle thinking. The fire pokers! He leans to grab one and inserts it into the lock.
It a great deal of effort and Edgard finds himself with his ear pressed to the trunk listening when it clicks. The top of the trunk opens and hits him hard on the head. He curses loudly forgetting his location.
no subject
The door opens with the cold, deliberate click of some advancing spider. Isaac's face draws thin, expression and posture composed as though this is merely an unwelcome surprise and not an occasion for deadly alert —
(It does not match the bloodless pale of his face, or the precise way his fingers are crooked toward casting: Tangling already for the webbed strands of sleep.)
His eyes fall first on the trunk, its top layer of linen unrumpled, then Edgard beside. It takes it out of him. Exasperation,
"What the fuck," Isaac slams the door the rest of the way open. "Are you doing in here?"
no subject
"Looking for a fork." He squeaks. "Have you seen one?"
The truth doesn't sound very convincing.
no subject
There are a number of things that Isaac would like to do right now. None of them are what he does. Hissing out a hard breath, he stoops, hand reaching for Edgard's to roughly tug him up.
"Sit," He points emphatically to the rifled desk, the chair beside. If he's doing some brief mental calculus as to whether Edgard is actually that stupid — "You and I are going to talk."
Well. It matters less than underlining consequence.
no subject
He looks back at Isaac. "Alright."
He sits down in the chair. He scratches the back of his neck.
no subject
"Where were you before Riftwatch?" Some village, some field; his accent is not cosmopolitan. Isaac knows how his own blends, that particular educated placelessness of the Circle. "I was born in Jader. Where were you before you came here?"
no subject
"Before I came here, I was traveling in Orlais. Not really one place in particular."
He resists the urge to continue scanning his eyes around the room for the fork.
no subject
He gestures. Scrub-a-dub.
"Assassins, wardens, knights." Mages. The log in the fireplace crackles into sudden flame. "I'll wager that you got away with a bit on the road. It's chaos out there, plenty of cover. Fewer shits with the free time to play murder."
no subject
"I'm not any of those things." He raises his eyebrows. "If that's what you're asking."
Is Isaac asking? Maybe he's just telling.
no subject
He crosses his arms. Waits, with every expectation of an answer. There are plenty of reasons to piss in a man's eye; they little alter the result.
no subject
"Believe it or not, wasn't trying to antagonize. Least not now." He shrugs defensively.
"Opposite actually."
He could explain further how this was all an attempt to right a mistake, but the look Isaac is giving him is preventing him from being too terribly chatty.