"Widespread poverty brings out the best in the wealthy," Tristan said, shaking his head. He slid the glass in front of him slightly over to the left, guiding the crystal on his fingertips. Finally satisfied, he left it in place and placed his hands in his lap. An inquiry raised his head, and his eyes flicked over to Robert to acknowledge the man. "Quite easy, and given all this," he brought one arm up, motioning along the table, "Rewarding." He smiled, grateful that there was nothing to lean back on or else he might have relaxed. "However, I saw nothing, and by the one account I have nothing significant occurred. Regarding the marshal, at least." The happiness on his face faded as the light in the room flickered. He felt inclined to agree with Duvall on his commentary, metalworkers were no rarity in a city the size of Lieda but very few of them were small, attractive women preoccupied with carrying a trunk around.
That isn't quite right, he thought, Lily made that trunk look trivial. His contemplation of the woman's situation was hacked apart in an instant, a familiar voice fell on his consciousness like an icepick. The youth jumped in his seat, pitching forward and craning his head to find the source, though he already knew the name attached to it. He took a moment to adjust. "Hiya, Geralt," Heuze said evenly, squaring his shoulders and feigning composure. "Promise you won't tell the gendarmes, please?" He asked with faux desperation. The youth drank sparingly, and every single time it seemed someone was around to perpetuate the jape. As petty as it was, it just might have been the source of his disinterest in alcohol. The light in the room flickered back to life as a young man down the line sacrificed another log to the flames.
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Boyd's hands grabbed at his cloak, holding it closer about him as the wind ripped at it. His hood was a lost cause, turned down by the very first gust. As some sort of consolation prize, his bald head did not gather the passing snow. His mustache saw to that affront. As the duo trudged along, the marshal leaned his head towards Gareth, straining to hear the other man through the storm. Something to do with a bird, that covered a number of bars in the capital and the old soldier was familiar with plenty of them. He sighed in the cold, which turned out to be a mistake. The marshal fought off a fit of coughing after inhaling the frigid air. "The Golden Pigeon is close by!" He shouted over the wind. The street signs were invisible under the precipitation, but he knew exactly the junction. It was a place plenty of military staff stationed at the House frequented, as a dirty but tasteful eatery with reasonable rates. A smile crossed his freezing face, recent company had held far different tastes. They were already on the way there, thought it meant passing the working gendarmes. Around one turn further down the road, the ankle deep snow did not recede but a wooden sign bearing the name they sought stood out over the windows of a brilliantly lit tavern.
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Wolcott watched Ethan, his pale blue eyes utterly unmoving as they settled on the man's face. The man held his silence, only ever watching. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing had almost completely stopped. Internally, he seethed with anticipation and joy. Strength, I am witnessing strength. Lindwell had not broken, and the only chance he had to surmount he had. Whatever resentment Ethan bore for him after this little stunt, it would be entirely worth the results. The marshal knew the value of instilling hatred in people, when better things failed to motivate people. Something other than raw spite drove Ethan already, he would never acknowledge it and go against the facade, but it was simply a boon. With a smile, he gave concession. Wolcott sat down, backwards, into Boyd's chair. Relaxed, he laid his arms over the chair's and sat back as Ethan made his way to leave. The ordeal was over. He was genuinely displeased about only one aspect of the exchange, and it was one of the most crucial. It was poor form to command someone already entrusted to another, and while the option seemed the only one available, she delivered on her part soon enough. The captain had not been picked for discipline or martial genius. He knew, but didn't find solace in the fact.
Maria Trinan continued to stand by throughout the exchange. Her expression had lightened to neutrality during Ethan's rebuttal, but the girl remained as unmoving as her superior. The two tried at being statues, but her impression was less developed than the more experienced marshal's. Her footing shifted, shoulders pitched. The soldier felt the need to face away, direct towards something she had a part in. Inactivity and embarrassment went hand in hand as a pronounced ache along her back. A chill settled over her, and her eyes removed themselves from the wall. Surely enough, she was being looked at. Upturned, sharp eyes fixed back on Ethan, olive surfaces dark and lifeless. He nodded to her, and she felt a weight settle in her stomach. Her lips slowly curled into a frown as discomfort tore at her. After only a moment of hesitation, she could already feel Wolcott's attention upon her, though the man never turned his head. Maria broke into motion, walking towards Lindwell as he left the room. The darkened brown work shoes on her feet, ankle length hidden by the trousers, chattered on the wooden floor. The faint, hollow noise was to be the only admission of her temporary retirement. As the duo left into the hallway, she was still searching for words. Outside of the official sphere, she wanted to make things right and feel happy about the circumstances. She knew nothing about her charge, however. Words never came easy, and they would not answer at all at the moment.