Swain takes the report, reaching across with his gloved right hand rather than the left, The left arm was under his coat, motionless, presumably tucked away at his side. One might almost mistake him for having a missing arm sometimes. It was in the way he carried himself, perhaps. That was until you caught a glimpse of the threatening red skin or the atmosphere of the room changed. He deftly leafs through the pages, eyes scanning, speed-reading while listening.
“The guards aren’t for you. They are primarily for show. The recent attempts on my life have been more frequently and we need to see if a show of force causes nervousness in several suspect individuals.” Kat hadn’t mentioned it but Swain somehow knew what he was thinking. He had a tendency to do that, and it wasn’t the most relaxing habit to have around others.
He folds the report back up with his right hand again, neatly tapping it on the table to straighten out the edges before slipping it back onto the desk, as though he will look at it for more details at a later point. He sits forward, taking up a quill and ink and taking the stopper from the bottle. He pulls over a sheet of vellum and he begins to write a message in a precise hand. Many people and institutions around Noxus had begin to have a nervous reaction to even catching a glimpse of the regimented, distinctive handwriting for the Grand General. He works swiftly and is able to speak as he writes.
“There’s a reason that I asked for you. I have a feeling that this matter will not be a simple one. I have information that leads me to believe that this is not the usual snake oil salesman. I don’t know exactly who he is, my information doesn’t add up… but he is making a very clever move towards the aristocracy. We don’t want Noxus to hemorrhage because of its vestigial nobility. Ask who you can. There isn’t a link between the respective clubs and orgies and cults that members of the Black Rose seem to love so much.” He finishes the letter and regards Kat directly now, his gaze steady and as flinty and unreadable as ever. “If you discover that this man isn’t a direct threat or anomaly, set one or two people who you trust to report to you to keep their eye on the matter. Infiltrate directly if your proxies cannot do it. If he is dangerous, you know what to do. ”
Swain does an unusual thing then. He folds the vellum letter up neatly, takes up a stick of letter-wax and a seal, and instead of using a candle and waiting to have the wax melt and so on, he simply brings up the demonic right hand. He presses the wax to his palm and for a moment there is a hiss and hot wax drips down onto the letter. He tucks his arm away again, and places the seal in the hot wax, waiting for a moment. “This letter is for the head librarian in the old archives. Much of the content in the back vaults are restricted or dangerous- this will get you in, this will let you speak with her and she will give you permission to find out what obscure nonsense this man is preaching.” He lifts the seal, the symbol of the Trifarix clearly defined in the dark wax. He hands the letter to Kat.
“Was there anything else?”
The hand.. that had been odd. Usually he doesn’t wave it around, showing off it’s hideous, unnatural aspect and threatening lines. Did he forget himself? Was he trying to provoke a reaction? Had it been a warning? His hard face gives nothing away.
@lotus-of-noxus
Kat hated that - the way that Swain just seemed to know things, to know thoughts. He might assume that the man was just observant and knew the people around him well - he had always been good at judging people, after all. However, it was often far too specific and far too well timed. Besides, no one knew everything that he could do now - everything that the ravens whispered to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Swain heard whispers, felt impressions of thoughts - at least.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like being read. He had trained for a long time to be good at hiding things - thoughts, feelings, key information. He had learned to be good at hiding them in conversation, under pressure, in pain. Swain had always been one of the best at reading through all of that though - and knowing that he may be able to just...know was very disturbing. More so now than it had been years ago. There were things he did not want Swain to read from him - things far more important to keep from the old Raven’s prying eyes than suspicions about the presence of guards.
“I would hope they’re not for me,” he said. “I would be disappointed if you thought they would be sufficient if I wanted to do anything to you. I would expect at least Darius here.” It was said in a tone that suggested a jest - and it was. Sort of. If he really intended to kill Swain, he was certain none of these guards could stop him - and some part of him sincerely hoped that Swain was certain of that as well.
Maybe he was clinging to old desires to impress, just given a more morbid twist of the proverbial knife.
He raised his brows lightly as Swain continued, making it clear that he intended for the Du Couteau assassin to continue his work here. Interesting. That either meant that Swain really believed that this was a potentially dangerous or serious issue or that he wanted to keep him busy. He could see either. He hoped it was the former. As much...tension didn’t seem quite right, but it would do. As much tension as there was between them now, Swain was intelligent - he should know better than to waste a resource like him on busy work. Maybe it was a truly serious issue. Religious figures and grand devotions always put Kat a little on edge. People would do stupid and cruel things if they either thought it would serve them in some afterlife, or if they could use their religion and their leader as an excuse to do all the things they really wanted to. And religious leaders herding in little sheep could be some of the most twisted of the bunch.
He wouldn’t complain. If this ‘Shepherd’ was of some threat to Noxus, he would be more than happy to eliminate him. And anyone else he had to. And Swain likely knew he wouldn’t just pass it off to someone to be rid of the work. If there was one thing Kat could be counted on for, it was loyalty to his nation - and being happy to take on the dirty work.
The sealing of the letter did take him by surprise - and he didn’t like that. The flash of red, the sight of the demonic arm that was usually carefully tucked away underneath a cloak or coat seemed more than just a casual mistake. Was the old Raven threatening him? Reminding him, maybe, that he had a very tangible power now to replace and overwhelm all that he had before?
Is he telling you: You couldn’t kill me then, didn’t have the will then - what makes you think you’d have the strength now?
“No.” Kat said, “Nothing else. Unless you have something you need of me.”
His voice was calm, seemingly unphased. He had learned to be very good at this. He could remember training for it when he was young. It had never come naturally to him. When he had been little he had been very easy to read - one could hardly avoid the declaration of thoughts and emotions the little crimson child displayed. He had learned though. Whether he had learned better by emulating his father or Uncle Jericoh might be debatable.
“Although I suppose I should confirm that your invitation to the upcoming harvest festival celebrations on Du Couteau house grounds remains ever open. Should you feel the desire.” It wasn’t said with any kindness or particular hope for the Grand General’s appearance - not like back when he had been given permission to hand the paper invitation over to Jericho himself, little ungloved hand practically slamming the envelope into the poor man’s gut. Of course, there was an invitation for the entire family, as was proper - but Jericho got one specially delivered. And even now - and even when Marcus had pulled away from their friendship and become convinced that Jericho Swain, his old friend, was more threat than ally - such proprieties remained.
Of course, the celebrations overtook not only their own grounds, but further, and nobles and commoners alike took part, but the specific invitation was a sign of respect. Or, at least, of the image of it. No, that wasn’t quite honest. He still respected Jericho in many ways. How could he not respect that much cunning and ambition? At least on some level.
“We won’t have any orgies, cults, or rituals, but I imagine whatever festivities Vladimir has planned over the coming seasons will cover those areas thoroughly.”
