[Javert wasn't in. When the message to the affirmative alerts on his computer, he is in his office at La Forteresse, and immediately understands that "Richard" may be headed to his home exactly at that moment. He slings his gray fog coat around his shoulders, grabs a few other items he might need for their negotiations, and excuses himself back to Dyster in a hurry.
Not enough of a hurry, apparently. Because when the door opens to his own sitting parlor from the prison, the harpy has already made himself at home in a lounging chair. He pauses in a half-step, brow raised, and meets the 'intruder' evenly in the eye. The corner of his mouth flicks upward, an unsettling cross between a bitter smile and a grimace.]
And here you are. Well then! All of you trundling about are making a hell of a case for added security measures on this home.
[Just an idle remark. He's unlikely to do anything concrete but ensure his most private journals and files remain private, in spite of the comings and goings of his Fog-aligned allies.
Javert purses his lips and hangs his cap on the coat hook mounted on the wall. If Ring-Spirit has never beheld Javert in person before, he does move and glide about with a considerable looming presence, regardless of his comparative height to anyone else in the room. He arrests the attention, he sticks out in a crowd; he's thoroughly as bleak and unsettling to behold as any less man-shaped monster, with his deathly pallor and countless scars, the most prominent of which splash across both cheeks and jaws and tuck into the gnarled mess hidden beneath his stiff collar.
He smooths the skirts of his frock coat and asks blandly,]
Coffee or tea? Or something richer, 'Richard'? There are steaks for the dog in the ice-box. Little else, I am afraid.
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Date: 2023-09-09 03:08 pm (UTC)Not enough of a hurry, apparently. Because when the door opens to his own sitting parlor from the prison, the harpy has already made himself at home in a lounging chair. He pauses in a half-step, brow raised, and meets the 'intruder' evenly in the eye. The corner of his mouth flicks upward, an unsettling cross between a bitter smile and a grimace.]
And here you are. Well then! All of you trundling about are making a hell of a case for added security measures on this home.
[Just an idle remark. He's unlikely to do anything concrete but ensure his most private journals and files remain private, in spite of the comings and goings of his Fog-aligned allies.
Javert purses his lips and hangs his cap on the coat hook mounted on the wall. If Ring-Spirit has never beheld Javert in person before, he does move and glide about with a considerable looming presence, regardless of his comparative height to anyone else in the room. He arrests the attention, he sticks out in a crowd; he's thoroughly as bleak and unsettling to behold as any less man-shaped monster, with his deathly pallor and countless scars, the most prominent of which splash across both cheeks and jaws and tuck into the gnarled mess hidden beneath his stiff collar.
He smooths the skirts of his frock coat and asks blandly,]
Coffee or tea? Or something richer, 'Richard'? There are steaks for the dog in the ice-box. Little else, I am afraid.