"Then I recommend finding someone here who knows more about it to take with you, or relying heavily on the locals," he says, leaning back to rifle through a drawer.
A copied map and a single page letter is produced. Both are lain out on the desk between them. The letter begins, 'To Whom It May Concern, I am writing at the request of a coalition of rural livestock farmers—'
Flint covers it with the copied map. The border between Orlais and Nevarra is delineated with a bold dark line. He indicates a slab of territory immediately adjacent to it on the Orlesian side.
"Here. The ground is too rocky for growing, but this stretch is evidently a fine piece of grazing land. Sheep, cattle, and so on. It seems that as of late, the shepherds tending those flocks have been killed while on watch. The locals suspect some fanciful animal. Given the proliferation of rifts in the fields and what we know of how it affects the environment, a fade touched wolf or something similar isn't out of the question.
"But there are a dozen other rumors as well. That it might be some demon roving the countryside left over from the war, or some kind of heretic northern blood mage, or even the peasant farmers from the Nevarran side of the border looking to chase off their neighbors from good grazing."
Here, finally, a pause in this lecture. Flint looks up, attention piercing and calculating—measuring what percentage of this has penetrated what seems to be a somewhat notoriously thick skull.
"Not the livestock. Just the shepherds," is, all things considered, a remarkably minor quibble. The sharp point of Flint's retention relents a little; he goes so far as to settle back into his chair.
"But yes. You're to go there to track and kill whatever is responsible for the attacks. And I would prefer"—not to put too fine a point on it, but—"That we not inflame some old border dispute in the process."
Edgard nods slowly. He isn't interested in causing more problems in Orlais either. He bites his lip, thinking. The last time he was sent out to go after something causing problems it turned out to be people.
"Then you are to measure which is the least invasive solution between apprehending the murderer and returning them to the nearest magistrate, or seeing justice done somewhere quietly where no one will know the difference. Your purpose there is to restore order and preserve whatever measure of peace can be."
Simple in summary; likely complicated in practice. Let's hope for big wolf.
Flint motions to the copied map and the pages with it.
"You'll find everything you might need for reference there. The letter should direct you to the proper people in Le Bord. Choose one or two members of the company to take with you; if they're not in the division, I expect you will submit the request to the relevant office."
For a moment, that hand receives the blankest of blank looks. And then with a labored air, Flint peels himself far enough forward out of the chair to accept it. He gives him a firm handshake.
"I expect a report of some kind when you return." He nods to the door beyond Edgard's shoulder. "You're dismissed."
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no subject
"Only a little." He admits in response to Flint's question.
He grins a little at the compliment. It's nice to be appreciated.
no subject
A copied map and a single page letter is produced. Both are lain out on the desk between them. The letter begins, 'To Whom It May Concern, I am writing at the request of a coalition of rural livestock farmers—'
Flint covers it with the copied map. The border between Orlais and Nevarra is delineated with a bold dark line. He indicates a slab of territory immediately adjacent to it on the Orlesian side.
"Here. The ground is too rocky for growing, but this stretch is evidently a fine piece of grazing land. Sheep, cattle, and so on. It seems that as of late, the shepherds tending those flocks have been killed while on watch. The locals suspect some fanciful animal. Given the proliferation of rifts in the fields and what we know of how it affects the environment, a fade touched wolf or something similar isn't out of the question.
"But there are a dozen other rumors as well. That it might be some demon roving the countryside left over from the war, or some kind of heretic northern blood mage, or even the peasant farmers from the Nevarran side of the border looking to chase off their neighbors from good grazing."
Here, finally, a pause in this lecture. Flint looks up, attention piercing and calculating—measuring what percentage of this has penetrated what seems to be a somewhat notoriously thick skull.
"Are you following?"
no subject
"Following. Shepherds and livestock getting killed by something, possibly fade related but lots of rumors, and I'm guessing I'm to figure it out."
Edgard waits for confirmation. He sits up straighter, trying his best to look more responsible.
no subject
"But yes. You're to go there to track and kill whatever is responsible for the attacks. And I would prefer"—not to put too fine a point on it, but—"That we not inflame some old border dispute in the process."
no subject
"And if it is Nevarrans trying to get land?"
no subject
Simple in summary; likely complicated in practice. Let's hope for big wolf.
Flint motions to the copied map and the pages with it.
"You'll find everything you might need for reference there. The letter should direct you to the proper people in Le Bord. Choose one or two members of the company to take with you; if they're not in the division, I expect you will submit the request to the relevant office."
no subject
"Alright." He huffs out.
He stands to go and then pauses awkwardly for a moment crouched halfway between a sit and a stand. He holds out his hand to Flint.
He gnaws on his lip a little while he waits. This is what he's supposed to do, right?
no subject
"I expect a report of some kind when you return." He nods to the door beyond Edgard's shoulder. "You're dismissed."