Quid Pro Quo ((By Invitation))

His expression never faltered. His gaze never wavered but for the slightest flash of his eyes at certain punctuated words in the necromancer's presumptuous sermon--particularly at the mention of the councilors. Subtle implications did not go unnoticed. Swain was the puppetmaster, and this metaphor had been brought to him before, albeit in a more accusatory tone. Perhaps the old man knew something... or perhaps he was simply grasping at rumor-strings in an attempt to gain some insight, some affirmation of his suspicions.

The Grand General set aside his paranoia, cleared his throat with a hacking cough, one fist brought over his shroud out of habit. "A battle is fought on many fronts. These are but two." He pursed his lips behind his shroud. Beatrice, upon whom the necromancer's expression of distaste had not been lost, puffed out her chest feathers in an avian attempt at dignity from her master's pauldron.

"I do not garden uninformed, professor. So enlighten me--what seeds have you sewn that I might water and weed?" He folded his hands together on the table before him. It would be more prudent to let the theatrical man speak, to let him come forth with what knowledge and plots he already had than to expose the Master Tactician's own. And so Swain waited, feigning patient interest, for his guest to speak again.

"I see," said Swain gruffly. He stroked his ruffled familiar's neck with a single gnarled finger, his mind wandering to the parchment he had tucked away. "So invite her here, offer your comfort. You will meet her at The Wall and escort her through the scorched lands."

Behind his shroud, cracked lips pressed together as he carefully considered his next statement. "The Institute will collapse of its own folly in time--and Noxus thrives without its oppressive influence. Show her these things. Attend to your own fronts and I shall attend to mine, keeping your granddaughter in mind."

His withered hand moved over his pen again as though to signal the conclusion of their meeting. "Thank you for your time, professor. I've no doubt we shall speak again before long, perhaps with the Senior Steward present." His brows raised in punctuation of this statement: a provisional invitation. "She served as my own consul during my time as a League champion. Perhaps I shall offer my own condolences during her stay."

The Grand General's calculating gaze returned the sheen of his guest's green in crimson. His eyes flashed over the mans slight smirk, his overeager gesture, his extended hand, the talon-like nails. Swain pursed his lips behind his shroud. A seal. The necromancer's airs did not elude him.

He offered a grunt of acknowledgement but, rather than grasping the man's outstretched hand, drew open a drawer in his desk and took from it a small crystal paperweight in the shape of a rose. He did not rise to wish Lord Cassalantar off, nor ever did his gaze drop from the professor's contracted pupils. Slowly, purposefully, the tremor of his hand readily evident as he lifted his symbolic offering, the Grand General brought his trinket to Markal's hand.

As the necromancer's claw-like hand might close around his gift, Swain retracted his own. "I am a man of my word, Cassalantar, but if you wish for some reassurance..." The rose glowed ever-so-slightly in the gloom beneath its bearer's fingers. "Take this gift--as a token of my commitment to my duties. Whatever will strengthen Noxus, whatever will better our nation, that is what I shall do--and never shall I falter." His eyes shone like searchlights through the shadows, reflecting the candle's flicker ten fold in the moment he offered, "Forever strong," his chin lifted high in dignified purpose.