The click of his boots on the polished stone of this particular hall of the headquarters is common, the area only holding a few scant rooms that had all been assigned to the original Zandik and his segments thereafter.
Naturally, the only people who frequently walked these halls were those very segments, the long departed Zandik, and occasionally a certain banker of which he could almost call himself fond of, as much as a man like him could be for another. So, it's peculiar to hear the sounds of his personal piano being played, or an attempt at playing, each key pressed is random, akin to a child pressing each few hoping to make a melody out of random nonsense, a single memory of the segment passes through his mind before being dismissed as swiftly as it came.
It's hardly proper to announce himself to the room, it's his after all, pushing the heavy wood open and scanning the room for anything beyond the obviously out of place fatui member. The sash draped across their shoulders bears the jesters crest, that odd hybrid mix of the Tsaritsa crest and a khaenri'en glyph, there's no familiarity with this grunt not that he'd put any effort into remembering anyone outside of the other lord harbingers. Yet, even now as you'd clearly heard him enter you don't turn, don't acknowledge him, still tapping keys and listening to the mess of notes you're making.
Most of the fatui grunts scatter at the mere sound of his boots, but here is the one grunt unabashedly tapping away at his personal instrument. The long cast of his shadow is usually a nightmare, an omen of the coming heretic, and as the shade of him is cast over you prompts you to lift your head, looking over your shoulder and tilting your own masked face towards him, finally acknowledging him in a meaningful way.
Strange.
While he knows the jesters runners are picked for their willingness to stand toe to toe with the Tsaritsa's harbingers, you haven't so much as saluted him let alone announced your reasoning for entering a space well known as under the control of the second harbinger. His head remains tilted as you step towards him, a familiar envelope in your hand, what looks like a summons from your handler, the jester, the seal still warm despite the frigid nature of the headquarters.
Nothing is said, even as you leave, the second harbinger gives only a slight further tilt of his head to follow your steps out of the room, a slow smirk spreading across his face as a new branch of possibilities opens before him. Perhaps he will ask the jester to lend you to him, let him have such an unfaltering little grunt under his beck and call, the number of usable pieces on his board grows by one if the jester is amicable to the idea of course.
Slipping his thumb under the seal, he's greeted with the flowing script of the only one senior to him, an introduction, not a summons greets him. Written in the same blunt tone as he speaks is a clear cut introduction of you, one of his personal aides, now assigned to him to help with the more administrative tasks he has neglected.
The staff that roam the halls beyond that wing say the laughter of the doctor was almost pleased that day, not mad or maniacal, pleased.
He'd been handed his new curiosity on a silver platter, mere moments after discovering it, now all he needs to do is figure out what about you itches behind his eyes, what about your little moment here by his piano stroked such thoughts to life.
Now, he can enjoy the thrill of chasing a new hypothesis as his grand experiments simmer away in waiting.
