It isn't. It's just more complicated than how it looks from the outside.
Were it me, [a selective series of words] I would press the boy to see which other children he knew, and which families his mother encouraged he be distant from. Find their enemies in the Magisterium, and you may find someone who can be persuaded that they love their children.
[He finally shifts his heel. It takes effort to dredge it down off the edge of the open trunk, all tentative and wincing.]
Best to seek out the praeteri and laeten mages. Ones with fewer children, the younger the better.
Mmmh. [She listens, nodding slowly, but has her own addendum.] If we- [She looks up-] I do this, it's not something that's supposed to be an end of it. There's spies and shit, but diplomacy ought to be working on weakening Corypheus' hold. Slowly. No real war was ever one in one battle.
If they don't love their kids-- which, fuck, I thought bas did?-- could make it that they just need young noble blood. Keep it simple. His crone mother's too old. Now he'll be looking for other sources. Make every disappearance, every time somebody's late to dinner, make the doubt linger.
Rumors are for spies, and I'm not a spy. Except in Rutyer's midnight fantasies. [She makes a crude gesture with the movement of her wrist. You can guess.]
So you'll support me if I bring this up? I'm not asking for much. And, y'know, if you need support with something down the line... [She rolls her shoulders, not really a shrug so much as forgetting the words for and so on in Trade.]
[It wouldn't hurt to have someone angled nearer toward him than away. Soon, he may need it.
But none of that factors in this instant. Even if it didn't equal some vague promise of tit for tat:] I would. We can't simply wait to see if Tevinter will topple in a direction that's to our advantage.
Thank you, Kaaras. [She doesn't say it mockingly, pridefully, snidely. She says it like anyone would an ally. In her mind, that's what they are. While Eshal has done much to burn the Qun from her, some things persist-- the idea that two people working for one goal should work together. It's why people like Byerly stymie her as much as they do.]
[In this context, it's probably naive. But to her, denying it is like claiming the sky is green.]
[Well. Greener.]
[She leans forward to leave the jug of alcohol on the side of Flint's bed.] Maraas-lok. Strong stuff. Don't take it all at once. But in low doses, it can blur pain, or give good sleep. It's called the nothing-drink for a reason.
[(Is this the last gift of alcohol he accepts without second thought? Probably.)
He raises his barely touched mug in thanks, something pleasant living at the margins of his expression. Maybe this is what the North breeds, whether it means to or not. If you want to march against a city, or a people, or a continent, or an unstoppable force, two ages of war bearing ever diminishing returns advise that it doesn't do much good to trip the man in line beside you.]
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I apologize. Let me correct myself - when I say they might have second thoughts, I meant on behalf of themselves.
[But.]
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Don't be all fucking dramatic. If it's dumb, I wanna know.
[But she hasn't told him how she intends to do it yet- and something stops her from going on at length. He's a good source; why ruin it?]
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Were it me, [a selective series of words] I would press the boy to see which other children he knew, and which families his mother encouraged he be distant from. Find their enemies in the Magisterium, and you may find someone who can be persuaded that they love their children.
[He finally shifts his heel. It takes effort to dredge it down off the edge of the open trunk, all tentative and wincing.]
Best to seek out the praeteri and laeten mages. Ones with fewer children, the younger the better.
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If they don't love their kids-- which, fuck, I thought bas did?-- could make it that they just need young noble blood. Keep it simple. His crone mother's too old. Now he'll be looking for other sources. Make every disappearance, every time somebody's late to dinner, make the doubt linger.
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Better. Their imaginations do the work for us while we sort matters which require more direct involvement. How would you start the rumor?
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[She spreads her hands.]
If we're going to scare them, we can't be afraid about it.
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Then, a flashing grin that's brief and clear and promptly smoothed down. He isn't laughing. It's just brazen as fuck - a surprise.]
Sure. That could work.
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So you'll support me if I bring this up? I'm not asking for much. And, y'know, if you need support with something down the line... [She rolls her shoulders, not really a shrug so much as forgetting the words for and so on in Trade.]
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But none of that factors in this instant. Even if it didn't equal some vague promise of tit for tat:] I would. We can't simply wait to see if Tevinter will topple in a direction that's to our advantage.
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[In this context, it's probably naive. But to her, denying it is like claiming the sky is green.]
[Well. Greener.]
[She leans forward to leave the jug of alcohol on the side of Flint's bed.] Maraas-lok. Strong stuff. Don't take it all at once. But in low doses, it can blur pain, or give good sleep. It's called the nothing-drink for a reason.
[A parting gift.]
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He raises his barely touched mug in thanks, something pleasant living at the margins of his expression. Maybe this is what the North breeds, whether it means to or not. If you want to march against a city, or a people, or a continent, or an unstoppable force, two ages of war bearing ever diminishing returns advise that it doesn't do much good to trip the man in line beside you.]
I swear to moderate myself.
[That's a joke.]