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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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.]