"Well, I'm a poet," she says, a bit blankly. "I wrote propaganda by accident, not on purpose, this isn't...I'm not a mage, I don't know what conversation they want to have," a little bewildered.
No, a great deal bewildered, and doing her best to keep up - well, nothing, then? is her instinct, but that feels immediately like the wrong answer. Not because it feels wrong, to her, but because that is so clearly not the conversation they're having,
and she doesn't, really, understand the conversation they're having. Dog-paddling vastly out of her depth, Flint doesn't need to tell her that her idea was foolish; that is becoming incredibly clear to her. Maybe it would be a good idea, if someone else had it, but that someone would probably have a better answer to everything else he's said, too.
"When I wrote out of the Inquisition, I was trying to write about things I could see and understand, so that other people could see and understand them," she says, finally. "I understand, I think, what Fiona did. I know how to talk about that. I thought there was value in that."
At the time. Less and less, the longer this conversation goes on.
"When I was doing it I did, anyway. I don't know, I thought maybe I was wrong about having been wrong, because you seemed so interested in it."
Now, if anything, it feels clearer that she was right to stop; that she was toying with something she has no business in.
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No, a great deal bewildered, and doing her best to keep up - well, nothing, then? is her instinct, but that feels immediately like the wrong answer. Not because it feels wrong, to her, but because that is so clearly not the conversation they're having,
and she doesn't, really, understand the conversation they're having. Dog-paddling vastly out of her depth, Flint doesn't need to tell her that her idea was foolish; that is becoming incredibly clear to her. Maybe it would be a good idea, if someone else had it, but that someone would probably have a better answer to everything else he's said, too.
"When I wrote out of the Inquisition, I was trying to write about things I could see and understand, so that other people could see and understand them," she says, finally. "I understand, I think, what Fiona did. I know how to talk about that. I thought there was value in that."
At the time. Less and less, the longer this conversation goes on.
"When I was doing it I did, anyway. I don't know, I thought maybe I was wrong about having been wrong, because you seemed so interested in it."
Now, if anything, it feels clearer that she was right to stop; that she was toying with something she has no business in.