diplomacy, gird your loins.

[bouchonne]

FORM: Crystal
SENDER: Byerly and Eshal.
RECIPIENT: All y'all
NOTES: Blue is Byerly, red is Eshal.

Bonsoir, Riftwatch. I have some dreadful news for you all.

[ Byerly’s voice sounds a bit dry. And characteristically dramatic. ]

My dear comrade and equal, would you like to tell them?

It's not dreadful, get over yourself. Anyway, Diplomacy has two heads, because we're better than the lot of them. Right?

Oh, yes. It’s widely acknowledged as a show of faith to appoint two people to do the job normally done by one. A task given only to truly quality prospects.

Exactly.

[ A sigh. ]

My esteemed self and this esteemed lady have been appointed joint heads of Diplomacy. She, being a decent and righteous soul, has volunteered to hear any and all complaints that might be made about this decision.

Yep. Love to meet the rest of you, honestly. Come by the head office, any time. I'll supply the whiskey.

[ Byerly lifts an eyebrow at her; he’d expected a protest to him volunteering her for that thankless duty. But, well, if she’s willing to be the goat here, let her be the goat. A shrug. That’s it. Meet your new overseers. ]

Comments

[bouchonne]

Jealousy.

Odd for a woman who doesn't want to fight anymore ever again to set up fighting rings while working for a military organization.

[saam]

You do have a nice-- [she fiddles with her hands over her lip. What's the word in Trade...] mustache.

I don't wanna work for a military organization that throws bodies into a pit of fire to see who'll win. I don't wanna be on the front lines. But I know my uses. You can take part, or choose to be useless.

[bouchonne]

[ He smooths down the mustache in a great pantomime of preening. But, more importantly - ]

We're fighting a war. Isn't that, by definition, throwing bodies into a pit of fire to see who will win?

[saam]

[She laughs, and then his words... she refuses to be sobered.]

There's this thing called strategy. We don't got that many st-soldiers anyway. And if diplomacy-- your style, my style-- works, we send less to do more.

Or you could just keep shooting down everything I say. [A shrug. She's not angry.] Your aim's off, but it's pretty fun to watch.

[bouchonne]

And yet you could have chosen to become a farmer.

[saam]

Would you have preferred if I did?

[A cocked brow. May as well get to the heart of things.]

[bouchonne]

Hardly. It just seems like a much easier way to avoid battle.

[saam]

I'm not- vashedan. I see what it is. You think it's cowardice or something.

I have a- a purpose. I can choose to ignore it, or I can get it done. I'm useless on the front lines, but that doesn't mean my work's over.

[And then a laugh, a return to form.] And I know fuckall about farming.

[bouchonne]

Not a bit. I'd never suspect cowardice.

[ A smile, an enigmatic sip. ]

[saam]

Yeah, yeah. [She gives a shrug, not quite a roll of her eyes. She's starting to get the sense that words are useless with him. That's something she can live with, even if it's odd for a Southerner. In the Qun, everything is action, after all.]

I didn't forget you skipped right the fuck over my questions, by the way. But it's your life. Your business. All I expect from you is to do your job.

[bouchonne]

I answered your questions to the best of my ability. My heart's oath.

[ He presses a hand to his heart and bows. Then, straightening - ]

The Qunari doesn't take kindly to those who leave it, do they?

[saam]

[Okay, that gets an eyeroll. But it's with a smile underneath it. There are ways to make her hate and spite someone, but they involve a bit more knowledge of the Qun.]

[Anyway, his question is a good one. The answer ought to be just as good. So she tells a story, instead, and a test of his cleverness, if he can find the answer in the story.]

In Seheron, it's real easy to fake your death.

[bouchonne]

As on any battlefield.

[saam]

You been to many? Battlefields?

Not cock measuring, just asking.

[bouchonne]

[ A shrug, and an opaque: ]

As I said; I'm a famous coward.

[ A coward with an uncommon number of scars and an uncommon number of kills - but she doesn't need to know that. ]

[saam]

Huh. Well. Promise not to arm-wrestle you.

[A drink. This got deeper than she usually likes. Her own fault, but she wanted to be honest.]

[Best get back on track.]

What I wanna do is make sure we don't got any Viddathari spies in the city, and make sure we're sweet talking more than rich shits at tea parties. What angles you wanna hit, pretty boy?

[bouchonne]

Any what-now spies?

[saam]

[Groan.] Qunari spies. Except they'll be elves or poor humans, that kinda shit.

[bouchonne]

Ah. And how do you tell a Qunari spy?

[ A sip. ]

[saam]

It's... hard. They're deep cover. Converted in secret, then went back to their normal lives. But there're signs.

[She looks over at him.]

This is the second time you haven't answered my question.

[bouchonne]

Whoops.

What sorts of signs?

[saam]

Why d'you care? [Now she's just being difficult. She rolls her eyes.] What's it matter, you won't gimme a real answer anyway.

[She takes a long drink, cooling that flash of annoyance. If she gets mad, he wins.]

No love under the Qun. Most of them won't have families. No money under the Qun, so it'll be people who don't have coin. Look for poor humans or elves who either don't have family or left it, who shouldn't be getting by but are. They don't go to the Chantry anymore, neither. And then you say the right phrases, and see if they notice.

[bouchonne]

What phrases?

[saam]

[She leans forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, tugging them a little closer.]

So many questions, Byerly Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

I'm a curious man.

[ Some would say "paranoid." ]