therookery | crystal |

FORM: crystal
SENDER: Matthias
RECIPIENT: Riftwatch EVERYONE LISTEN UP
NOTES: friends don't let friends get extradited

So what is Riftwatch, right. Like, I know what it is. But I know what it ought not to be as well, and if someone comes along and says oi, I'm come of some king in Nevarra and we say we've a right to carry off and arrest one of your members--well, then, that's an easy one. We tell 'em no, and piss off.

'Cause we can't let that go on. Right? Not that we're opening up jail cells and inviting in every prisoner to come in and join up, but-- well, we're none of us perfect. Everyone's come from something. And it's not always so simple as they say it is. People get hanged for nothing, or maybe they did what they're accused of, but there's more to it that no one's saying. And we--Riftwatch, I mean--we're not held to the same diplomatic shit that the Inquisition proper is, not any longer. That's part of how come we split off, I thought. So we can be what we want, and say for ourselves what we'll put up with and what we won't. And who we'll put up with, and who we won't. Make our own policy so we can protect our own people, no matter what.

At least, that's what it ought to be, I think. I didn't come here and join up just so someone could hand me over some day the first time some messenger comes calling. Don't think anyone ought to be worried about that. Like--there's diplomacy, and then there's acting a white liver coward, you know?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It is a paltry list and there must be some signifying name on it, and absolutely none of it is any of their business or has anything to do with them. So Marcoulf fetches both jars from the desk, gives them an instant assessment, then offers the one with better cork to Anna. Whether she cares about the liquor or not, he can't say, but he knows how much she likes to put filthy things in jars and pockets and belt pouches.

"Is there anything that needs done?”

"Nothing right now. I'll let you know. You've done well."

She sits at the desk, the very picture of her attention shifting from people to paper, but one more thing- "The alcohol. Don't knock it back too fast. It's stronger than anything you've had, I guarantee it."

The look on Anna's face says she doubts that, but is also just as happy to be dismissed.

Wipe that look from your face, Anna. Someone might mistake you for any other sullen know-it-all in this Maker forsaken organization.

With a steering tip of his head - let's go while the going is still good -, they skedaddle.

Her gaze lingers on Eshal a moment longer, but she takes her cue and leaves with him. She looks next at the jar in her hand as she follows him. It would make a nice firebomb.

"Who is that?" she asks.

And do they actually have the acumen for this little situation.

He gives her a sharp, sidelong look. Honestly. "Mademoiselle Fazon. Old Qunari, or posed as such. She is co-lead of Diplomacy. Do you not mind your sending crystal?"

If he has opinions regarding the position of some Ferelden layabout and a Qunari runaway leading the Division, he doesn't voice them. That's not his business either.

Do you not mind your sending crystal. No, not really. She found it invasive and inconvenient most of the time. A portal into the meaningless bickering of an institution she only grudgingly served. Sometimes people used it to summon her to do silly little chores for them that she was too obedient to ignore.

"Doesn't look like a diplomat," is what she says instead.

"No," he agrees. "And she acts like a soldier, not a commander."

He makes a gesture with his thumb and forefingers, rubbing them together, and nods to the jar in Anna's possession. He hasn't decided whether he approves or not yet. Were the woman in question any other kind - to say, anyone other than some Qunari up to Maker knows what in the South -, or were she some knight with proper colors, it wouldn't be a question. If someone like that chooses to reward the bare minimum, then it's simply a matter of trying to look endearing. He understands that just fine. But Fazon being Fazon and not leveraging her rank and privilege as she ought to--

It isn't as if either he or Anna had done anything remarkable to warrant a pat on the head. So the combination breeds some uncertainty.

And isn't that a tender difference, Anna thinks tiredly and tries not to imagine Gehrman waiting eternally on the far side of the dream for a soldier who would finally take his place.

"If I was that girl... I'd just go with them, and kill them all on the road."

A scolding cluck of the tongue, though there's very little heat in it - the equivalent to checking the roan mare for nipping and not some more serious trespass.

"Then it is a good thing you are not the girl. They hardly came from nowhere. Someone would learn of it, and then we would all look like proper idiots."

Well, it wasn't as though she found the Watch the finest of institutions in the first place, but more importantly,

"They look like idiots, sending messengers to collect their assassin."

"I'm certain she has along with her a contingent of armed guards or the money to fire on the same. Just because you haven't seen them doesn't mean they don't exist."

Which is a good point of reckoning to be applied in any situation, he thinks. But he'd rather not discuss it further. This whole business is nonsense, so instead he nods to the jar:

"Will you drink that?"

She could talk about killing rival organizations all day long. How as a Hunter she'd never let those pompous dignitaries tell her a thing. Her wild, sullen, stubbornness trying to peak its way out from beneath her wariness and reticence. She's not sure she wants it poking out at the moment, and also lets go of it, for the moment.

"It's swill," a definitive assessment of the concoction. "But I'll make a molotov from it."

As if she'd be needing one of those any time soon. Then again, they'd come in handy down in the sewers. They usually did, sooner or later. Who didn't need a doze or so firebombs on hand at all times.

Well. Fine then.

He makes a soft hissing noise between his teeth, and nothing more as they reach the stairs leading down from the Division offices.

An idle consideration crosses her mind belatedly: "Why? Did you want to drink them?"

Clack, clack. The sole of one of his boots has worn down around one of its nails, and so every other step in the Gallows' stone stairwell clicks softly.

"I don't see what else it would be good for." Ignoring that she just said what.

Very soft catlike padding follows, sedate and contemplatively slow. This particular little 'sparring' match tickles in the back of her mind as familiar. She'd been an impressionable girl uncertain about the behavior of an older Hunter... What an old, bemusing memory. An expression that is both a frown and a smile competing trembles on her mouth for a moment.

"Alright," she decides to the air on his behalf. "We will."

Good, say the squinting lines of his face even if his mouth doesn't. His jaw sets in that particular way that it does when he's pleased and has decided not to show it in his face - that look he assumes when the mare has done something snotty and endearing which she shouldn't be rewarded for.

"Whenever you like then, I suppose." Sounds sullen, but isn't.

crystal |

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irl laugh

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