rowancrowned | fade rift ✧ inbox

"Ah," he says. "Who?"

In more words, it's not entirely a surprise. Flint, then? Her suspicions were founded, and Gwenaelle may have--

No matter. It will be simple enough to keep her safe. He will owe Eshal for the information, but that is cheap for having Kitty safe.

"Kitty thinks Flint's the type to torture information out of her. Flint or Yseult. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that when someone says 'I'm worried I'll get tortured' to take them seriously."

She keeps frowning at the ocean.

"Kitty did the same shit Flint did. Kitty did less than Flint did; she never used her information against us. If she's getting punished for it, Flint better, too. He doesn't get special treatment."

"Kitty will not suffer anything worse than the Vint currently in the dungeons, if she is punished," he says. "That is the precedent being set."

Not just because it says something about Rifters. He looks past her, to the closed door, warded with a form of craft alien to Thedas.

"Without Skyhold, we have no oversight. The last time a Division Head did something similar, Skyhold stepped in. Furthermore, any punishment of Commander Flint would risk splintering within Riftwatch. Why he ever-"

'didn't think through the consequences of his actions' is probably the rest of that sentence, but. Instead, Thranduil inhales, exhales.

"What else did you come to say?"

Eshal's expression goes dark. "We can't throw him in a cell. I get it. But he should be blocked or kept back from things... There has to be some answer."

As for more to say, does she ever. "And we can't let Kitty end up in a cell. It leaves her... compromised. She should be put under..."

Eshal's face wrinkles with thought, trying to seek out the translation, before giving in.

"What's the word in trade, for when someone is confined to a place that isn't a dungeon? Your office, is what I'd suggest. She would be punished, and kept safe."

"Either he is a Division Head, with all our trust, or he is not." He makes a short gesture to indicate as much, the severing of something. "Either we trust one another and share our intelligence, resources, and plans, or we are five petty kings, squabbling."

But for the solution for Kitty, he nods.

"House arrest," he says. "It will suit. I will inform her."

"I get what you're saying, and a few days I would have agreed. But we have to- he fucked up and he hurt us. He has power and he abused that. If we let that go, we're not petty kings, we're tyrants who answer to fuckall nobody."

All said quietly, harshly, staring into the sea. Her stance tenses, but she doesn't move.

"So, you have my vote. You have your own. What of Monsieur Rutyer, and the Scoutmaster?"

He eases back into sitting on the edge of the desk, his grip on the sides easy. He isn't yet sure how to feel about being the first to be asked.

"We work toward a compromise that doesn't fracture us, but does make it clear we aren't above our own rules? No voting shit. Nobody leaves until it's unanimous. One of those things." She doesn't know the word for that in Trade either.

"And do you intend to mention this to any of the other heads before we have our... gathering?"

Open mouth.

Close mouth.

"I kinda just came up with that right now." She shakes her head. "I really came here to talk about making sure Jones was safe. But if you think it's not a cowshit proposal, I'll shop it around."

"Ride the sword's edge between sedition and discretion," he remarks, wry.

"What would you think fitting, for a punishment?" He gestures lazily to indicate, perhaps, two sides of a scale. "Something that preserves his authority among the rest, yet still allows for the weight of his choices magnified by his position."

She quirks a brow. "You're not my type." A pause. "Wait, sedition's a different word..."

But, seriously. "I'd give him less access to information unless it would keep him from doing his job. And, yeah, less of a say in things. Not none, but less. Wouldn't make it public unless he did himself. Not sure how long."

He glances upward, a brief pleading to a god who is not there.

"He is not Research, he is Forces. He needs that information to do his duty, unless the rest of us carried the burden for a while longer. As for his vote- perhaps prevent him from breaking ties."

She considers this carefully, before her expression lightens. Not quite a smile, but more collected than before. Less cold, quiet rage.

"Well," she said, "you've convinced me it's something that needs more careful thought. Like I said, I really only meant to tell you about Jones." A grateful nod in that direction. "But I hope I've convinced you... not doing something about Flint still makes us petty kings. Tyrants, whatever you wanna call it. I'll think on something to do, and if you've ideas, I'm open."

She takes a step, two, toward the door.

"And- thank you."

"It is not something to require much consideration," he says. "Only concern of how best to do it, and the reminder was timely."

He exhales. He would pour himself a glass, but.

"Speak to Byerly, or do not. If you bring it up, I will speak in support. If you do not, then perhaps I will."

She looks almost offended in surprise. "Of course I'm gonna talk to Byerly. Nobody here believes a word I say..." Still shaking her head, she continues toward the door.

"Congratulations on your appointment, Ambassador Fazon. And thank you for the warning. She is a dear girl."

And there are his manners, appearing as she takes her leave.

That gets a laugh. "Thanks. And I'm glad she is to you. Needs it, seems like." And then she exits.

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