Something crawls up her spine at his smile, snaking its way on so many spindly legs, a grotesque little centipede of memory. Of impulse: Give me a reason.
How fruitless it ever is to rise to bait. How bloody tempting. But distaste cannot be indulged, it won't do anything here. The Inquisition needs intelligence. It needs research, and influence, and the appearance of small victories. It cannot afford to insist someone else do it, like a child shirking an unpleasant chore.
"I've faith in Northern ingenuity," The colour suits you, but might it not be brought in a size? "If you require books, they will be brought,"
(By someone not politely banned from fetching her own,)
"Paper, ink. If you've questions, best to have out with them now." If most of her attention remains on Atticus, Benedict is at least spared a moment's stare. It doesn't pay to underestimate the Imperium, however... itself. "I cannot say how chatty my relief shall be."
If they are, they damn well better know what they're doing. Bad enough they've two enemy combatants in the middle of their research hub, that any small slip with these might invite five years of slow rot upon them all.
The Gallows is not in Venatori hands. Not now. But how quickly vermin find the cracks.
no subject
Something crawls up her spine at his smile, snaking its way on so many spindly legs, a grotesque little centipede of memory. Of impulse: Give me a reason.
How fruitless it ever is to rise to bait. How bloody tempting. But distaste cannot be indulged, it won't do anything here. The Inquisition needs intelligence. It needs research, and influence, and the appearance of small victories. It cannot afford to insist someone else do it, like a child shirking an unpleasant chore.
"I've faith in Northern ingenuity," The colour suits you, but might it not be brought in a size? "If you require books, they will be brought,"
(By someone not politely banned from fetching her own,)
"Paper, ink. If you've questions, best to have out with them now." If most of her attention remains on Atticus, Benedict is at least spared a moment's stare. It doesn't pay to underestimate the Imperium, however... itself. "I cannot say how chatty my relief shall be."
If they are, they damn well better know what they're doing. Bad enough they've two enemy combatants in the middle of their research hub, that any small slip with these might invite five years of slow rot upon them all.
The Gallows is not in Venatori hands. Not now. But how quickly vermin find the cracks.