Something in her face tightens at him mentioning a traitor, a reflexive anger on his and all of Riftwatch’s behalf when she says, “What a goatfucker.”
And it’s hard for Astrid to measure whether or not she’s friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. They’re not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talin’s hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesn’t seem like he’d welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether he’s okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
“What happened to the contact?”
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this won’t happen again?
Goatfucker makes him laugh, unexpected as it is—he grins into his shoulder, and savors the feeling of it.
"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the other—either way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
“Hopefully the second one. They can’t just do that—”
Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naïve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatch’s work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
She’s still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
“Okay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?”
If Talin were less dead on his feet, he'd probably be agreeing with Astrid and finding inventive new ways of cursing someone, and their bloodline, and their dog for good measure. As it is, he's barely conscious, holding onto awareness by his few remaining fingernails.
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunate—he's fully passed back out before she can ask any.
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And it’s hard for Astrid to measure whether or not she’s friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. They’re not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talin’s hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesn’t seem like he’d welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether he’s okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
“What happened to the contact?”
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this won’t happen again?
no subject
"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the other—either way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
no subject
Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naïve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatch’s work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
She’s still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
“Okay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?”
🎀
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunate—he's fully passed back out before she can ask any.