Wren notes the reaction faintly — the Winter Palace, the whole bloody reason she'd been sent here — but there's little out of place within it. She isn't so naive as to believe the Dalish head of intelligence hasn't seen battle before, hasn't been hunted, but she's well-aware how unnerving it is: To look to an ally, and find only empty shell. This isn't that. But it's there.
"I believe," Carefully. She's run her mouth too much of Darton already. However toxic the man's association might become, however much she loathes him, his larger family remain nobility of some influence. Thorn had made her feelings known, and guiltily, Wren knows she was right. There's no room for pride. At some point, she'll need to (ugh) apologize. Until then, she needs to stop shittalking him to those whose discretion she can't know. "That you are both right."
Her hands spread upon the table, palms up, ready to placate objection.
"Harriman reacted in a manner presently unacceptable; it would not have been so, in years past." She shakes her head. The problem this time was not an absence of control, but perhaps the wrong breed. Leave it to Cade to create multiple messes. "Seeker Darton acts from the same position,"
The old standard, of blaming it on the nearest templar — but that bitterness won't help here and now. Thorn's frown lingers at the back of her mind, You're too old to act a child,
"Both are outdated. It would be inappropriate to involve the Seeker in the matter any further." Her hands turn over once more, fingers curl. "As for Harriman, all that I may give you is assurance that the Inquisition does not forget those who serve. You will forgive my vagueness; ours is not a life which affords much privacy."
Not that she's given him an ounce of it, herself. It's different, she feels, between brothers. Between no one who's ever sold them out to the bloody Venatori.
"It was well of you to bring this to me, but if you wish details, I recommend speaking with Harriman directly."
no subject
Wren notes the reaction faintly — the Winter Palace, the whole bloody reason she'd been sent here — but there's little out of place within it. She isn't so naive as to believe the Dalish head of intelligence hasn't seen battle before, hasn't been hunted, but she's well-aware how unnerving it is: To look to an ally, and find only empty shell.
This isn't that. But it's there.
"I believe," Carefully. She's run her mouth too much of Darton already. However toxic the man's association might become, however much she loathes him, his larger family remain nobility of some influence. Thorn had made her feelings known, and guiltily, Wren knows she was right. There's no room for pride. At some point, she'll need to (ugh) apologize. Until then, she needs to stop shittalking him to those whose discretion she can't know. "That you are both right."
Her hands spread upon the table, palms up, ready to placate objection.
"Harriman reacted in a manner presently unacceptable; it would not have been so, in years past." She shakes her head. The problem this time was not an absence of control, but perhaps the wrong breed. Leave it to Cade to create multiple messes. "Seeker Darton acts from the same position,"
The old standard, of blaming it on the nearest templar — but that bitterness won't help here and now. Thorn's frown lingers at the back of her mind, You're too old to act a child,
"Both are outdated. It would be inappropriate to involve the Seeker in the matter any further." Her hands turn over once more, fingers curl. "As for Harriman, all that I may give you is assurance that the Inquisition does not forget those who serve. You will forgive my vagueness; ours is not a life which affords much privacy."
Not that she's given him an ounce of it, herself. It's different, she feels, between brothers. Between no one who's ever sold them out to the bloody Venatori.
"It was well of you to bring this to me, but if you wish details, I recommend speaking with Harriman directly."