[ Ser. It sets her hackles up here before he’s ever finished; how often has he used that title for invective? To push it towards platitude here must be a fucking strain —
At once it seems foolish to fear he’s seen her true; the man might glimpse pieces, but he’s no interest in finding their shape. Cannot.
There will always be many that suffer, and that’s the world. Those evils: cracks seeping water, eating the foundation. It doesn't make it right, but if you live in a hovel, you don’t take a hammer to the walls, you build.
He’s right in this: This has gone too long. They've all grown too used to ruins, and so few yet remain. An entire generation of mages wiped out, the curated work of Ages alongside, and who will teach the new ones? Who will guide them? The Order is dying by slow rot, each new bloom of corruption excised until nothing's left, no one.
It will take decades to make whole; the public trust may never be. There are those that will see a swift end to this as a solution for all involved: That more blood hasn't already been spilled is a testament to how screwed the South is in every other respect. The countryside, the cities, they're afraid. Some it might bully into compromise (she may dearly pray), others will see their resolve hardened. Thin odds, thin enough to sliver down the end of a blade.
Perhaps he finds hope in that,
She doesn’t. When she thinks of the way this will end, all she finds is flood. It’s never been trust that binds her to the Chantry; it’s grief. To have everything torn from us over and over, as though he didn't rip it from the hands of so many.
The Circles were always going to fall, he claims. They didn't need to fall like that. Not hers. Not her people.
Softly, ]
You have spared us nothing.
[ The creak of wood, she moves to stand. ]
You see it, yes? To act in the name of others, when that is what you rally against?
apologies for her everything, and for *my* blatant theft of your metaphors from other threads lmao
At once it seems foolish to fear he’s seen her true; the man might glimpse pieces, but he’s no interest in finding their shape. Cannot.
There will always be many that suffer, and that’s the world. Those evils: cracks seeping water, eating the foundation. It doesn't make it right, but if you live in a hovel, you don’t take a hammer to the walls, you build.
He’s right in this: This has gone too long. They've all grown too used to ruins, and so few yet remain. An entire generation of mages wiped out, the curated work of Ages alongside, and who will teach the new ones? Who will guide them? The Order is dying by slow rot, each new bloom of corruption excised until nothing's left, no one.
It will take decades to make whole; the public trust may never be. There are those that will see a swift end to this as a solution for all involved: That more blood hasn't already been spilled is a testament to how screwed the South is in every other respect. The countryside, the cities, they're afraid. Some it might bully into compromise (she may dearly pray), others will see their resolve hardened. Thin odds, thin enough to sliver down the end of a blade.
Perhaps he finds hope in that,
She doesn’t. When she thinks of the way this will end, all she finds is flood. It’s never been trust that binds her to the Chantry; it’s grief. To have everything torn from us over and over, as though he didn't rip it from the hands of so many.
The Circles were always going to fall, he claims. They didn't need to fall like that. Not hers. Not her people.
Softly, ]
You have spared us nothing.
[ The creak of wood, she moves to stand. ]
You see it, yes? To act in the name of others, when that is what you rally against?