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[foxsays]

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[foxsays]

They'd bend themselves over double to justify it somehow, how it's reclaiming them from the tyranny of Circles and the Chantry.

[Which, of course, is why they're talking after all isn't it?]

This is going to sound naive however I say it, so I'll say it: I don't think I need the thanks but it's welcome all the same. This is my home, I have a life here, I have so much I'm invested in that I don't want to see fail. I want better, and it doesn't come of division. It'd be nice to have enjoyed it a little longer before rolling my sleeves up to argue all over again the second I got in the door. How many times can I say the same thing before I start screaming at them like some mad harridan?

[How do you do it, commander? (Probably don't tell her but maybe do she is past the point of caring now.)]

[limier]

There is no naïveté in working for better, else we are all blind fools.

[ a pause, to allow for consideration. alright. six of one, half dozen of the other. ]

Do you know? It was the Chantry who taught me to write my brother, who cared for him when we could not. Who helped us through that first winter, with the mule dead, and the barn gone. It was the Chantry who gave me a life.

It was the Chantry who took his — praise the Maker, that someone was able. It was the Chantry who failed him. But the Chantry can be more; each of us, might always be more. We can do better.

It is not, [ hm. ] It does not grow easier. Rather, that it did, you would have lost something for the bargain.

You say what you must, when you must. You scream, when you must do that too. One cannot be heard underwater.

[foxsays]

[There's a hitch in her breath, quiet and grateful:] Thank you.

[She...she needed that. More than she realised. A little light in a dark room where all the shadows are advancing from each corner.]

So many here doubt in the Maker, where I come from we believe many things we haven't seen with our eyes because we cannot prove or disprove it, and who am I to say that what someone believes is not real. If it is believed, then it is real. Those of us who have come to be here are the last people who should be tearing it down and it-- it does good work, the Chantry. It could do more but everything could. As you say: it comforts, it provides, it shelters. There is a chance for a life people wouldn't have otherwise.

[As much as that might be a double-edged sword: the Chantry gives, but the Chantry takes, people are bound to it and she isn't blind to that but don't Araceli's parents serve the sea? Doesn't Araceli know that her body will be reclaimed by it one day when the time comes?]

It'll all be worth it in the end, when the work is done and you are tired in your bones to sit down and look at it to think: yes, I did that. [If they all get there. (There will be more work the instant morning comes.)]

A rift spat out a cloak, I can stay underwater a long time if I must. If you wish to borrow it...I imagine a Division Head has a need more than most. [Thranduil and Herian composed in other ways, Beleth is...well Beleth is Beleth who'll always be a girl on a rooftop same as Araceli was who wanted to be a bard, but Coupe is iron and steel and something more, and sometimes you want to go soak your own head.]