You aren’t asking. You’re looking for something to tear apart.
[ If that assumption is correct, it’s only because Kostos does the same thing. Regardless, he doesn’t plan to answer. He wouldn’t fully know how to explain it, anyway.
He’s still breathing on a silent timer. ]
Someone has to do the paperwork. Someone has to consider what can be sold to the people making decisions, and whose lives will be ruined in trade— [ who will be woken up at three in the morning by Templars, and shackled like a Southerner for the first time, and dragged away from the first place where they’d begun to at least consider being happy since they were nine years old, and tossed in with castoffs and criminals and crueler watchmen, all because somebody they barely even knew anymore wanted to change the world—not that this is personal or anything ] —and what people will eat when the fires go out, and—and how the story will sound to the rest of the world when its help is needed afterwards.
I realize that is less exciting to shout about in the streets.
[The two aren't mutually exclusive; he can ask his brother's motivations, seriously, and tear it apart. He chooses instead to save his breath. For a moment, at least.]
I'm not writing a story. I'm not planning the ending. The story will sound like it means something. Because it will. More than paperwork, more than bread, and parchment, and horseshit diplomacy--and more than excuses, than talking about shit that has not yet happened, what has not come to pass. Because the moment it becomes real, it will be more than a story. It will be alive.
But at least now I know what stories you tell yourself.
[ Sarcasm, but it rings a little hollow. Maybe Nikos does have him figured out. Fucking kept, a fucking coward. Maybe.
Even so, for Nell—even if she’d called him the same things, because she has—he’d repeat himself: find a way, find an angle, find him something that he can take upstairs and something that upstairs can take to Skyhold to make them agree that it makes sense, he wants to, he’s asking—
But for Nikos, no. He’ll still repeat himself, but not that part, not this conversation: ]
Don’t do anything stupid.
your mean tag to darras dredged this up too so now i can get the last word thnx
[Right now, if someone asked him what he wants, if he were to be granted a wish, he would have a hard time choosing between eradicating all wealth and inheritance based systems of power that subjugate the lower class and winning this argument with Kostos.
But no. Of course Kostos wants to end it, and win. Things never change. If Kostos were in front of him, right now, Nikos would spit on him. Kick him. Punch him in his stupid fucking face. Put this sending crystal through his eye. Instead--]
Or should I just put you off and say that your concern has been noted. Fuckface. I'll make sure to start telling everyone that I don't know you, and spare you the trouble.
[ —not what he meant, not what he wants, not what he's attempting to say under twenty layers of anger and pride and an assortment of other sins. But this isn't like bickering with Nell over mage freedom and then going for drinks after, or like picking fights with the sea of people he doesn't give even a small damn about, and he does want it to end. So: fine. Fine. Whatever.
The clattering and crash is the sound of the crystal being dropped into a drawer that is subsequently slammed shut. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ If that assumption is correct, it’s only because Kostos does the same thing. Regardless, he doesn’t plan to answer. He wouldn’t fully know how to explain it, anyway.
He’s still breathing on a silent timer. ]
Someone has to do the paperwork. Someone has to consider what can be sold to the people making decisions, and whose lives will be ruined in trade— [ who will be woken up at three in the morning by Templars, and shackled like a Southerner for the first time, and dragged away from the first place where they’d begun to at least consider being happy since they were nine years old, and tossed in with castoffs and criminals and crueler watchmen, all because somebody they barely even knew anymore wanted to change the world—not that this is personal or anything ] —and what people will eat when the fires go out, and—and how the story will sound to the rest of the world when its help is needed afterwards.
I realize that is less exciting to shout about in the streets.
no subject
I'm not writing a story. I'm not planning the ending. The story will sound like it means something. Because it will. More than paperwork, more than bread, and parchment, and horseshit diplomacy--and more than excuses, than talking about shit that has not yet happened, what has not come to pass. Because the moment it becomes real, it will be more than a story. It will be alive.
But at least now I know what stories you tell yourself.
no subject
[ Sarcasm, but it rings a little hollow. Maybe Nikos does have him figured out. Fucking kept, a fucking coward. Maybe.
Even so, for Nell—even if she’d called him the same things, because she has—he’d repeat himself: find a way, find an angle, find him something that he can take upstairs and something that upstairs can take to Skyhold to make them agree that it makes sense, he wants to, he’s asking—
But for Nikos, no. He’ll still repeat himself, but not that part, not this conversation: ]
Don’t do anything stupid.
your mean tag to darras dredged this up too so now i can get the last word thnx
[Right now, if someone asked him what he wants, if he were to be granted a wish, he would have a hard time choosing between eradicating all wealth and inheritance based systems of power that subjugate the lower class and winning this argument with Kostos.
But no. Of course Kostos wants to end it, and win. Things never change. If Kostos were in front of him, right now, Nikos would spit on him. Kick him. Punch him in his stupid fucking face. Put this sending crystal through his eye. Instead--]
Or should I just put you off and say that your concern has been noted. Fuckface. I'll make sure to start telling everyone that I don't know you, and spare you the trouble.
the last full sentences how about
[ —not what he meant, not what he wants, not what he's attempting to say under twenty layers of anger and pride and an assortment of other sins. But this isn't like bickering with Nell over mage freedom and then going for drinks after, or like picking fights with the sea of people he doesn't give even a small damn about, and he does want it to end. So: fine. Fine. Whatever.
The clattering and crash is the sound of the crystal being dropped into a drawer that is subsequently slammed shut. ]