my dad can beat up your dad | closed

[limier]

WHO: Flint, Coupe, Yseult
WHAT: Spirited intellectual debate
WHEN: Some time between death announcement and the memorial
WHERE: Central tower
NOTES: Violence

Comments

[limier]

Her head hurts.

Not in the swollen, wooly way of tears unshed, or the spike of impact — but a steady pressure upon her temples, drumming dull against the heat. Summer’s warmth is only beginning to rise, but here and now it’s stifling. The enormous map is strewn with marker pieces,

Fewer than before.

"While I defer to your judgment," She doesn't. They wouldn't still be arguing if either was willing to budge an inch. A cloth over her eyes will be ages yet. "I do not see a viable alternative to Vane."

Unless he's pulled another able seaman-slash-swordsman out of his ass. The courteous distance of the past hour (two) has worn sharper; hands curled bare and tense against the table's edge.

And her head hurts, and she’s hungry, and she sort of needs to piss; but it’d be a hell of a thing to duck out just now, when they're all shorthanded, and the work needs doing, and Flint's so determined to fuck it up.