“We can't talk about Corypheus and sex, Astarion will threaten to rip my entrails out through my throat again,” and the joke is the prim way she's saying it, like it's funny, and not the again part.

Hardie gazes soulfully up at Abby. Does she understand now why he should be in charge.

“Riftwatch,” after another pause, in the tone of someone perhaps about to deliver a sermon, “is an embarrassing clusterfuck that can't agree with itself about what exactly it is, made up of people who can't take orders led by people who wouldn't be giving them in any other organization. It's the graveyard of my failed marriage and half the people I love who are actually dead because of this fucking unavoidable war. Where do you hide from the sky? It's so stupid that we don't have the funding. The people. The pull. Our problems are everyone's fucking problems, so none of what I just said actually matters. We're probably going to die. But it'd be embarrassing to die because we didn't bother trying to live. Riftwatch is the only thing that actually matters.”

She doesn't, actually, dislike it. These are her shitheads.

“I don't have to be nice about it, it's just true. And you can call me Gigi.”