Saturday laughs a little at the patronizing smugness line.
"Yeah, we get that, too - not so much the other thing. But any elf who doesn't wanna sign up for the Tir must be crazy or ignorant, right?" She rolls her eyes, very deliberately, bringing back the casual banter and repartee. Normalizing, since he doesn't seem inclined to start a fight any longer. "It's not just me. Not every elf belongs to the Tirs, an' not every elf in the Tirs is signed up all the way. It's just - when the magic came back, when people started changing - it got dangerous. People were scared, they didn't react well. The Tirs were protection, a tolerant metahuman state that just happened to be run and founded by elves, you follow? Very nasty bit of politics."
She is about to argue further on "you're on the good ones" - she's not an idiot - but what he says next stops her in her tracks. She closes her eyes and exhales, every bit of fight leaking suddenly from her body.
That explains it.
" - fuck. That's vile. I'm sorry." She means it, too; means it so completely that if he's lying he might feel a little bad at how totally her affect has changed from wariness to protective sympathy. Saturday doesn't hold with slavery, the kind that's up front or the kind that comes disguised as corporate employment contracts. Insofar as she has a guiding moral light, it's that. "That does explain it - bunch of assholes. I usually wear my hair pretty long, anyway, so don't worry about getting caught off guard again."
She is assuming the sight of pointy ears is a bit of a trigger for him now, and being very businesslike about assuring him she will be mindful of it.
"I hate slavers," she says, unnecessarily. "I hope that when you got out, you made the bastards bleed for it." And he can decide for himself how much more he wants to share.
no subject
"Yeah, we get that, too - not so much the other thing. But any elf who doesn't wanna sign up for the Tir must be crazy or ignorant, right?" She rolls her eyes, very deliberately, bringing back the casual banter and repartee. Normalizing, since he doesn't seem inclined to start a fight any longer. "It's not just me. Not every elf belongs to the Tirs, an' not every elf in the Tirs is signed up all the way. It's just - when the magic came back, when people started changing - it got dangerous. People were scared, they didn't react well. The Tirs were protection, a tolerant metahuman state that just happened to be run and founded by elves, you follow? Very nasty bit of politics."
She is about to argue further on "you're on the good ones" - she's not an idiot - but what he says next stops her in her tracks. She closes her eyes and exhales, every bit of fight leaking suddenly from her body.
That explains it.
" - fuck. That's vile. I'm sorry." She means it, too; means it so completely that if he's lying he might feel a little bad at how totally her affect has changed from wariness to protective sympathy. Saturday doesn't hold with slavery, the kind that's up front or the kind that comes disguised as corporate employment contracts. Insofar as she has a guiding moral light, it's that. "That does explain it - bunch of assholes. I usually wear my hair pretty long, anyway, so don't worry about getting caught off guard again."
She is assuming the sight of pointy ears is a bit of a trigger for him now, and being very businesslike about assuring him she will be mindful of it.
"I hate slavers," she says, unnecessarily. "I hope that when you got out, you made the bastards bleed for it." And he can decide for himself how much more he wants to share.