"Because reputable newspapers are so progressive in their hiring policies," he cut back, the sharp arch of his brow a perfect match for the razor's edge of his tongue. But the ire did not belong to Anatole Vauquelin: at least, not in any meaningful fraction. The Galdori were the architects of the society into which they had both been born, but Vauquelin was so far removed those progenitors that he was no more responsible for its creation than Oisin was for the invention of the wheel. His guilt, should he have the moral awareness to perceive it, was of a different sort: he was complicit, part of the crew that repainted the facade, and repaired the cracks in the plaster and the masonry of Galdori-ruled society. It was hard to gauge which was worse, the preservers or the progenitors: those with whom the ideas first began, or those who'd failed across several generations to comprehend the error of their ways.
Or, perhaps there was no error. Oisin would be lying if he tried to claim that the notion had ever occurred to him. That the Galdori possessed magic was undeniable; that the Humans did not, and that Wicks fell somewhere in between, was equally true. Perhaps magic truly was the metric by which social value should be judged. Perhaps that really was the way that the mona wished for things to be. Perhaps they had all earned their fates, through past lives and past deeds. Perhaps in a past life, Anatole Vauquelin had been a better man: perhaps life as a Galdori was as much a challenge as a reward, and one that so many Galdori frequently failed.
Oisin reached for his glass, a sip of cheap whisky washing those notions away. "As a Wick in Vienda, I was of course spoiled for choice in where I chose to work."
A heavier sip preceded a sigh. There was a question that his Sergeant often asked: is this the hill you want to die upon? If it referenced a specific idiom or fable, Oisin was unfamiliar, but he understood the gist. Some battles were worth fighting; some were not. Understanding the difference between the two was an important skill for a mercenary, the Sergeant had explained: it's how you know to tell your employers that they aren't paying you enough for this shit. Somehow, Oisin doubted the same strategy would help with his current source of income.
"You're right," Oisin conceded, allowing the conversation to settle back into the wheel ruts that Vauquelin's verbal cart had carved. "The Kingsway Post is garbage. Unrepentant, unbridled, unadulterated chroveshit. Our content is trash, our standards are trash. None of that matters, because people actually read it."
An arm fell to his side, glass still gripped within his fingers, the almost depleted contents sloshing from side as the tumbler idly swirled. Oisin's eyes found Vauquelin's and held them intently. There was a gentle sincerity to his words, but none of his earlier bullishness: no clever remarks, no provocations or scathing critique, just simple words, as if somehow his voice escaped his lips in the same plain-as-day typeface as the printed word.
"No one particularly cares where a Galdor sticks his dick. Men, women, horses, expensive shoes - it doesn't matter. People stick their dicks in things: that's life. If anything, the gossip and scandals in the Kingsway Post are the great equaliser: it makes you less distant, less removed, more like us and less of a them; and frankly, we need more of that in troubled times like this. What makes people care is the fact that you don't want us to know. Gossip's only gossip when you aren't supposed to be talking about it."
The glass returned into view, grip shifted so that it could play a part in the casual gesticulations that emphasised Oisin's words.
"After Dorhaven, the government cut the newspapers out of the equation. I humbly submit that this was a mistake. You thought that releasing a statement through only the official channels would let you control the narrative. It did, but everyone knows that's why you did it. They know that's your chosen story. You aren't swaying any opinions: those who blame Humans would have done so anyway, and those who are sceptics are still sceptics. But what if the Kingsway Post had broken the story? We tell them what you don't want them to hear. Think about how valuable that specific voice could potentially be, in a situation such as this."
Oisin shrugged, downing the last of his drink, and setting the glass onto the table with a thunk.
"I'm not here to antagonise you, Mr. Vauquelin. We don't have to be enemies. In fact, I'd much rather we were friends."