[Waltaquin laughs, moving her hand in front of her mouth in polite observation. The sound is true though the movements themselves are a story: She is accustomed to the coquetry of dealing with the nobility and respects Medea enough to not play those games at the moment. False modesty certainly doesn't suit her.]

It's my impression that both are true to yourself in some capacity. One would die without the other. [That doesn't mean she has to be happy about it - about the Medea who would put fetters on herself to obtain what she wished. And yet Medea is now holding her glass hostage. She must be pressing on something. Waltaquin lowers her hand, a small pout replacing her mirth. That's hers to see returned, now.]

Well, any research is improved with the support of a wealthy patron. I imagine a conqueror is glad for the support of an ally they do not publicly name, and a tyrant is glad for a specter they can accuse. And your shame would presuppose that all nations are not already built on a veritable foundation of bones. [Meat and blood and screams and corpses as the soil and the stone...]