"Twist out the root and burn it in the hearth," murmured a dark haired woman -- the one Kristóf had earlier identified as Beckett.
She cast a languid look toward the man who had piped up before turning her attention back to her fingernails. No one here, she thought, was worthy of her time.
What had the girl said? Bickering like school children? Everyone had been doing that since the end of the last war. Didn't they understand yet?
"Petty conversations," she continued half to herself. "Once upon a time we weren't about talk."
Action always seemed more fitting to her. There was no point talking the talk. Walk the walk and no one would need to guess your intentions.