Rhone felt a fracture of guilt. She hadn't accused him of anything, and he wasn't recalling a specific memory, yet he felt the guilt splinter like glass all the same. He stood by and watched plenty of things. He'd done nothing. He'd also done plenty all on his own. It was kind of her, spinning her way back round to a compliment, and he rebutted her with a strained smile. "It's hard for you to be quiet? You don't say."
He wondered if he should redirect her back to the Minotaur's Cup, or agree to meet her later. A change was in order-- even though the armor had earned her trust, he couldn't wear it if he were threatening nobles or clodding into Alienage brothels. It wasn't quite a brothel, was it? Brothel implied that there were whores. Whores had agency. He couldn't clod into Alienage slave dens, wearing a flaming sword on his chest.
She was hung up on authority. It'd be nice, sure, if the guards swooped in and made arrests, shamed the nobles involved, and thwarted the responsible parties from rebuilding in the Alienage. However, authority was busy. Authority often had their hands full or pockets lined. "I took your word. Fuck nobles."
Rhone tested the flex of his fingers. In the scaled armor, there wasn't much. "I don't know. We could determine his involvement, learn who he knows. Maybe he has an elf, in his home, who is willing to help, or who knows something. I'm afraid that if we go in, clear the place out, we just invite them to start again. We won't hurt them by taking their elves away, they'll just replace them. We stand the best chance of hurting them in their pockets." Or they find and eliminate the right person. If they killed those in the den, they didn't necessarily end it. "How can we help the most?"