He gave a small nod at that, watching her closely as he considered it. “Of course, doesn’t hurt that we don’t have the Federation breathing down our necks. The Dominion, though...” He shrugged, raising an eyebrow before he took another sip of his tea. “Different sort of headache. Bigger weapons, worse manners.” He let that sit for a moment, then smiled, his eyes finding hers. “I tend to avoid politics when I can. Never suited me.”
"No one can really avoid politics I'm afraid." Tiraa grinned at the notion. "You may not take an active part, but everything is influenced by them always. Personally, I'd rather they benefited me. Bigger weapons, worse manners... but also none of the biases that come with our own quadrant's people. That is an opportunity."
He looked at her, considering it for a moment before he chuckled. “Oh, not me,” he said, lifting his cup for another sip, the small smile at his mouth making it clear he did not expect her to believe him. “I’m a simple man. Don’t know anything about politics or alliances.” He let the tea sit on his tongue for a moment before lowering the cup again. “Wars happen, someone profits, and people die. I just prefer to get paid to stand between the violence and the people who hired me...or inflict it.” His eyes found hers then, green locking with black, the humour still there but thinner now. “Simpler life. Might end up shorter than average, but simpler. That is what this quadrant does, like you said...gives people opportunities.”
"There's nothing wrong with that." Tiraa's voice held a simple conviction. It certainly wasn't the typical response from someone like her; usually, it would be laughter, teasing, sometimes outright mocking that someone could strive for nothing "greater" in life. Tiraa was simply listening, engaged, and seemed perfectly interested in hearing what he had to say.
"There's a symbiotic relationship between people like us, you know."
He watched her at that, a slow grin spreading over his face. “There is...Princess,” he said, his eyes sparking with playfulness. And yet, even as he said it, he decided the moniker suited her. The grace, the air, the look of someone who had never had to shout to make a room notice her. “You have the latinum,” he continued, lifting his cup slightly, “and people like me have enough vices and too little sense to take it, then walk into situations most sane people would avoid.” He winked.
Tiraa's hand shot out suddenly, the unexpected motion nearly impossible to track. At one moment she had been at ease, but now she was leaning across the table with one arm folded under her torso on the table while the other had reached across to Ragnar. Her index finger had curled under his chin, and she pushed up just slightly to lift his head. She was smirking at him, genuinely amused and mildly dangerous.
"Queen, darling."
He chuckled, watching her for a long moment, because Ragnar Meral had never claimed to be a wise man. Even with the suddenness of her movement, he had not tensed or flinched. He saw the danger well enough, the same way a man noticed a beautiful animal with claws before deciding whether to reach for it anyway. Her finger rested beneath his chin, tilting his face up just enough to make the point, and still he held her eyes, grin crooked and alive. “To them, maybe,” he said, and there was enough honesty in it to make the words more than teasing. “But I think I’ll call you Princess. Queens are settled things. Thrones, crowns, borders, expectations.” His eyes flicked over her face, amused and unafraid. “You don’t strike me as settled.”
“Mm…” Tiraa could appreciate a certain amount of presumptuousness and daring. She adjusted her finger to touch his chin and then trace a line slowly down the center of his neck. “We’ll have to do some work expanding your horizons, I see. No matter… there’s time.”
She withdrew her hand slowly from him, and instead bent her arm so she could rest her chin in her palm while she regarded him. “You’ll be working with my man Rallid while you’re here. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s reliable.”
Ragnar gave a small nod, committing the name to memory. "Some like the strong, silent type," he said before he raised an eyebrow. He watched her steadily as he drank his tea, as if he was appreciate a work of art. Which...perhaps in a way she was. Carefully curated. Sophisticated. Deadly. Reminded him of...he shut the thought down as quickly as it came with the practiced ease of a man who could cut parts of himself away when needed. "I take it as your man, he is skilled?"