Alright, so Lazar was, and fuck if they don't look the part; and that's gotta be how it came to this: Freezing his nuts off at the end of a bridge, trying to make nice with Danny Five-Fingers as the guy just gets louder and louder.
(Who knew a dwarf could holler like that? Who knew five fingers was worth a title? No accounting for Carta taste.)
"Look - I'm just the messenger," Hands spread, wide from his knife; palms empty. Easy. They're all friends here. "Her and me, we're doing you a solid here. No reason this has to get bloody,"
An arrow whizzes past his face, buries itself in the ravine edge. Lazar looks to Astrid, as if for permission -
- Doesn't wait for an answer before he plants a boot in Danny's chest, and shoves hard. The howl as he crashes down is satisfying. The brush of drawn steel behind them?
The Avvar standing quietly behind Lazar has been watching his back and trying to take her job as armed muscle and backup very seriously, although sheâs distracted by her studious ongoing attempt to count Dannyâs fingers. She keeps losing track as the dwarf gesticulates wildly in growing affront, as his fingers curl into a fist. Is it an inexplicably normal five fingers per hand, or only five total? Is it, like, a joke or something? An inside joke?
But all of her distraction vanishes at the familiar whistle of an arrow sailing over their heads, the rasp of drawn steel, the tell-tale signs of diplomacy having broken down. (This is why Riftwatch didnât send the kids from Diplomacy.) She straightens, immediately whipping her own bow up to eye-level.
âOh, weâre doing this already?â Astrid says, brightening as they hear the distant noooooooooo of Danny Five-Fingers vanishing down the ravine, now a mystery never to be solved. But she nocks her weapon, squints down the line, follows the trajectory where that first arrow came from, lets loose—
A few seconds later thereâs a yelp, up on one of the rock ledges above the banditsâ camp. Her nose crinkles, drawing another arrow as one of the men marches toward Lazar.
âReally did think you were being polite,â she says to her colleague.
"Thank you -" Lazar huffs, and throws himself behind carthweels. A stolen pony screeches at the intrusion, kicks an inch past his skull. "- 'S Ostwick, you're supposed to call 'em cunts!"
They're Marchers. That's friendly! He fumbles blade to hand, glancing up just in time to catch Astrid's shot. Right sharp -
- Right distracting. Look back: Lad with the hatchet is closing, too fast to find his feet. Lazar spits some Ander curse (poxes, Darkspawn) and slashes the pony's crude tether. It bolts for the road, knocking axe over teakettle.
"Elf's still got my swords," Donny Six-Pricks or whoever that reedy fuck was, "But he didn't look like much -"
A figure rises: Thin, elegant. Robed. His hands pull open onto lightning.
The pony goes barreling through the bandits, knocking some over like bowling pins, charging past them to disappear down the road. At the same time, Astridâs been looking through the group, trying to pick out the elf as a target — the bandits all look equal states of grubby and unwashed and disheveled, although at least the elf would be smaller — but then, well, he makes himself known.
âOh,â Astrid says, and âFuck.â
She dives, swiveling to not land on her bow, taking refuge behind the cart with Lazar. Itâs stacked high with empty crates, which must have belonged to the bridgeâs previous victims: merchantsâ goods looted and taken as tithe. Lightning crackles overhead, and she can taste the ozone in the air, her hair rising and turning even more voluminous with static. Ugh.
The Avvar tries to poke her head up to get a view for another shot, but thereâs another flash of white-blue light. So she sinks back down, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with Lazar, trying to cram both of them back here.
âIs this a good time to mention Iâve never fought someone whoâs got magic?â
"It's easy -" He lies, shoulders over to make room. "- Shoot 'til they're dead."
And to think the Chantry makes such a big deal on it all. A stray bandit stalks the edge of the cart, lifts his blade towards Astrid. A bolt of blinding light arcs out to find it first. His body jerks wild, drops on locked muscles a whole hair after it should. Someone in the distance screams,
He's on our bloody side!
Lazar's busy looking at Astrid. Sidelong, assessing: Bad bet to outrun her, slow archers don't last long. Have to see this one through.
"I'll distract 'em," He decides, reaching for the fallen blade. "But you gotta be ready with that shot."
âI was born ready,â Astrid declares (only, oh no, that sounded so much cooler in her head). She gathers her legs under her, toes against the soles of her boots against the ground, and she watches Lazar for the moment he springs into motion. Like waiting for a hare about to bolt.
When he finally leaps out, presenting a juicy target for the bandits, thereâs the briefest moment to admire his speed, the strength sending that sword swinging up. She waits one second — enough for them to take the bait — and then sheâs popping up like a jack-in-the-box.
Looking for where the mage last stood. Heâs aiming for Lazar, more energy crackling at his fingertips. Astrid lets go.
A clean shot against such a stationary target, the arrow embeds itself in his throat and he tumbles backward, gurgling, the electricity flying wild and loose over their heads. Thereâs someone up close being kept busy with Lazar, but another swordsman slips past, too close into Astridâs range. She drops the bow and swings a fist instead, and then theyâre a scrambling flurry of limbs and the flash of his dagger: sheâs slammed against the side of the bridge, loose mortar crumbling, and she knees him between the legs, a hissing spitting angry cat.
cw some eye gore - lmk if there are any issues w that and i can edit somethin else â¤
It sounds - he has the briefest chance to think - pretty cool,
And then heâs up and he's not thinking at all, thinking slows you down, elbow rocking to bring the blade up that same stupid way got the last guy killed. Too late to see the bandit close. By the time a fist clamps his neck, Astrid's arrow has already found its mark.
(These are hard years for apostates. They were never easy ones, but now there are bellies to fill. Rent to pay. Demands, and demands, in an Age that only seems to grow hungrier -)
Blood burbles. The mage chokes. Lazar flings the sword over the chasm. Bolts streak wide, swallow the blade in their rush for ground. The grip on his neck tightens. Vision spots. The swordsman on Astrid howls as her knee comes up, hair shot wild in the whirling static. Lazarâs heels dig in, hold, but prying hands donât shake the fucker. Pressure,
The world reels.
Everyoneâs little, when youâre big enough. Lazar's body slumps, boneless; and as he falls, the man folds beneath the weight of him. Breath returns: Sluggish now, struggling to reorient, to recall the thrashing face below.
"Astrid," He wheezes. Canât make himself heard. "Fuck."
Thereâs a knife strapped on the banditâs leg. Pinned like this, he canât twist far enough to reach. Lazar glances back, takes in the struggle on the bridge. Canât get up without handling this guy. Canât get to that knife without playing twinsies.
He spits. Lazar reaches his free hand up, and digs a thumb deep into his eye. Takes more pressure than you'd think. Takes less time. The bandit screams, claws feral at his face, at the ground, at anything that might stop this stop this stop.
Lazar stoops to collect the knife, advances on the bridge.
Lazarâs voice is such a small dry rasp that even if she thought she heard him, no she didnât, because absolutely all of her attention is fixated on squirming and kicking away from that banditâs weaving dagger, trying to keep it from a direct stab. Her leather armour would blunt the impact, but someone persistent could probably land a hit and this last man standing is— very persistent—
Her cheek hurts, having caught a wildly-flailing punch whichâll probably swell into a black eye tomorrow. Itâs all messy, chaotic. These are not professionally-trained soldiers; theyâre scrappy, undisciplined, hungry.
But over the banditâs shoulder, she can see Lazar back on his feet and looming closer, big and broad and reinforcement-shaped. Sheâs still half-crushed between the other man and the bridge, using his weight against her even as heâs wheezing from the kick of her knee. Her eyes meeting Lazarâs, she tilts her head in one sharp motion, a wordless gesture meaning this direction,
and itâs at a good angle for her to lurch the bandit into position, Lazarâs knife to slip between his ribs from behind, for the surprise and pain and impact to carry the other man forward and both of them to tip him over the edge of the bridge, plummeting into the churning river below.
Was that the last of them? Looks like the last of them.
Astridâs panting, half-draped over the stonework, watching his limp body carried away down the current. The adrenalineâs still pumping, from this small short burst of lethal violence in every direction. Similar things have happened before, when her holdâs trade routes or hunting routes were overrun by bandits and they had to push them back. The whole thing feels so annoyingly, pointlessly avoidable. If only theyâd cleared out when they told them to.
She looks over at Lazar. The livid shapes of fingers pressed into his throat. âThanks,â she says, for getting the last one, and âSorry,â for her not having reached him when he was being— strangled? Maybe strangled.
"Hell for sorry," He hacks, smearing the dagger onto a fold of shirt. Lazar slumps beside her at the bridgeâs edge, checking the blade. "You got that bastard."
Got most of them, really. The mageâll be dead by now, drowned on his own fluids. The man with gouged eye is still wailing. Lazar picks a chunk out from under his nail. A waste. Yeah, whole thing seems like a waste.
"Reckon we leave him?"
A jerk of his chin. The ponyâs gone, and it'll be a bitch to haul Cyclops back without a cart. Then what? Dump him in a gutter? There are still some goods here worth saving: Plunder too new to make its way into a smugglerâs den. Time might be better spent going through it.
"Might know where they been storing the loot," He considers, gaming it out aloud. "But moving on thatâd start trouble."
Heâs thinking of the rings Bastien found, glittering in grey Crossroads light. The Coterie. All rivers flow home, they could be fucking with more than petty thugs.
A shrug. He straightens, unsteady, offers an arm up. Her call.
Astrid follows the jerk of his chin, looking over at their last remaining problem. Considers the dilemma, as she catches Lazarâs hand and lets him tug her away from the edge and back to her shaky feet. Sheâs trying to remember what was in the brief, what theyâd been instructed about the situation, and what theyâd actually been asked to do: Clear out the bandits from around the bridge, and keep all these merchants happy.
She bites her lip— which results in an inadvertent sting of pain, realising it was split from someoneâs punch. She licks the blood, swallows it.
The smart thing, probably, would be to let this last bandit and the loot go. Let bygones be bygones. Go for a celebratory drink. Consider this resolution good enough: the blockade itself is gone and the bandits likely wonât set up shop again, now knowing that Riftwatch is keeping an eye out. Done.
But thereâs still that scrappy survivalist streak to her, the kind that hates leaving any meat left on the bone. Whoâll make use of anything. Thinking it through aloud in front of Lazar:
âIf we get him to show us where the loot is, we can recover some for the merchants. Thatâd make them pleased as anything.â Brownie points for Riftwatch. And, probingly: âMaybe not all of it makes it back, either. If we wanted a bonus for our trouble, like.â
He's thinking. Of that little room with Barrow, of how much a new quilt costs. Of soft cloth, rich butter, good soap. That rosy kind, the kind Sybelle likes -
(He's thinking of Sybelle. Pleased as anything.)
"Yeah," Wheels turn behind his eyes. There's enough rope to do for wrists. "I'll hold him over the edge, you ask the questions."
Astridâs smile broadens — having encountered someone similarly opportunistic as her, who wonât shy away from something slippery — and says, âDeal,â resisting the urge to high-five him.
Sheâs not always this vindictive. But people are meant to help each other, and these thieves fucked over that social contract first, soâŚ
So then itâs the pair of them working in tandem: pacing over to the last bandit, Astrid nudging him with a boot, his noises quieting to muted tears as they loom over him. Lazar pinning him in place while she makes quick work of the knots around his wrists. Not as well as someone used to the sea and tying things in place on a ship, but good enough, considering the supplies and camping equipment she was taught to rope together in the high mountains.
She runs an absentminded thumb over her bruised lip, considering her words. She waits until Lazarâs started to hoist the man over the edge.
âLook, weâll let you go,â he gives a rising wail, oh, she didnât mean like that, âsafely, back on the ground, if you just tell us where the rest of your stash is. Weâve got some very worried merchants to answer to. Youâll even get to keep your other eye, which is more than we could say if we just drop you here, which would be quicker and easier and honestly just a better end to our day, all things considered—â
[He is looking for her, after that conversation on the crystal, and while he is not wearing a shirt, he is wearing a cloak and covers his shoulders and most of his torso. So.
He knows that his past makes her unsure, which is to say, he's doing a little bit of extra work to hide some of it. He has a jug of wine with him.]
[ Astrid is hard to pin down, often vanishing out of the Gallows or wandering afield or stashing herself away in out-of-the-way corners, but he does eventually come across her on the ground floor of the Gallows. Her gaze darts to Gannicusâ face, the drape of the cloak, the jug, the manâs smile. ]
Is it Satinalia again already? [ she asks, cheeky, assessing. Sheâs just recently back from an assignment, her boots muddy and her muscles restless; a break does sound nice. Thereâs that brand-new unattended tavern in the Gallows just opening up, where they could split the wine. ButâŚ
Innocently: ] Been around here much yet? Want a tour?
Is this your way of telling me I stink? Rude. [ But Astrid doesnât sound offended. Just amused and playful, as she cocks her head and assesses that offer, measuring the weight and shape of it. She wiggles her sore feet in her boots and considers the appeal of immersing herself in piping-hot water (and, yes, with interesting company).
So, then: she eventually gestures with the tilt of her chin, a bird-like flutter of hand, ]
Alright, come along then,
[ and it feels a bit like gesturing a dog to come in out of the cold, opening a door, letting him in. She turns on her heel and starts heading towards the templar tower and its basement, wending through the halls, down the steps and towards damp stone. ]
This might actually be one of my favourite places in the Gallows. We had some hot springs in the mountains, but more often than not youâre heating a tub and that just takes for-fucking-ever.
If I thought you stunk, I would say it in as many words.
[He's grinning, though, and he follows, casually without comment about that. This is a good opportunity, frankly; mostly to learn about the best spot for a hot bath.]
We had a bath, in training. Hot steam, for after we sweat, and sticks to wipe it off.
Sticks? How dâyou wipe yourself off with a stick? That sounds uncomfortable.
[ They descend into the communal baths. Itâs not a spa as rifters might think of it, but itâs still more high-tech than anything she grew up with: thereâs a cold pool and a hot one, the latter fueled by running water and pipes and furnaces and a hum of warmth. Grabbing a worn nub of soap and a linen towel from the communal supplies, Astrid starts to shuck her clothes.
Itâs unabashed and matter-of-fact: kicking off her boots and shedding her layers with no self-consciousness nor any attempt at seductive flourish. Her clothes are tossed into a chaotic pile on the dry side of the room, eventually exposing bare skin, long limbs, functional but half-starved muscle, and nicks and scars across her body but likely not as many as him— she finally wades into the pool and sinks in as deep as she can go, whole body submerged, her face barely above the waterline, with a satisfied sigh. ]
[He is, to his credit, not ogling her like a creeper. He is removing his own clothes and sliding into the water, and there is a little noise of sweet soft pleasure, a groan of someone still not too used to this.
He closes his eyes a little, slipping them just slightly shut.]
[ Astridâs instantly gone boneless and limp, head tipped back against the side of the pool. This is such a far cry from shivering bone-cold rinses in the river that itâs nice just to luxuriate. She tilts her head slightly to the side, glancing at Gannicus, the line of his broad shoulders in the water; before she swivels to reach for the wine jug where theyâd left it sitting on the edge. ]
I can imagine. We have⌠Iâm guessing itâs hot enough in Tevinter that you donât do this, but we have this thing, you sit in a hot wooden sauna for a while and you sweat like a pig, until itâs so hot you can barely stand it, and then you run outside and jump into the snow. Or jump in a frozen lake. Itâs good for sore muscles and it fucks you right up but, like, in a good way.
[ A little wistful: ] You do it three times if youâve the time. They say the first time you go in the water, you cleanse the dirt from your body. The second time, your worries. Then the third time, you start to build something new.
Can't say I know much on snow. But the idea is the same, I think. The dominae, they had baths of pools of water. The house girls would tend them. We had a hot water trough, and the best would get first access.
[By the time that Gannicus was done with it, it was full of blood and dirt, so.]
[ Astrid hasnât broached this topic with anyone else yet who wasnât present at the actual fight. She uncorks the jug and takes a deep swig of the wine, to brace herself; wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and then floats closer, so she can slide the jug towards him. Worrying at her bottom lip, trying to find the right words: ]
I dunno how much you know about Avvar holds, but we each have this animal— this spirit— more accurate to say itâs, like, the entire fucking heart of our community. Ours was a wolf. He started behaving⌠strangely. He left our territory, following rifts, so I followed him out of the mountains to see if I could find out what was wrong.
[ A beat. ] Riftwatch said, later, that he was Fade-touched. Not that I know much about that stuff.
Nope. [ Thereâs a twist to the corner of her mouth, a rueful bitterness. ] He died in a fight at one of those rifts, so thereâs not much to know anymore.
But hereâs where people close rifts and where some genius might learn how to stop that sort of thing from happening again someday. So I stuck around.
I dunno, theyâve been pretty good to me here. [ Granting her a place to land, and to lick her wounds. A place to give herself some purpose and carve out a new home, or something close enough to it.
Astrid looks at the jug of wine dangling in Gannicusâ hand. The water dripping from his hair, plastered to the line of his strong jaw. She seems to be teetering on the precipice of a decision, a distraction, and finally makes up her mind to seize it. Why the hell not? ]
And I canât go home. Not yet, [ said without elaboration, as she detaches from her edge of the pool and closes the rest of the distance between them. Drifts until sheâs right in front of him, face-to-face, practically in his lap: close enough to reach out and take the jug back, but her eyes on his all the while. ]
[He's watching her with a gaze that makes him almost catlike, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth as she's almost in his lap, and he sets the jug aside. He isn't one to resist such an invitation, not from a woman like Astrid. He doesn't know anyone like her; all the women in his world, in his life, they've all been built for other things. For service, or royalty in a way he could just shrug off, pretend weren't part of-
-this. Him.
He reaches out a hand in the water, to her hip.]
Not yet.
[He agrees, amicably. His hand is covered in calluses, it's rough with use, but he's soft, inviting, as he urges her just a little closer.]
And mischievously detours at the last second, tilting her face past his cheek to pick up the abandoned jug and steal one last swig, her throat working. The wine isnât strictly needed for the liquid courage but itâs nice, warming her throughout, atop the warmth of Gannicusâ hand against her hip. When she finally reaches over him to put the jug away on the stone floor, she just stays there, her arm draped over his shoulders. ]
Maybe someday. For now, though, Iâm fine exactly where I am.
[ Exactly where she is. Which is this: closing those last inches of distance to kiss him, both their mouths tasting of wine. ]
[He takes a breath as she's just against him; she smells like the baths and like sweat and like herself, which makes it all the headier. No perfume. His hand tightens just a bit, when she says she's fine where she is, and then she kisses him and he can't help himself. He kisses her back with the finesse of a man who likes to kiss, with the passion of a man who truly lives for every second he has.
He tugs her closer, and kisses her again, harder this time, his other hand coming up behind her to press against his spine.]
[ Itâs a new mouth, an unfamiliar person, and yet this part is so, so familiar: that immediate flaring hunger in the kiss, the mark of someone who runs headlong into every experience life has to offer. Which is wholeheartedly her type, considering Astrid tends to do the same thing, barreling herself straight into trouble (both the good and the bad). Steal that drink, steal that kiss, because you never really know when you wonât be able to—
Her arms twine around his neck and she crushes herself to him; how convenient, that theyâre already naked, that thereâs nothing separating her from that broad expanse of wet slippery skin. A part of her had seen this coming. Whenever she goes for a man, they tend to be the same type: rough scratchy stubble and muscle, like any brawny Avvar lad sheâd tumbled into bed with before. ]
You might look good in blue and red but I admit a real selfish liking for you like this, [ she muses, her mouth against Gannicusâ jaw as she throws back to their earlier conversation, nipping at his ear. ]
[He laughs, and kisses her again, his hands going down to her legs to pull her into his lap, and he pushes his body against hers. His hands stay on her thighs.]
Wet and naked below you?
[He tugs her a little. In a moment he might stand to put her on the edge of the bath, to give her something more than just his mouth - or, perhaps, to give her more of just his mouth - but for the moment he seems perfectly content to hold her close. He has not held a woman close in what feels like a long time.]
Exactly that, [ Astrid declares between lazy kisses, settling in his lap, feeling the ridge of him beneath her. Are you so concerned for my cock, Starling? heâd asked, and it had taken her a moment to respond to the question at the time, using her startled laughter to recover, to pivot it back into a joke, to pretend she hadnât felt that low heat between her legs at the thought of it. What they were dancing around. ]
I— oh! [ She makes a delighted noise when Gannicus eventually simply stands up, lifting her easily, water sloughing off both their bodies. Itâs simpler, then, for her legs to hitch around his hips as he settles her on the edge of the bath. Out of the water, now she can get a better idea of what sheâs working with. Her hand trails down the planes of his chest, fingertips dipping into the divot of his belly button — it is very nice, to be able to touch someone again, sheâs missed this — before reaching between them to palm said cock. ]
We might have to be a bit faster than Iâd like, this time. Iâve a feeling this isnât what this room was meant for.
[Gannicus does not care what this room was made for. If they get caught, that is, as far as he's concerned, not their problem.
But he hasn't had sex since before arriving in Kirkwall and so maybe he's a bit eager, too. Her fingers are exploring his stomach, and then lower, and he hitches a breath and leans forward to press a secret smile against her skin, one hand inching up her thigh, her waist, to cup a breast.]
I had planned on feasting on you. Should I save that for another day?
[He's on the same train of thought she is, frankly, but then he leans down and takes a nipple between his teeth. He does not bite down, but grins as he teases, his eyes flicking up to look at her.]
Shit, [ she draws in a hiss of breath, struck by his words, their potential and the mental image they evoke, as well as the graze of his teeth against her breast. One knee tightens against his hip, the other tilting open. Oh, how sheâd like him to, but— ]
Another day. In a bed. Those piles of furs. [ Truly, what better way than body heat to stay warm on a chilly Kirkwall morning, with these bedrooms and towers all made of cold forbidding stone? Even now, half out of the water, Gannicusâ body radiates tantalising heat: his warm mouth at her nipple, his warm flesh beneath her hand. Two can be a tease, and so she runs a finger along his cock before giving another exploratory stroke, sedate for the moment despite her words about hurrying. Impishly: ]
A feast implies a while. I think your mouth deserves a chance to take its time, for that.
[His grin widens, and his tongue slips out to tease her nipple, and then he's slotting himself between her legs and running his hands up her sides.]
As my lady Starling commands.
[He slips one hand back down, to her leg, to tug it up over his hip. His cock presses against her, and he rocks his hips a little to run it over her wetness and to tease her, just a little, to get her warmer for him.
He keeps his other hand moving until he can cup her cheek and tug her to kiss him again, his chest against hers. She's glorious; not as soft as the women he's used to, but beautiful and lithe just the same.]
[ Itâs well-matched, she thinks, pleased. Theyâre both carved out of hard-earned functional muscle, their bodies hard-lived and built to purpose. Her arm hooks over Gannicusâ shoulder again, fingers pressing against the jagged line of some old scar on his back, the mark of the arena having set its stamp on him. Given more time, another day, sheâll want to explore that map.
And Astrid makes another strangled noise as he rocks against her, her mouth against his, and winds up biting his lip; chiding, for remaining so tantalisingly out-of-reach. Damp from the baths and her own arousal, itâs easy for him to slick himself with her. Itâs been a while; she hasnât been with anyone since before Kirkwall, either. One could say sheâs hungry for it, that loneliness knocking at her door. ]
Alright, [ Astridâs voice is ragged, between kisses. ] You literal cocktease. Fuck me already.
[He laughs, and he pushes inside of her, tilting his hips just so to make it fast. She takes him in; for a moment he's just there, frozen against her, and then his hands come down to grab the flesh of her ass, to pull her closer to him.]
Just-
[His smile is broad against her skin, and he bites on her throat to worry a mark there as he begins to fuck her with long, hard strokes.]
[ Astrid makes a desperate noise as she readjusts to the feeling again, a moan as she tilts her jaw to grant him better access, with his teeth and tongue and a bruise sheâll be able to savour tomorrow. Good. Yes. Sheâd suspected he might be good at this part.
When it comes to distractions, this is one of her favourites: the rest of the world and its worries fading and receding away, replaced with the all-consuming simple focus of warm skin on skin, the pleasant friction and sensation of being filled with him, as she maintains her precarious balance on the edge of the stone. With each thrust, her fingernails unconsciously dig harder into his shoulder as she holds on; raking her own marks into his skin. She gasps an unintelligible Avvar curse at a particularly sharp snap of his hips, followed by his name. ] Gannicus—
[She says his name and he turns his head, tries to find her mouth to swallow whatever she might say next and twists his hips in a way that he knows makes women squirm and kisses her, and kisses her.
This is better than the wine that is still sticky on her mouth and his, this is better than the warmth of the water that's pooled around his calves. Her skin almost burns against his; he knows he'll be thinking of her when he's wrapped in his furs later.
The pain from her claws, like a bird, that only makes it better.]
[ This wonât take too-too long at all; between her long months of unintended solitude, their intent to rush this to begin with, his gladiatorâs stamina and that brutal pace, and that maddening trained twist to his hips. Astrid tries to hang on for a while longer, but he can eventually feel it in the way her whole body starts to go even more tense and taut, her breath shallower, her muscles cordoning from her heel digging into his thighs to her nails scraping red furrows into him. ]
Lady, fuck,
[ and that, just like that, with her knees hitching to drive him even deeper, sheâs finally coming around him with a noisy cry echoing through the hollow acoustics of the bath. ]
[He practically puffs up with pride at how he made her come, how he undid her so quickly, and it helps because she's so fucking beautiful when she comes, when her pleasure drives pain into his shoulders with her claws.
She's not the only one who isn't going to take long.
He huffs against her skin and then pants his own orgasm, his body leaning against hers. He presses soft kisses right against her jaw, one right after the other in a smooth line.]
[ Astrid shivers at that peppering of kisses, sending a ripple down her spine. And she nips at Gannicusâ ear in exchange, lightly tugging his earlobe between her teeth; now simply lazily content and wrung-out and pliant, savouring that lingering physical contact, her legs still keeping him pinned to her for now. And how handy, the baths will be right there whenever they finally disentangle themselves and need to wash up. Good thing Riftwatch cycles the water, or something.
Her fingers trace the line of his jaw, thumb running across his rough stubble. He really is very nice to look at. ]
Thank you, [ Astrid says, warm and amused and blunt, ] I needed a thoroughly good dicking.
[And he is. He doesn't extricate himself immediately, instead running his hand down her ribs and taking the moment to touch another human in a way that isn't violent, not even a little.]
Sometimes a fuck is the only thing that satisfies.
[He takes another moment, just to kiss her on the mouth, quick as lightning, and then he moves away.]
[ Astrid lingers for a moment, still sitting naked on the edge of the stone, legs dangling in the water; like anyone spending any leisurely day by the pool or the lakeside. Sheâs meditatively assessing each part of herself now, from stretching her limbs to feeling out that pleasant ache which is going to dog her all tomorrow.
She slides off, sinks back into the water, and finally goes about the everyday routine of cleaning herself. Washing off the sex, the sweat, the mission, the entire day. ]
In terms of stress relief, you could do loads worse, [ she says, fingers combing through some of the tangles in her hair. Itâs a little harder to be quite so openly vulnerable, to admit Iâve missed being able to touch people, so what she settles on is, simply, an open-ended invitation for the future: ]
I was serious about those furs, too. Theyâre comfy.
crystals; in the hour between minrathous and kirkwall
[ A little muffled, after swallowing a mouthful of food; sheâs been raiding the kitchens and nervously snacking after that alert came in. Not like thereâs much to be done about whatâs happening abroad except twiddle her thumbs and wait, so the message is a welcome distraction— ]
Oh my gods, Lazar, you canât just— Donât fucking jinx it.
[ A queasiness in her stomach. Astrid sets down the rest of her bread, unfinished; she hadnât realised how allergic she was to In Case I Die instructions until just this moment, that favour settling over her shoulders like an itchy wool mantle. ]
But aye, yeah, I can do that. [âŚ] Didnât know you and Bastien were, like, a thing.
[ Astridâs voice pitches quieter, not wanting to alert whoever else might be on the other side or draw more people to his position, wherever the fuck he is— ]
Luck. Be careful.
[ And she sits there for a little while longer, even after the line goes dead. ]
Two questions: are you hunting later this week? And are you camping out with the rest, these days, or holed up elsewhere?
[ ooc: we can suss out how their first co-hunting excursion went or determine that something came up (and then EVERYTHING happened); totally up to you! just lemme know. ]
Aye; the marketâs all fucked and tradeâs even pricier than before, so the kitchen would be glad of the extra provisions, I think. Wanna come with?
( Itâs been a while since their first excursions; theyâd fallen out of the habit since, too busy with the attack and reconstruction, but it might actually be about time to resume. Riftwatch is still rubble but itâs less rubble than before, at least. Hard-won normalcy is starting to descend. )
Iâm in a tent in the herb garden. How about you?
I've noticed, with the market. And yes, definitely, Elsy and I wish to join.
[ And how fucked it is, both in terms of debris and the pricing of what remains available for purchase in just about any corner of Kirkwall. ]
Ah, no. I stay in Kirkwall with a woman who used to be directly involved with Riftwatch but is not, as such, any longer. Fortunately, her apartments are still standing.
Apartments? What, plural? Sounds like youâre being spoiled rotten while the rest of us are hoofing it in tents. ( Said fondly, despite the tease in the words. She doesnât mind the tents. )
( A skittering noise, impact, scrabbling, cursing, the crystal bouncing across the floor and— being batted around by a cat? That is in fact what is happening. Astrid eventually chases it down, retrieves the crystal, and flops back on her bed, sitting cross-legged. )
I think Iâm alright for now— Barrowâs cats are everywhere on this floor, I love them but Iâm starting to understand why Lazar gets so annoyed— anyway. If they start running off with all my belongings, I will give you a holler.
( Good thing Astrid is distractible and easily steered, )
Pocketcat? ( Lommekatt, she thinks, but the combination of syllables donât mean anything to her. ) Hmm. No. I just picture, like, a very cute kitten sitting in your chest pocket. Is it something like that?
Pocketcat, heâs⌠in the stories heâs the sort of thing mothers use to make their kids behave. âMind your manners, or the Pocketcat will get you.â Stealing children, that sort of thing. I stopped believing as I grew up, but he was in the city I was in before coming here.
( Her tone has become a little weighted, before she catches herself. ) I mean, someone claiming to be him, anyway. They had the purple coat and everything.
( They have that in common. And as Astrid listens to this, to Abella trying to delicately tiptoe around the topic, she thinks back and realises she doesnât know all that much about what Abella came from. Theyâd talked about OldegĂĽrd, about home, about the nicer kinder memories the rifter carried with her, but⌠)
What sorts of things?
I donât remember you mentioning much about what your world was like— I mean, some details, but not like, âchildhood stories come to lifeâ.
( Abella is quiet for long moments. Thereâs the quiet sound of something like paper, Abella opening up a packet of cigarettes. It drags out with the box hitting the ground, and she swears softly. )
Where I was before I came here isnât a reflection of what my world is like. Orâ was like? I mean, Pocketcat wanted to trade in heads, thatâs not something that happens.
Astrid waits a little while to hear if the other woman comes back; after all, Astrid herself has experienced dropping the crystal. But the more that time goes on and thereâs no answer, she makes a decision.
She scoops up the offending cat from earlier (it gives an affronted squawk of a meow), shoves her crystal into her pocket, and then goes sauntering downstairs.
After a few months living in a tent outside, the cramped environment of the over-stuffed Gallows feels so very different anew; she misses the open sky and fresh air, but having so many people around her again is a comfort. Abella-and-Terenâs room isnât far away, so she shows up only a couple minutes later, rapping her knuckles on the door and waiting with a warm purring bundle of fur in her arms.
Emotional support cat. Abella had sounded like she might need one.
( Abella makes herself stand and open the door. Her skin has taken on an unhealthy pallor, and sheâs holding the unlit cigarette between two knuckles. She looks a little like she was just dunked in icy water, save for being totally dry.
Even so, she brightens at the sight of the cat. )
Hi, little menace. I bet you donât say freaky things out of the blue to people youâve just met, huh?
Hey, some of the other rifters are a lot worse. Have you even heard the Head Healer sometimes?
( Her eyes flicker down to the unlit cigarette — feels that itch in the back of her throat for a smoke, maybe she shouldâve brought along some elfroot to calm down the other woman, too — but then she readjusts her grip on the little menace in her arms. )
You gonna invite me in? You can rescue me from this cat like you promised.
( Rocking back on her feet drifts into a swaying step back - forced lackadaisical, no drink involved. Like she can make herself feel better by putting on an act of being at ease, even when sheâs in a state.
Itâs an unspoken invitation, but why risk leaving Astrid in the lurch? )
Come on in. Would you like a drink?
( As for the Head Healer, ) I havenât had the pleasure. I hope heâs not trading in body parts, I make enough excuses to avoid going to the check-ups as is.
( The joke was maybe more that she was up to, right now, and she looks away from Astrid as she says it, trying to get her hands on some liquor. )
( because her next batch of homemade liquor is still steeping down at the makeshift tavern and itâll be a while before itâs ready for human consumption, so sheâll take whatever she can get. And she just goes ahead and settles down on the other womanâs bed, whereupon the cat instantly squirms out of her arms and leaps onto Abellaâs pillow instead, where it sits and starts grooming itself. Both of them making themselves at home. )
( A good thing, normally, even with the strange link between her appreciated her good health and feeling uneasy with how incredibly unfeminine she feels.
Cigarette set down, she grabs two wooden cups, and a brown bottle of something that smells a bit like an apple smacking you in the face with a brick, if the brick were also made of apples. Itâs potent and sweet, rather than good, and she smiles apologetically as she holds a cup out to Astrid. )
Sorry. Daan would be able to make a mean cocktail with this, at least.
( Astrid sniffs the cup, and her nose wrinkles but she also canât help but grin at that eye-watering astringent strength of it. )
Iâm gonna make you try my akvavit. Iâve got some steepinâ down at the tavern, itâs just got maybe a week left. I forced some people to be taste-testers for the herb mixture earlier, so youâd get to be experiment number two.
( Then she goes ahead and takes a swig; maybe a little too much, unwisely, so her face crumples into that potent blow and she wipes off her mouth with the back of her hand. And itâs thanks to her strong stomach, her preference for liquor that can punch you in the face, the Avvarsâ tendency to drink so many people under the table, but: )
( Her smile is small and wry aâher sets her cup down, focusing on the eye-watering taste to ground herself. Itâs a mixed success. Keeping a little bit of distance, she doesnât join Astrid and the pillow bandit on her bed, instead claiming a wooden chair, straddling it with the back facing the bed. )
Nothing on my grandpaâs schnapps.
( That was something.
Abella realises she has no idea what to say, how to sweep this under the rug. She sighs. )
( If Astrid were more tactful, or more conflict-averse, she might have seized on that offer and allowed Abella to shove it all back in a box and slam that lid shut and lock it. But. )
I mean, we donât have to talk about it if you donât want to. If youâre not comfortable, like. But I canât pretend I never heard about a big talking cat in purple who trades in body parts. Are you okay?
( Others are perhaps more accustomed to rifters and their troubles, the horrors theyâve left behind in coming here. Astrid doesnât have that background yet, and isnât used to talking them through these crises. She left her own troubles behind, but she chose to run; she wasnât plucked from it as Abella was.
She scoots further to the edge of the bed. Cup lowered and tilted too far against her knee, a careless drop spilling as she doesnât notice. )
Itâs not like you had a choice, ( she says, firm, and itâs about coming to Thedas; but it unknowingly might fit about the train, too. ) You didnât choose to leave them. Donât feel guilty about that.
( Her gaze is still fixed on the floor, away from Astrid. She nods, even that movement jagged and betraying her emotion. )
I know.
( Blinking, she hasn't quite recognised that tears have spilled down her cheeks. )
But I hate that I'm here and they're not. There were-- we were given three days, and told only one of us could survive to the end. They could have had to kill each other, and I've just been safe here.
( Thereâs more details and context to seize at there, if Abellaâs come from some sort of fucked-up battle royale, but Astridâs chewing on her lip, her boot jogging against the floor. Trying to decide what the right approach is, before she finally settles on: )
I mean, in fairness, youâre not safe here either. I donât know if thatâs any consolation? ( This is a bizarre consolation. But itâs an attempt, her voice warm and trying for reassuring. ) I mean, look at the towers we just had to rebuild, and parts of the city are still fucked. Thereâs demons and blighted animals and darkspawn and an evil god-sorcerer-guy who wants to kill us. Youâre not not in danger. Technically, like. We could go get bitten by some fucked-up Fade-touched bears if thatâd make you feel better.
( Abella wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and shakes her head with a broken laugh. )
Youâre an ass.
( Itâs not a criticism. The honest reminder of all the dangers here both helps and doesnât. )
Weâre being driven to insanity. And at the end of three daysâ if we donât figure out a way to get everyone out alive, weâll turn into monsters, too. Thereâs terrible things everywhere, and I know people here are suffering. I donâtâ Iâm not trying to dismiss that like itâs nothing.
( She makes herself look back to Astrid. She has to, if only to convey that she knows Thedas is hardly idyllic, and even then convey the weight of where her friends are. )
Prehevil was turned intoâ- into hell with a countdown. Itâs not the same thing.
( That little half-laugh is what Astrid was aiming for, but she canât feel too triumphant about it yet. What do you even say to a thing like this? Three days. Three days, she thinks. The war hereâs been going on for the better part of a decade, even if Astrid hasnât been on the frontlines of it until recently; she remembers her mother helping the Inquisition when she was only a teenager. )
Then Iâm sorry. That you were there in such rotten bullshit, and that theyâre still there.
But— selfishly, like, for your own sake, Iâm glad that youâre here instead. Because that sounds awful.
( Abella stands; being still when talking about Termina feels viscerally wrong, and she rolls her shoulders like limbering up might help physically shrug it off. )
All-mer.
( Barely more than a whisper as she shakes it off. )
Can you tell me about the mountains, here? Something to get my head out of Prehevil.
( A momentary pause, and Astridâs gaze drifting over to the window of the room and its distant view out over the Waking Sea. There was a mountain range to the north of the city, but it wasnât the same; they werenât sprawled at your feet and surrounding you, the way she was used to. )
Thereâs a few around Thedas; like, thereâs the Vimmark Mountains just to the north of us, but Iâm from the Frostbacks down south, like I mentioned. I havenât—
( Another beat. )
I havenât gone back, since I came to Kirkwall, so I havenât seen them in a while. Some people think theyâre harsh or itâs hard to survive there but I think theyâre lovely. Thereâs wolves, bears, rabbits, deer, lots of game, though weâre careful to not over-hunt. In winter, your hair can freeze to icicles after you bathe. The mornings are so crisp it hurts the back of your throat.
( Which might sound terrible and uncomfortable to some, maybe, but thereâs just a wistful, fond nostalgia in Astridâs voice as she speaks of it. )
( A little smile curls at the corners of her mouth. Slight, barely lasting a moment, before she shakily exhales. Blinking a couple of times, Abella refocuses on Astrid, and leans partly against the bed frame. )
Is there a reason you haven't gone home? Other than missions and the distance.
( Surely there'd be reasons why it'd be necessary to go there, and useful to have mountainfolk amongst the numbers for such a mission. The hesitation caught her attention; in a strange way, the suggestion of someone else's struggles anchors her even more than the thought of cold that cuts through your lungs with each breath. )
( How many people know about her hold-beast? Not many. GwenaĂŤlle, because sheâd been there when the rift opened up. Gannicus, because heâd asked.
It both feels absurd to mention this, petty and small compared to Abellaâs own problems; but after the other woman opened up about Prehevil and Pocketcat then it would feel even more unfair, not baring a sliver of her own heart this way. )
Thereâs⌠Iâm sorry, this is gonna sound like fucking nothing. But each Avvar hold has a sacred animal called a hold-beast. Theyâre the spirit of our community. They represent the health of our entire society.
I followed ours out here. I was trying to find out what was wrong with him, but he— died. I canât go back until I know more. I donât really want to see the looks on their faces when they know I let them down. Let him down.
( Abella shakes her head as she sits, one leg tucked under herself, the other hanging off the side of the bed. She looks a little in shock, actually, and stays in silence as she sorts through her thoughts, the memories of their first conversation. )
Wulfhold. ( A realisation. ) The sacred wolf that your community and your home is named after.
( Gently, she catches Astrid's wrist. She'll catch her gaze, as well, if she can. )
Don't diminish how important this is. My world having-- the things I saw doesn't mean that anyone else's hurts don't matter, or that something short of a murder festival isn't painful or terrible.
( She unconsciously eases into Abellaâs touch, meeting her gaze. Itâs comforting; she doesnât shy away. )
Donât say it like that or weâll all be expecting to run into murder festivals— But, yeah. Wulfhold. We had a wolf, just as Stone-Bear Hold has a bear.
( That past tense hurts, especially alongside the other holdâs present tense. )
( Gently, no condescension in it. More like she's checking that they're not somehow weirdly magical and immortal, or something. )
There was another hold-beast before this one. It doesn't make it hurt any less that he passed, but it doesn't mean Wulfhold will be without a wolf forever.
( She smiles, sad and hopeful at the same time, brushing her thumb across Astrid's wrist to comfort her. )
Maybe he lead you here so you could learn something important for your home. Maybe you'll even find his successor. Things not going to plan doesn't mean you've let them down, it just means the path is longer than you'd like.
( Half-laughing, rueful, ) Now you sound like my uncle. Heâs always so steady and philosophical and shit.
( But theyâre such comforting words. If she could carve them into her memory, always remember them⌠Thereâs another twist in her chest. Astridâs always been homesick, but for the first time she can imagine something else. There would definitely be holdfolk whoâd be scornful and furious about what happened, but uncle Pike, at least, would be patient and kind.
Maybe sheâll write to him, someday. )
They live longer than most normal animals — the effect of the spirit, I think, donât ask me how the fuck it works — but they do die eventually, yeah. Itâs just⌠it should be natural, yâknow? At home in the mountains, either from old age or normal sickness or fighting other animals. An honourable death. Not wasting away from Fade shit, going crazy next to a rift. He didnât deserve that. But yeah. Youâre right.
( Lightly teasing, just catching Astrid with a gentle nudge.
That break can't absolve the weight of it all, though, and she wouldn't want it to; talking things through or even just sitting with the acknowledgement can help. Deflecting with jokes would just let it all fester, and it sounds like its been doing that long enough.
Her smile fades. )
No one would deserve it. Not him, not me or you or a cavalry horse.
( She remembers that horse in Prehevil. How had a dead animal stuck out so much in amongst all that carnage? )
It's horrible that he went through that, but-- that doesn't mean it was in vain. Maybe you being here will make all the difference, or your people finding out about it can help the Avaar prepare and protect themselves, or become more involved in what's happening.
( Said softly, none of her usual earnestness in it. What happened wasn't the right thing, or Alll-Mer's plan or any of the things people might say about awful shit. She's sorrowful, too focused on Astrid to think of hoping that the effort to salvage something from an incident that's causing Astrid so much pain is seen for what it is and not something more ignorant and insidious. )
( It had been easy to dodge or sidestep this topic, so long as a colleague hadnât actually seen it happen themselves; hadnât been there to haul the dead wolf off Astridâs panicky body. Sheâd settled into Riftwatch life. A big beaming smile, a laugh, a strong drink, all to hide the fact that there was anything under the surface. Generally skirted this subject in the meantime. )
Something something something, learningâs all the difference. I remember back when the Inquisition first startedâŚ
( She sets her empty cup aside and turns her hand in Abellaâs, her free hand reaching out to flip Abellaâs palm instead to reveal the shard of green, Astridâs fingertips running along it like sheâs checking lifelines. The anchor that all rifters have. )
These things. I heard of a Sky Watcher went and joined the Inquisition outright âcos of this. Because the rifts are tears in the sky, right, and healing them must be a good thing for our goddess, the Lady of the Skies. Iâm not a priest and I donât know anything about anything, but it does feel sort of right? A good place to be, to make a difference.
( It was why she was still here; and hadnât yet gone skulking home with her tail between her legs. )
( The familiarity of the gesture is comforting in a place where thats in such a deficit. As much as Astrid might be a new acquaintance in the timeline of her life, even just this year, the comfort inherent in the points of cultural overlap might be enougn to make her one of Abella's closest friends, here. She'd need to be mindful not to lean too hard into that, or she could wind up clutchin to her like a buoy in a surging sea. Treat people like that and they drown.
She nods, is quiet a moment, and then--)
Sky Watcher... are they holy people?
( It seems reasonable to conclude, but for all she knows they could be more like a mayor than a priest. )
Mmyeah. Theyâre our priests, they worship the Lady specifically. So they read portents, bird bones and stuff, and theyâre in charge of all our burials. Weâve also got shamans and augurs, they talk to the local spirits and get guidance that way; my uncle was augur for our hold. I sâpose still is, they wouldnât get rid of him.
( It always feels so slightly odd, having to explain these everyday basic facts of life to someone else, when it was something sheâd always taken for granted and knew that everyone knew. Abella might be a rifter, but even the other Thedosians have had to ask. The Avvar are simply so secluded. )
somehow i misread 'burials' as 'turnips,' devastated I realised before replying tbh
Wow. So-- your people are okay with spirits? I got the impression that spirits are a bad thing, it seems like one of the reasons people are wary of rifters.
( it makes sense that there be differing beliefs, that's just not one she expected. Regardless, Abella sways slightly to nudge Astrid with her shoulder. )
That actually-- I never asked you the question I got in touch about, did I?
What? ( Astrid looks blankly at Abella; she had completely forgotten there was another reason the other woman had come here to begin with, before theyâd gotten derailed by Pocketcat and fables and personal histories. She squints, then: )
( She shakes her head. It feels so silly, now, to have reached out with that question. )
The Avaar feel like the closest thing to home, so I... I was going to ask if you'd be my emergency contact. I know we just talked about a lot of ways things are different, though, so if you'd rather not I totally get it.
( Caught off-guard; itâs not what she was expecting at all. Astrid herself had sat down at the infirmary, gotten someone to transcribe her answers, then moved on and not thought of the questionnaire again. She hadnât even named anyone in Riftwatch as an emergency contact; it was just her living family back at Wulfhold.
But Abellaâs a rifter. She doesnât have family here.
( It looks like Abella might be about to cry again, but this time there's a smile.
Her relief is palpable, and she throws her arms around Astrid. Maybe all her gratitude can be shown in a hug, because words aren't easy when your breathing is shaky. )
( Astrid automatically eases into the embrace, arms around Abella in turn. The Avvar gives good hugs: sheâs a little on the skinny side but itâs solid, her arms strong as she crushes Abella to her, face briefly buried in her neck.
How long has it been since sheâs been hugged by someone? A while.
Slipped onto Astrid's desk, among the week's papers, is the torn piece of a map. It seems to be the Gallows, though sketched a bit poorly, and marked with a black X over the library. The paper's of decent quality â must have only been used for this â and the back of it is stamped with two neat moons.
Huh.
It's a big library. Moreso, if you don't read. But chance, dedication, or assistance, turn up a false book tucked among the steamy Avvar romances. The spine of A Noble Register of Town Fools (marked with two moons, and never before appearing in Riftwatch's collection) knocks hollow; pulling it from shelf reveals it to be a simply-disguised box. It opens onto a cheap sheet of polished tin, vaguely reflecting the viewer, and a second piece of the map.
To the dungeons. One of the cells is locked, with two moons painted on its walls. There's a jar of loose junk on an adjacent bench, and somewhere within that there's a key. Of course, there's plenty to pick with, instead. A pungent packet of dried shark â local Orlesians unclear on hĂĄkarl â inside holds down the final piece of map.
If followed to the Eyrie, the griffons will descend upon a fishy smell. Distracting them long enough allows one to snatch the new leather case attached to Potato's harness.
It holds a small, collapsible spyglass. Nothing on the quality that a ship might require, and almost certainly secondhand; close inspection of some chipped-away, Tevene marks reveals it for a likely war prize. But turning the glass about the Gallows proves it serviceable enough. If Astrid happens to look to the Smithy she might even spot:
HAPPY SATINALIA
Painted on the roof. Don't ask how he got up there.
Edited 2024-10-26 21:31 (UTC)
post-nessum; hello julie i want more of you in my inbox.
He is, Fen'harel'enaste, not the worst off of their little cohort. The Venatori may have worked harder on him because elf, but the Warden gave them more trouble, so she bore the brunt of their more dire tortures. His injuries have been tended to by magic as best Riftwatch was able, with time and his own body left to complete the rest of the job. He walks tall back to his shared room, bearing new scars and bruises and rage but not cowed in the least.
He's missed some check-ins. Fen'harel will be concerned, if not for him personally then for his efforts inside the Riftwatch. Talin will have to get a message to the Wolf, relay what happened. He'd barely gotten settled before that assignment went to shit, he needs to start over. He needs to find something new to work on. He needs...
To sleep, he finds, collapsing into his bed as soon as he's reached the room. It's a fitful rest, made more so by the unfamiliar sounds and the oppressive nature of these stone walls. His mind will not relax enough to fully surrender to the Beyond, and when he hears the door creak open, he's wide awake in an instant, knife in hand and leveled at Astrid's throat.
She goes completely motionless, spine rigid and limbs locked, like a deer who spooked. Sudden, unexpected adrenaline hammering in her skull.
âKorthâs dick,â Astrid says, but that movement of her jaw presses against the knife, causing it to nick the skin slightly. Her gaze moves upward, from the turn of his wrist gripping the hilt (white-knuckled), to the line of his forearm quivering with exhaustion, up to his bruised face.
Despite the relatively crowded room, packing in three people hasnât been too much of a problem. Astrid often isnât there, vanishing to supplement the kitchenâs stores with her hunting, or simply preferring an evening out camping. Theyâre all in Scouting and none of them are researchers, so theyâre often out on a field job (or in Lazarâs case, simply drinking in town and avoiding a job entirely).
It does mean that Talin probably isnât used to sharing with these strangers yet.
She swallows, slow and careful. Raises a hand to grip his wrist, and shoves it aside.
The knife in his hand holds steady even as his vision swims a little, bloodrush and exhaustion taking equal tolls. Still, it doesn't take long for his mind to catch up to his instincts. Astrid is not an enemy; he is in the Gallows, not a Venatori prison; he is as safe as a spy inside enemy territory can be.
His arms lowers, slowly at first, and then he crumples back onto the bed, heaving an exhausted sigh as he goes.
Everyone in this room is quick to wake, much the way you might drop a cup and accidentally send all of Barrowâs cats running, careening and bouncing off the walls. But this is— something else, worse than the usual. Sheâs seen Talin bolt awake in the morning before, but not so quick as this; not crossing the room before sheâd noticed; not knife out before he was even fully conscious.
Once he collapses back on the bed, she runs her thumb across her neck, and it comes away red. Like a shaving cut. Itâs small.
She sits down on her own bed across from his, and starts working on unlacing her boots. Her heartâs still pounding, the rush of finding danger in an unexpected place. That adrenaline swallows what ordinarily couldâve been a laugh at the joke, and it takes her a moment to reply.
âThe limpâs not,â she decides, ââcos it means you wonât be able to run, but the bruises can be hot. What was it, a bar fight?â
It canât have been. She gets into bar fights. Talin— not the type, from the little she knows of him thus far.
"Fenhedis, you noticed?" And he'd been trying so hard not to give away the tenderness in his half-flayed foot. He doesn't care what she says; the question is more to give himself time to consider his response than to really find out what gave him away.
"Mission got fucked," is where he lands eventually, spoken to the ceiling, "Venatori got us."
No one told him he can't tell the truth about it. Besides, sympathy is useful. He flicks his eyes over to Astrid, exhausted but keen, waiting for what she'll make of it. She's not going to trip over herself with apologies or concern, he doesn't think—she rings too close to his own people for that. She'll move to the practical, how did it happen, how did they escape, did they lose anyone. Sympathetic, but not weepy about it.
Or maybe he doesn't know a damn thing about her and she'll surprise him.
Perhaps it is indeed a surprise that Astridâs reaction is a mixture, as she looks up at him from between her knees, kicking loose the boots to land somewhere under her bed. Thereâs no pearl-clutching gasp, no watery eyes; but equally so, some of that brusque pragmaticism heâs seen in her loosens. Her face does soften, saying, âShit, Iâm sorry.â
And thereâs a whole possible spectrum contained in got. Kidnapping, captivity, ambush, death.
Her lips purse over her question, echoing his choice of words: ââGotâ. What does that⌠like, what does that mean? Anyone dead? Yâalright?â
Her face softens, and his eyes close; an instinctive, immediate aversion to too much sympathy. If he doesn't see it, he doesn't have to dwell on it, and she can feel whatever she wants.
"We survived," answers both her apology and her question, gently evades the former while offering facts for the latter: "Contact in the Silent Plains sold us out. We got worked over for questioning, some worse than others. Venatori was literally reading a book on the subject while he did it."
Which is just. Darkly comical, in a way that has Talin smirking to himself. It says here that flaying can be effective, but it's a little vagueâdo we have flensing tools? Well go find some! They only have so many fingernails!
"No one died, I don't think, but that Warden looks half-dead most of the time, so, you know," who knows, really, maybe von Skraedder's been undead hanging around out of spite the whole time.
Something in her face tightens at him mentioning a traitor, a reflexive anger on his and all of Riftwatchâs behalf when she says, âWhat a goatfucker.â
And itâs hard for Astrid to measure whether or not sheâs friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. Theyâre not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talinâs hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesnât seem like heâd welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether heâs okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
âWhat happened to the contact?â
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this wonât happen again?
Goatfucker makes him laugh, unexpected as it isâhe grins into his shoulder, and savors the feeling of it.
"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the otherâeither way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
âHopefully the second one. They canât just do that—â
Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naĂŻve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatchâs work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
Sheâs still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
âOkay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?â
If Talin were less dead on his feet, he'd probably be agreeing with Astrid and finding inventive new ways of cursing someone, and their bloodline, and their dog for good measure. As it is, he's barely conscious, holding onto awareness by his few remaining fingernails.
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunateâhe's fully passed back out before she can ask any.
Hiya. [ She knows of Enchanter Isaac but doesnât realise that they have, technically, crossed paths in some form before. She spent fucking days solving that scavenger hunt, and then not even known who to thank for it. ]
Yes â maybe farther afield. We buy lyrium from the same traders that supply the Chantry, and often the Chantry sends soldiers along. The Exalted March has required they find other protection.
[ Astridâs still hedging, but finally continues: ]
Theyâre pretty closed-off and hard-to-reach if you donât already have a connection, but— the augurâs named Pike Asgeirson. Heâll be able to read if you send a raven. Mention that Astridâs vouching for you. Passes oughtnât be too bad in summer, but theyâre always after ways to make some gold for trade.
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would you like to build a snowman (do a job)
[ A group of bandits have set up camp around a bridge on one of the roads between Ostwick and Kirkwall. They've been successfully shaking down every merchant caravan that attempts to cross. Agitated with the loss of profit, the merchants have collectively appealed to Riftwatch for help. Clear out the bandits from around the bridge, and keep all these merchants happy. ]
They're not in Forces -
Alright, so Lazar was, and fuck if they don't look the part; and that's gotta be how it came to this: Freezing his nuts off at the end of a bridge, trying to make nice with Danny Five-Fingers as the guy just gets louder and louder.
(Who knew a dwarf could holler like that? Who knew five fingers was worth a title? No accounting for Carta taste.)
"Look - I'm just the messenger," Hands spread, wide from his knife; palms empty. Easy. They're all friends here. "Her and me, we're doing you a solid here. No reason this has to get bloody,"
An arrow whizzes past his face, buries itself in the ravine edge. Lazar looks to Astrid, as if for permission -
- Doesn't wait for an answer before he plants a boot in Danny's chest, and shoves hard. The howl as he crashes down is satisfying. The brush of drawn steel behind them?
"Shit," Lazar murmurs. "You got this, right?"
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But all of her distraction vanishes at the familiar whistle of an arrow sailing over their heads, the rasp of drawn steel, the tell-tale signs of diplomacy having broken down. (This is why Riftwatch didnât send the kids from Diplomacy.) She straightens, immediately whipping her own bow up to eye-level.
âOh, weâre doing this already?â Astrid says, brightening as they hear the distant noooooooooo of Danny Five-Fingers vanishing down the ravine, now a mystery never to be solved. But she nocks her weapon, squints down the line, follows the trajectory where that first arrow came from, lets loose—
A few seconds later thereâs a yelp, up on one of the rock ledges above the banditsâ camp. Her nose crinkles, drawing another arrow as one of the men marches toward Lazar.
âReally did think you were being polite,â she says to her colleague.
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They're Marchers. That's friendly! He fumbles blade to hand, glancing up just in time to catch Astrid's shot. Right sharp -
- Right distracting. Look back: Lad with the hatchet is closing, too fast to find his feet. Lazar spits some Ander curse (poxes, Darkspawn) and slashes the pony's crude tether. It bolts for the road, knocking axe over teakettle.
"Elf's still got my swords," Donny Six-Pricks or whoever that reedy fuck was, "But he didn't look like much -"
A figure rises: Thin, elegant. Robed. His hands pull open onto lightning.
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âOh,â Astrid says, and âFuck.â
She dives, swiveling to not land on her bow, taking refuge behind the cart with Lazar. Itâs stacked high with empty crates, which must have belonged to the bridgeâs previous victims: merchantsâ goods looted and taken as tithe. Lightning crackles overhead, and she can taste the ozone in the air, her hair rising and turning even more voluminous with static. Ugh.
The Avvar tries to poke her head up to get a view for another shot, but thereâs another flash of white-blue light. So she sinks back down, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with Lazar, trying to cram both of them back here.
âIs this a good time to mention Iâve never fought someone whoâs got magic?â
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And to think the Chantry makes such a big deal on it all. A stray bandit stalks the edge of the cart, lifts his blade towards Astrid. A bolt of blinding light arcs out to find it first. His body jerks wild, drops on locked muscles a whole hair after it should. Someone in the distance screams,
He's on our bloody side!
Lazar's busy looking at Astrid. Sidelong, assessing: Bad bet to outrun her, slow archers don't last long. Have to see this one through.
"I'll distract 'em," He decides, reaching for the fallen blade. "But you gotta be ready with that shot."
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When he finally leaps out, presenting a juicy target for the bandits, thereâs the briefest moment to admire his speed, the strength sending that sword swinging up. She waits one second — enough for them to take the bait — and then sheâs popping up like a jack-in-the-box.
Looking for where the mage last stood. Heâs aiming for Lazar, more energy crackling at his fingertips. Astrid lets go.
A clean shot against such a stationary target, the arrow embeds itself in his throat and he tumbles backward, gurgling, the electricity flying wild and loose over their heads. Thereâs someone up close being kept busy with Lazar, but another swordsman slips past, too close into Astridâs range. She drops the bow and swings a fist instead, and then theyâre a scrambling flurry of limbs and the flash of his dagger: sheâs slammed against the side of the bridge, loose mortar crumbling, and she knees him between the legs, a hissing spitting angry cat.
cw some eye gore - lmk if there are any issues w that and i can edit somethin else â¤
And then heâs up and he's not thinking at all, thinking slows you down, elbow rocking to bring the blade up that same stupid way got the last guy killed. Too late to see the bandit close. By the time a fist clamps his neck, Astrid's arrow has already found its mark.
(These are hard years for apostates. They were never easy ones, but now there are bellies to fill. Rent to pay. Demands, and demands, in an Age that only seems to grow hungrier -)
Blood burbles. The mage chokes. Lazar flings the sword over the chasm. Bolts streak wide, swallow the blade in their rush for ground. The grip on his neck tightens. Vision spots. The swordsman on Astrid howls as her knee comes up, hair shot wild in the whirling static. Lazarâs heels dig in, hold, but prying hands donât shake the fucker. Pressure,
The world reels.
Everyoneâs little, when youâre big enough. Lazar's body slumps, boneless; and as he falls, the man folds beneath the weight of him. Breath returns: Sluggish now, struggling to reorient, to recall the thrashing face below.
"Astrid," He wheezes. Canât make himself heard. "Fuck."
Thereâs a knife strapped on the banditâs leg. Pinned like this, he canât twist far enough to reach. Lazar glances back, takes in the struggle on the bridge. Canât get up without handling this guy. Canât get to that knife without playing twinsies.
He spits. Lazar reaches his free hand up, and digs a thumb deep into his eye. Takes more pressure than you'd think. Takes less time. The bandit screams, claws feral at his face, at the ground, at anything that might stop this stop this stop.
Lazar stoops to collect the knife, advances on the bridge.
One left.
good shit
Her cheek hurts, having caught a wildly-flailing punch whichâll probably swell into a black eye tomorrow. Itâs all messy, chaotic. These are not professionally-trained soldiers; theyâre scrappy, undisciplined, hungry.
But over the banditâs shoulder, she can see Lazar back on his feet and looming closer, big and broad and reinforcement-shaped. Sheâs still half-crushed between the other man and the bridge, using his weight against her even as heâs wheezing from the kick of her knee. Her eyes meeting Lazarâs, she tilts her head in one sharp motion, a wordless gesture meaning this direction,
and itâs at a good angle for her to lurch the bandit into position, Lazarâs knife to slip between his ribs from behind, for the surprise and pain and impact to carry the other man forward and both of them to tip him over the edge of the bridge, plummeting into the churning river below.
Was that the last of them? Looks like the last of them.
Astridâs panting, half-draped over the stonework, watching his limp body carried away down the current. The adrenalineâs still pumping, from this small short burst of lethal violence in every direction. Similar things have happened before, when her holdâs trade routes or hunting routes were overrun by bandits and they had to push them back. The whole thing feels so annoyingly, pointlessly avoidable. If only theyâd cleared out when they told them to.
She looks over at Lazar. The livid shapes of fingers pressed into his throat. âThanks,â she says, for getting the last one, and âSorry,â for her not having reached him when he was being— strangled? Maybe strangled.
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Got most of them, really. The mageâll be dead by now, drowned on his own fluids. The man with gouged eye is still wailing. Lazar picks a chunk out from under his nail. A waste. Yeah, whole thing seems like a waste.
"Reckon we leave him?"
A jerk of his chin. The ponyâs gone, and it'll be a bitch to haul Cyclops back without a cart. Then what? Dump him in a gutter? There are still some goods here worth saving: Plunder too new to make its way into a smugglerâs den. Time might be better spent going through it.
"Might know where they been storing the loot," He considers, gaming it out aloud. "But moving on thatâd start trouble."
Heâs thinking of the rings Bastien found, glittering in grey Crossroads light. The Coterie. All rivers flow home, they could be fucking with more than petty thugs.
A shrug. He straightens, unsteady, offers an arm up. Her call.
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She bites her lip— which results in an inadvertent sting of pain, realising it was split from someoneâs punch. She licks the blood, swallows it.
The smart thing, probably, would be to let this last bandit and the loot go. Let bygones be bygones. Go for a celebratory drink. Consider this resolution good enough: the blockade itself is gone and the bandits likely wonât set up shop again, now knowing that Riftwatch is keeping an eye out. Done.
But thereâs still that scrappy survivalist streak to her, the kind that hates leaving any meat left on the bone. Whoâll make use of anything. Thinking it through aloud in front of Lazar:
âIf we get him to show us where the loot is, we can recover some for the merchants. Thatâd make them pleased as anything.â Brownie points for Riftwatch. And, probingly: âMaybe not all of it makes it back, either. If we wanted a bonus for our trouble, like.â
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(He's thinking of Sybelle. Pleased as anything.)
"Yeah," Wheels turn behind his eyes. There's enough rope to do for wrists. "I'll hold him over the edge, you ask the questions."
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Sheâs not always this vindictive. But people are meant to help each other, and these thieves fucked over that social contract first, soâŚ
So then itâs the pair of them working in tandem: pacing over to the last bandit, Astrid nudging him with a boot, his noises quieting to muted tears as they loom over him. Lazar pinning him in place while she makes quick work of the knots around his wrists. Not as well as someone used to the sea and tying things in place on a ship, but good enough, considering the supplies and camping equipment she was taught to rope together in the high mountains.
She runs an absentminded thumb over her bruised lip, considering her words. She waits until Lazarâs started to hoist the man over the edge.
âLook, weâll let you go,â he gives a rising wail, oh, she didnât mean like that, âsafely, back on the ground, if you just tell us where the rest of your stash is. Weâve got some very worried merchants to answer to. Youâll even get to keep your other eye, which is more than we could say if we just drop you here, which would be quicker and easier and honestly just a better end to our day, all things considered—â
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He knows that his past makes her unsure, which is to say, he's doing a little bit of extra work to hide some of it. He has a jug of wine with him.]
I brought a gift with me.
[He holds the bottle up, and he looks-
-he's smiling, he looks charming.]
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Is it Satinalia again already? [ she asks, cheeky, assessing. Sheâs just recently back from an assignment, her boots muddy and her muscles restless; a break does sound nice. Thereâs that brand-new unattended tavern in the Gallows just opening up, where they could split the wine. ButâŚ
Innocently: ] Been around here much yet? Want a tour?
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[He holds out his arms and its clear that his pants are part of that uniform, that he's tucked and rucked up into his boots.]
-and little else.
You look like you would want a bath.
[Which is either an offer to wait or an offer to join, so.]
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So, then: she eventually gestures with the tilt of her chin, a bird-like flutter of hand, ]
Alright, come along then,
[ and it feels a bit like gesturing a dog to come in out of the cold, opening a door, letting him in. She turns on her heel and starts heading towards the templar tower and its basement, wending through the halls, down the steps and towards damp stone. ]
This might actually be one of my favourite places in the Gallows. We had some hot springs in the mountains, but more often than not youâre heating a tub and that just takes for-fucking-ever.
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[He's grinning, though, and he follows, casually without comment about that. This is a good opportunity, frankly; mostly to learn about the best spot for a hot bath.]
We had a bath, in training. Hot steam, for after we sweat, and sticks to wipe it off.
I do like the feel of water on skin.
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[ They descend into the communal baths. Itâs not a spa as rifters might think of it, but itâs still more high-tech than anything she grew up with: thereâs a cold pool and a hot one, the latter fueled by running water and pipes and furnaces and a hum of warmth. Grabbing a worn nub of soap and a linen towel from the communal supplies, Astrid starts to shuck her clothes.
Itâs unabashed and matter-of-fact: kicking off her boots and shedding her layers with no self-consciousness nor any attempt at seductive flourish. Her clothes are tossed into a chaotic pile on the dry side of the room, eventually exposing bare skin, long limbs, functional but half-starved muscle, and nicks and scars across her body but likely not as many as him— she finally wades into the pool and sinks in as deep as she can go, whole body submerged, her face barely above the waterline, with a satisfied sigh. ]
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He closes his eyes a little, slipping them just slightly shut.]
They're smooth. You scrape sweat and dirt off.
[He sighs a bit.]
It soothes the muscles.
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I can imagine. We have⌠Iâm guessing itâs hot enough in Tevinter that you donât do this, but we have this thing, you sit in a hot wooden sauna for a while and you sweat like a pig, until itâs so hot you can barely stand it, and then you run outside and jump into the snow. Or jump in a frozen lake. Itâs good for sore muscles and it fucks you right up but, like, in a good way.
[ A little wistful: ] You do it three times if youâve the time. They say the first time you go in the water, you cleanse the dirt from your body. The second time, your worries. Then the third time, you start to build something new.
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Can't say I know much on snow. But the idea is the same, I think. The dominae, they had baths of pools of water. The house girls would tend them. We had a hot water trough, and the best would get first access.
[By the time that Gannicus was done with it, it was full of blood and dirt, so.]
What made you leave?
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[ Astrid hasnât broached this topic with anyone else yet who wasnât present at the actual fight. She uncorks the jug and takes a deep swig of the wine, to brace herself; wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and then floats closer, so she can slide the jug towards him. Worrying at her bottom lip, trying to find the right words: ]
I dunno how much you know about Avvar holds, but we each have this animal— this spirit— more accurate to say itâs, like, the entire fucking heart of our community. Ours was a wolf. He started behaving⌠strangely. He left our territory, following rifts, so I followed him out of the mountains to see if I could find out what was wrong.
[ A beat. ] Riftwatch said, later, that he was Fade-touched. Not that I know much about that stuff.
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And now?
Do you know much about it?
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But hereâs where people close rifts and where some genius might learn how to stop that sort of thing from happening again someday. So I stuck around.
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Do you miss it?
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[ Not combative, just wry. She has been going on about the mountains quite a bit. ]
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[Which is to say, yes, he absolutely does think that she misses it. And that she deserves to go home.
He edges just a little closer.]
Go home, Astrid.
yolo!!
Astrid looks at the jug of wine dangling in Gannicusâ hand. The water dripping from his hair, plastered to the line of his strong jaw. She seems to be teetering on the precipice of a decision, a distraction, and finally makes up her mind to seize it. Why the hell not? ]
And I canât go home. Not yet, [ said without elaboration, as she detaches from her edge of the pool and closes the rest of the distance between them. Drifts until sheâs right in front of him, face-to-face, practically in his lap: close enough to reach out and take the jug back, but her eyes on his all the while. ]
girl GET IT
-this. Him.
He reaches out a hand in the water, to her hip.]
Not yet.
[He agrees, amicably. His hand is covered in calluses, it's rough with use, but he's soft, inviting, as he urges her just a little closer.]
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And mischievously detours at the last second, tilting her face past his cheek to pick up the abandoned jug and steal one last swig, her throat working. The wine isnât strictly needed for the liquid courage but itâs nice, warming her throughout, atop the warmth of Gannicusâ hand against her hip. When she finally reaches over him to put the jug away on the stone floor, she just stays there, her arm draped over his shoulders. ]
Maybe someday. For now, though, Iâm fine exactly where I am.
[ Exactly where she is. Which is this: closing those last inches of distance to kiss him, both their mouths tasting of wine. ]
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He tugs her closer, and kisses her again, harder this time, his other hand coming up behind her to press against his spine.]
The luck's mine, then, that so am I.
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Her arms twine around his neck and she crushes herself to him; how convenient, that theyâre already naked, that thereâs nothing separating her from that broad expanse of wet slippery skin. A part of her had seen this coming. Whenever she goes for a man, they tend to be the same type: rough scratchy stubble and muscle, like any brawny Avvar lad sheâd tumbled into bed with before. ]
You might look good in blue and red but I admit a real selfish liking for you like this, [ she muses, her mouth against Gannicusâ jaw as she throws back to their earlier conversation, nipping at his ear. ]
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Wet and naked below you?
[He tugs her a little. In a moment he might stand to put her on the edge of the bath, to give her something more than just his mouth - or, perhaps, to give her more of just his mouth - but for the moment he seems perfectly content to hold her close. He has not held a woman close in what feels like a long time.]
I too selfishly prefer this.
nsfw here on out
I— oh! [ She makes a delighted noise when Gannicus eventually simply stands up, lifting her easily, water sloughing off both their bodies. Itâs simpler, then, for her legs to hitch around his hips as he settles her on the edge of the bath. Out of the water, now she can get a better idea of what sheâs working with. Her hand trails down the planes of his chest, fingertips dipping into the divot of his belly button — it is very nice, to be able to touch someone again, sheâs missed this — before reaching between them to palm said cock. ]
We might have to be a bit faster than Iâd like, this time. Iâve a feeling this isnât what this room was meant for.
[ ""this time"" ]
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But he hasn't had sex since before arriving in Kirkwall and so maybe he's a bit eager, too. Her fingers are exploring his stomach, and then lower, and he hitches a breath and leans forward to press a secret smile against her skin, one hand inching up her thigh, her waist, to cup a breast.]
I had planned on feasting on you. Should I save that for another day?
[He's on the same train of thought she is, frankly, but then he leans down and takes a nipple between his teeth. He does not bite down, but grins as he teases, his eyes flicking up to look at her.]
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Another day. In a bed. Those piles of furs. [ Truly, what better way than body heat to stay warm on a chilly Kirkwall morning, with these bedrooms and towers all made of cold forbidding stone? Even now, half out of the water, Gannicusâ body radiates tantalising heat: his warm mouth at her nipple, his warm flesh beneath her hand. Two can be a tease, and so she runs a finger along his cock before giving another exploratory stroke, sedate for the moment despite her words about hurrying. Impishly: ]
A feast implies a while. I think your mouth deserves a chance to take its time, for that.
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As my lady Starling commands.
[He slips one hand back down, to her leg, to tug it up over his hip. His cock presses against her, and he rocks his hips a little to run it over her wetness and to tease her, just a little, to get her warmer for him.
He keeps his other hand moving until he can cup her cheek and tug her to kiss him again, his chest against hers. She's glorious; not as soft as the women he's used to, but beautiful and lithe just the same.]
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And Astrid makes another strangled noise as he rocks against her, her mouth against his, and winds up biting his lip; chiding, for remaining so tantalisingly out-of-reach. Damp from the baths and her own arousal, itâs easy for him to slick himself with her. Itâs been a while; she hasnât been with anyone since before Kirkwall, either. One could say sheâs hungry for it, that loneliness knocking at her door. ]
Alright, [ Astridâs voice is ragged, between kisses. ] You literal cocktease. Fuck me already.
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Just-
[His smile is broad against her skin, and he bites on her throat to worry a mark there as he begins to fuck her with long, hard strokes.]
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When it comes to distractions, this is one of her favourites: the rest of the world and its worries fading and receding away, replaced with the all-consuming simple focus of warm skin on skin, the pleasant friction and sensation of being filled with him, as she maintains her precarious balance on the edge of the stone. With each thrust, her fingernails unconsciously dig harder into his shoulder as she holds on; raking her own marks into his skin. She gasps an unintelligible Avvar curse at a particularly sharp snap of his hips, followed by his name. ] Gannicus—
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This is better than the wine that is still sticky on her mouth and his, this is better than the warmth of the water that's pooled around his calves. Her skin almost burns against his; he knows he'll be thinking of her when he's wrapped in his furs later.
The pain from her claws, like a bird, that only makes it better.]
That's-
Just like that, gods-
[He mutters it against her mouth, greedy.]
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Lady, fuck,
[ and that, just like that, with her knees hitching to drive him even deeper, sheâs finally coming around him with a noisy cry echoing through the hollow acoustics of the bath. ]
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She's not the only one who isn't going to take long.
He huffs against her skin and then pants his own orgasm, his body leaning against hers. He presses soft kisses right against her jaw, one right after the other in a smooth line.]
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Her fingers trace the line of his jaw, thumb running across his rough stubble. He really is very nice to look at. ]
Thank you, [ Astrid says, warm and amused and blunt, ] I needed a thoroughly good dicking.
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[And he is. He doesn't extricate himself immediately, instead running his hand down her ribs and taking the moment to touch another human in a way that isn't violent, not even a little.]
Sometimes a fuck is the only thing that satisfies.
[He takes another moment, just to kiss her on the mouth, quick as lightning, and then he moves away.]
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She slides off, sinks back into the water, and finally goes about the everyday routine of cleaning herself. Washing off the sex, the sweat, the mission, the entire day. ]
In terms of stress relief, you could do loads worse, [ she says, fingers combing through some of the tangles in her hair. Itâs a little harder to be quite so openly vulnerable, to admit Iâve missed being able to touch people, so what she settles on is, simply, an open-ended invitation for the future: ]
I was serious about those furs, too. Theyâre comfy.
crystals; in the hour between minrathous and kirkwall
[ distracted. not audibly alarmed. ]
Gotta ask a favour.
[ (his accent's out in force) ]
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Yeah?
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[ footsteps somewhere down the hall. he cuts off. a few moments later, as though uninterrupted: ]
- Keep the coin if y'want. But there's a ring, got a swan on the band. Anything goes bad here, can you get it to Bastien?
[ fucker owes him. ]
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[ A queasiness in her stomach. Astrid sets down the rest of her bread, unfinished; she hadnât realised how allergic she was to In Case I Die instructions until just this moment, that favour settling over her shoulders like an itchy wool mantle. ]
But aye, yeah, I can do that. [âŚ] Didnât know you and Bastien were, like, a thing.
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What? Nah - he can get it to Sybelle, I -
[ someone shouts. the crystal pings off floor, connection held open for a snarled epithet and the sound of a tussle.
heavy thumps. something striking meat. again, again.
eventually: ]
Gotta move. You're the best - I'll bring a souvenir.
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Luck. Be careful.
[ And she sits there for a little while longer, even after the line goes dead. ]
right now; voice
[ ooc: we can suss out how their first co-hunting excursion went or determine that something came up (and then EVERYTHING happened); totally up to you! just lemme know. ]
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( Itâs been a while since their first excursions; theyâd fallen out of the habit since, too busy with the attack and reconstruction, but it might actually be about time to resume. Riftwatch is still rubble but itâs less rubble than before, at least. Hard-won normalcy is starting to descend. )
Iâm in a tent in the herb garden. How about you?
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[ And how fucked it is, both in terms of debris and the pricing of what remains available for purchase in just about any corner of Kirkwall. ]
Ah, no. I stay in Kirkwall with a woman who used to be directly involved with Riftwatch but is not, as such, any longer. Fortunately, her apartments are still standing.
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Apartments? What, plural? Sounds like youâre being spoiled rotten while the rest of us are hoofing it in tents. ( Said fondly, despite the tease in the words. She doesnât mind the tents. )
crystal
( There's a pause, where she's going to ask one thing, and pivots to something else. )
How are you?
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( A skittering noise, impact, scrabbling, cursing, the crystal bouncing across the floor and— being batted around by a cat? That is in fact what is happening. Astrid eventually chases it down, retrieves the crystal, and flops back on her bed, sitting cross-legged. )
Abella! Hi. Yes. Iâm good, how are you?
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Iâm doing better than you, it sounds like. Do you need rescuing?
( Friendly teasing is better than looping to get actual reason for getting in touch. Sheâll gladly delay that. )
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Whatâs up?
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( stalling, but in a fun (???) way. )
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Pocketcat? ( Lommekatt, she thinks, but the combination of syllables donât mean anything to her. ) Hmm. No. I just picture, like, a very cute kitten sitting in your chest pocket. Is it something like that?
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Pocketcat, heâs⌠in the stories heâs the sort of thing mothers use to make their kids behave. âMind your manners, or the Pocketcat will get you.â Stealing children, that sort of thing. I stopped believing as I grew up, but he was in the city I was in before coming here.
( Her tone has become a little weighted, before she catches herself. ) I mean, someone claiming to be him, anyway. They had the purple coat and everything.
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Your bogeyman was real?
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There wereâŚ
( Abella isnât sure how to talk around this. )
A lot of things I didnât believe in were real. Now Iâm not there Iâm honestly starting to suspect I just hit my head really hard.
( An attempt to laugh it off that isnât terribly convincing. Sheâs sweet, but a bad liar. )
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What sorts of things?
I donât remember you mentioning much about what your world was like— I mean, some details, but not like, âchildhood stories come to lifeâ.
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Where I was before I came here isnât a reflection of what my world is like. Orâ was like? I mean, Pocketcat wanted to trade in heads, thatâs not something that happens.
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She swears as she drops the crystal and fumbles with her cigarettes, but she canât get a flame to catch to make the fucking thing light. )
action.
She scoops up the offending cat from earlier (it gives an affronted squawk of a meow), shoves her crystal into her pocket, and then goes sauntering downstairs.
After a few months living in a tent outside, the cramped environment of the over-stuffed Gallows feels so very different anew; she misses the open sky and fresh air, but having so many people around her again is a comfort. Abella-and-Terenâs room isnât far away, so she shows up only a couple minutes later, rapping her knuckles on the door and waiting with a warm purring bundle of fur in her arms.
Emotional support cat. Abella had sounded like she might need one.
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Even so, she brightens at the sight of the cat. )
Hi, little menace. I bet you donât say freaky things out of the blue to people youâve just met, huh?
( Ha ha ha help )
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( Her eyes flicker down to the unlit cigarette — feels that itch in the back of her throat for a smoke, maybe she shouldâve brought along some elfroot to calm down the other woman, too — but then she readjusts her grip on the little menace in her arms. )
You gonna invite me in? You can rescue me from this cat like you promised.
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Itâs an unspoken invitation, but why risk leaving Astrid in the lurch? )
Come on in. Would you like a drink?
( As for the Head Healer, ) I havenât had the pleasure. I hope heâs not trading in body parts, I make enough excuses to avoid going to the check-ups as is.
( The joke was maybe more that she was up to, right now, and she looks away from Astrid as she says it, trying to get her hands on some liquor. )
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( because her next batch of homemade liquor is still steeping down at the makeshift tavern and itâll be a while before itâs ready for human consumption, so sheâll take whatever she can get. And she just goes ahead and settles down on the other womanâs bed, whereupon the cat instantly squirms out of her arms and leaps onto Abellaâs pillow instead, where it sits and starts grooming itself. Both of them making themselves at home. )
Youâre not allergic or anything, are you?
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( A good thing, normally, even with the strange link between her appreciated her good health and feeling uneasy with how incredibly unfeminine she feels.
Cigarette set down, she grabs two wooden cups, and a brown bottle of something that smells a bit like an apple smacking you in the face with a brick, if the brick were also made of apples. Itâs potent and sweet, rather than good, and she smiles apologetically as she holds a cup out to Astrid. )
Sorry. Daan would be able to make a mean cocktail with this, at least.
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Iâm gonna make you try my akvavit. Iâve got some steepinâ down at the tavern, itâs just got maybe a week left. I forced some people to be taste-testers for the herb mixture earlier, so youâd get to be experiment number two.
( Then she goes ahead and takes a swig; maybe a little too much, unwisely, so her face crumples into that potent blow and she wipes off her mouth with the back of her hand. And itâs thanks to her strong stomach, her preference for liquor that can punch you in the face, the Avvarsâ tendency to drink so many people under the table, but: )
What are you talking about, this is great.
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Nothing on my grandpaâs schnapps.
( That was something.
Abella realises she has no idea what to say, how to sweep this under the rug. She sighs. )
Can we pretend I never told you about Pocketcat?
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( If Astrid were more tactful, or more conflict-averse, she might have seized on that offer and allowed Abella to shove it all back in a box and slam that lid shut and lock it. But. )
I mean, we donât have to talk about it if you donât want to. If youâre not comfortable, like. But I canât pretend I never heard about a big talking cat in purple who trades in body parts. Are you okay?
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Are you okay?
Despite herself, Abella feels her expression twist, looking away from Astrid as if thatâll make the grief less obvious. )
No.
( Her voice betrays her as much as her face, but the reality she hasnât shared since she got here tumbles out regardless. )
Theyâre all trapped there. Itâs not fair that I get to be here and theyâre all being hunted down by monsters, and Levi and Marina are just kids.
( Abella knows sheâs said too much. If thereâs a fault in a dam, itâs inevitable that itâll fail. )
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She scoots further to the edge of the bed. Cup lowered and tilted too far against her knee, a careless drop spilling as she doesnât notice. )
Itâs not like you had a choice, ( she says, firm, and itâs about coming to Thedas; but it unknowingly might fit about the train, too. ) You didnât choose to leave them. Donât feel guilty about that.
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I know.
( Blinking, she hasn't quite recognised that tears have spilled down her cheeks. )
But I hate that I'm here and they're not. There were-- we were given three days, and told only one of us could survive to the end. They could have had to kill each other, and I've just been safe here.
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I mean, in fairness, youâre not safe here either. I donât know if thatâs any consolation? ( This is a bizarre consolation. But itâs an attempt, her voice warm and trying for reassuring. ) I mean, look at the towers we just had to rebuild, and parts of the city are still fucked. Thereâs demons and blighted animals and darkspawn and an evil god-sorcerer-guy who wants to kill us. Youâre not not in danger. Technically, like. We could go get bitten by some fucked-up Fade-touched bears if thatâd make you feel better.
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Youâre an ass.
( Itâs not a criticism. The honest reminder of all the dangers here both helps and doesnât. )
Weâre being driven to insanity. And at the end of three daysâ if we donât figure out a way to get everyone out alive, weâll turn into monsters, too. Thereâs terrible things everywhere, and I know people here are suffering. I donâtâ Iâm not trying to dismiss that like itâs nothing.
( She makes herself look back to Astrid. She has to, if only to convey that she knows Thedas is hardly idyllic, and even then convey the weight of where her friends are. )
Prehevil was turned intoâ- into hell with a countdown. Itâs not the same thing.
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Then Iâm sorry. That you were there in such rotten bullshit, and that theyâre still there.
But— selfishly, like, for your own sake, Iâm glad that youâre here instead. Because that sounds awful.
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( Abella stands; being still when talking about Termina feels viscerally wrong, and she rolls her shoulders like limbering up might help physically shrug it off. )
All-mer.
( Barely more than a whisper as she shakes it off. )
Can you tell me about the mountains, here? Something to get my head out of Prehevil.
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Thereâs a few around Thedas; like, thereâs the Vimmark Mountains just to the north of us, but Iâm from the Frostbacks down south, like I mentioned. I havenât—
( Another beat. )
I havenât gone back, since I came to Kirkwall, so I havenât seen them in a while. Some people think theyâre harsh or itâs hard to survive there but I think theyâre lovely. Thereâs wolves, bears, rabbits, deer, lots of game, though weâre careful to not over-hunt. In winter, your hair can freeze to icicles after you bathe. The mornings are so crisp it hurts the back of your throat.
( Which might sound terrible and uncomfortable to some, maybe, but thereâs just a wistful, fond nostalgia in Astridâs voice as she speaks of it. )
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( A little smile curls at the corners of her mouth. Slight, barely lasting a moment, before she shakily exhales. Blinking a couple of times, Abella refocuses on Astrid, and leans partly against the bed frame. )
Is there a reason you haven't gone home? Other than missions and the distance.
( Surely there'd be reasons why it'd be necessary to go there, and useful to have mountainfolk amongst the numbers for such a mission. The hesitation caught her attention; in a strange way, the suggestion of someone else's struggles anchors her even more than the thought of cold that cuts through your lungs with each breath. )
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( How many people know about her hold-beast? Not many. GwenaĂŤlle, because sheâd been there when the rift opened up. Gannicus, because heâd asked.
It both feels absurd to mention this, petty and small compared to Abellaâs own problems; but after the other woman opened up about Prehevil and Pocketcat then it would feel even more unfair, not baring a sliver of her own heart this way. )
Thereâs⌠Iâm sorry, this is gonna sound like fucking nothing. But each Avvar hold has a sacred animal called a hold-beast. Theyâre the spirit of our community. They represent the health of our entire society.
I followed ours out here. I was trying to find out what was wrong with him, but he— died. I canât go back until I know more. I donât really want to see the looks on their faces when they know I let them down. Let him down.
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Wulfhold. ( A realisation. ) The sacred wolf that your community and your home is named after.
( Gently, she catches Astrid's wrist. She'll catch her gaze, as well, if she can. )
Don't diminish how important this is. My world having-- the things I saw doesn't mean that anyone else's hurts don't matter, or that something short of a murder festival isn't painful or terrible.
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Donât say it like that or weâll all be expecting to run into murder festivals— But, yeah. Wulfhold. We had a wolf, just as Stone-Bear Hold has a bear.
( That past tense hurts, especially alongside the other holdâs present tense. )
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( Gently, no condescension in it. More like she's checking that they're not somehow weirdly magical and immortal, or something. )
There was another hold-beast before this one. It doesn't make it hurt any less that he passed, but it doesn't mean Wulfhold will be without a wolf forever.
( She smiles, sad and hopeful at the same time, brushing her thumb across Astrid's wrist to comfort her. )
Maybe he lead you here so you could learn something important for your home. Maybe you'll even find his successor. Things not going to plan doesn't mean you've let them down, it just means the path is longer than you'd like.
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( But theyâre such comforting words. If she could carve them into her memory, always remember them⌠Thereâs another twist in her chest. Astridâs always been homesick, but for the first time she can imagine something else. There would definitely be holdfolk whoâd be scornful and furious about what happened, but uncle Pike, at least, would be patient and kind.
Maybe sheâll write to him, someday. )
They live longer than most normal animals — the effect of the spirit, I think, donât ask me how the fuck it works — but they do die eventually, yeah. Itâs just⌠it should be natural, yâknow? At home in the mountains, either from old age or normal sickness or fighting other animals. An honourable death. Not wasting away from Fade shit, going crazy next to a rift. He didnât deserve that. But yeah. Youâre right.
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( Lightly teasing, just catching Astrid with a gentle nudge.
That break can't absolve the weight of it all, though, and she wouldn't want it to; talking things through or even just sitting with the acknowledgement can help. Deflecting with jokes would just let it all fester, and it sounds like its been doing that long enough.
Her smile fades. )
No one would deserve it. Not him, not me or you or a cavalry horse.
( She remembers that horse in Prehevil. How had a dead animal stuck out so much in amongst all that carnage? )
It's horrible that he went through that, but-- that doesn't mean it was in vain. Maybe you being here will make all the difference, or your people finding out about it can help the Avaar prepare and protect themselves, or become more involved in what's happening.
( Said softly, none of her usual earnestness in it. What happened wasn't the right thing, or Alll-Mer's plan or any of the things people might say about awful shit. She's sorrowful, too focused on Astrid to think of hoping that the effort to salvage something from an incident that's causing Astrid so much pain is seen for what it is and not something more ignorant and insidious. )
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Something something something, learningâs all the difference. I remember back when the Inquisition first startedâŚ
( She sets her empty cup aside and turns her hand in Abellaâs, her free hand reaching out to flip Abellaâs palm instead to reveal the shard of green, Astridâs fingertips running along it like sheâs checking lifelines. The anchor that all rifters have. )
These things. I heard of a Sky Watcher went and joined the Inquisition outright âcos of this. Because the rifts are tears in the sky, right, and healing them must be a good thing for our goddess, the Lady of the Skies. Iâm not a priest and I donât know anything about anything, but it does feel sort of right? A good place to be, to make a difference.
( It was why she was still here; and hadnât yet gone skulking home with her tail between her legs. )
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She nods, is quiet a moment, and then--)
Sky Watcher... are they holy people?
( It seems reasonable to conclude, but for all she knows they could be more like a mayor than a priest. )
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( It always feels so slightly odd, having to explain these everyday basic facts of life to someone else, when it was something sheâd always taken for granted and knew that everyone knew. Abella might be a rifter, but even the other Thedosians have had to ask. The Avvar are simply so secluded. )
somehow i misread 'burials' as 'turnips,' devastated I realised before replying tbh
( it makes sense that there be differing beliefs, that's just not one she expected. Regardless, Abella sways slightly to nudge Astrid with her shoulder. )
That actually-- I never asked you the question I got in touch about, did I?
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I guess not— What was it?
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( She shakes her head. It feels so silly, now, to have reached out with that question. )
The Avaar feel like the closest thing to home, so I... I was going to ask if you'd be my emergency contact. I know we just talked about a lot of ways things are different, though, so if you'd rather not I totally get it.
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( Caught off-guard; itâs not what she was expecting at all. Astrid herself had sat down at the infirmary, gotten someone to transcribe her answers, then moved on and not thought of the questionnaire again. She hadnât even named anyone in Riftwatch as an emergency contact; it was just her living family back at Wulfhold.
But Abellaâs a rifter. She doesnât have family here.
So the answer comes immediate, unhesitating: )
Selvsagt. Of course. Iâd be fucking honoured.
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Her relief is palpable, and she throws her arms around Astrid. Maybe all her gratitude can be shown in a hug, because words aren't easy when your breathing is shaky. )
Takk.
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How long has it been since sheâs been hugged by someone? A while.
Itâs nice. )
SECRET SATINA 9:50
( following this: )
post-nessum; hello julie i want more of you in my inbox.
He's missed some check-ins. Fen'harel will be concerned, if not for him personally then for his efforts inside the Riftwatch. Talin will have to get a message to the Wolf, relay what happened. He'd barely gotten settled before that assignment went to shit, he needs to start over. He needs to find something new to work on. He needs...
To sleep, he finds, collapsing into his bed as soon as he's reached the room. It's a fitful rest, made more so by the unfamiliar sounds and the oppressive nature of these stone walls. His mind will not relax enough to fully surrender to the Beyond, and when he hears the door creak open, he's wide awake in an instant, knife in hand and leveled at Astrid's throat.
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âKorthâs dick,â Astrid says, but that movement of her jaw presses against the knife, causing it to nick the skin slightly. Her gaze moves upward, from the turn of his wrist gripping the hilt (white-knuckled), to the line of his forearm quivering with exhaustion, up to his bruised face.
Despite the relatively crowded room, packing in three people hasnât been too much of a problem. Astrid often isnât there, vanishing to supplement the kitchenâs stores with her hunting, or simply preferring an evening out camping. Theyâre all in Scouting and none of them are researchers, so theyâre often out on a field job (or in Lazarâs case, simply drinking in town and avoiding a job entirely).
It does mean that Talin probably isnât used to sharing with these strangers yet.
She swallows, slow and careful. Raises a hand to grip his wrist, and shoves it aside.
âYou look like shit.â
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His arms lowers, slowly at first, and then he crumples back onto the bed, heaving an exhausted sigh as he goes.
"But in a sexy, rogueish way, right?"
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Once he collapses back on the bed, she runs her thumb across her neck, and it comes away red. Like a shaving cut. Itâs small.
She sits down on her own bed across from his, and starts working on unlacing her boots. Her heartâs still pounding, the rush of finding danger in an unexpected place. That adrenaline swallows what ordinarily couldâve been a laugh at the joke, and it takes her a moment to reply.
âThe limpâs not,â she decides, ââcos it means you wonât be able to run, but the bruises can be hot. What was it, a bar fight?â
It canât have been. She gets into bar fights. Talin— not the type, from the little she knows of him thus far.
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"Mission got fucked," is where he lands eventually, spoken to the ceiling, "Venatori got us."
No one told him he can't tell the truth about it. Besides, sympathy is useful. He flicks his eyes over to Astrid, exhausted but keen, waiting for what she'll make of it. She's not going to trip over herself with apologies or concern, he doesn't think—she rings too close to his own people for that. She'll move to the practical, how did it happen, how did they escape, did they lose anyone. Sympathetic, but not weepy about it.
Or maybe he doesn't know a damn thing about her and she'll surprise him.
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Perhaps it is indeed a surprise that Astridâs reaction is a mixture, as she looks up at him from between her knees, kicking loose the boots to land somewhere under her bed. Thereâs no pearl-clutching gasp, no watery eyes; but equally so, some of that brusque pragmaticism heâs seen in her loosens. Her face does soften, saying, âShit, Iâm sorry.â
And thereâs a whole possible spectrum contained in got. Kidnapping, captivity, ambush, death.
Her lips purse over her question, echoing his choice of words: ââGotâ. What does that⌠like, what does that mean? Anyone dead? Yâalright?â
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"We survived," answers both her apology and her question, gently evades the former while offering facts for the latter: "Contact in the Silent Plains sold us out. We got worked over for questioning, some worse than others. Venatori was literally reading a book on the subject while he did it."
Which is just. Darkly comical, in a way that has Talin smirking to himself. It says here that flaying can be effective, but it's a little vagueâdo we have flensing tools? Well go find some! They only have so many fingernails!
"No one died, I don't think, but that Warden looks half-dead most of the time, so, you know," who knows, really, maybe von Skraedder's been undead hanging around out of spite the whole time.
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And itâs hard for Astrid to measure whether or not sheâs friends with someone yet; often she tends to over-assume and just declare that probably they are, although even she has the vague sense to not overstep here. Theyâre not at the level yet where she can reach out and clutch Talinâs hand or press her fingertips to his knee. He doesnât seem like heâd welcome the attempt at comfort, and he might just pull another knife on her.
But she hops onto her bed, and pulls up her legs and folds them under her. Someone softer might pry more whether heâs okay, someone more brutally pragmatic might ask what information they gave away, so what she settles on is:
âWhat happened to the contact?â
Are they dead? Has that loose end been snipped, so this wonât happen again?
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"We'd say iov'direlan, bear puncher. Like... you were stupid and you made it the clan's problem."
Doesn't have quite the same visceral flair as goatfucker does, though. Trade is good for some things.
"Dunno. He wasn't at the meeting point, that was all Venatori, so either he's gotten away with it or he's dead, I guess."
Neither prospect seems to bother or please Talin more than the otherâeither way, it'd be more work for him to find out than it's worth, and if the man is somehow still alive, killing him wouldn't change what happened. It would only feel good for a second, it wouldn't unbreak Teren's ribs. It wouldn't grow the skin of Talin's feet back, or his nails, or unblack his eye.
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Astrid cuts herself off with a frustrated exhale. She knows it might be naĂŻve, but the sheer unfairness of it is stifling. Riftwatchâs work is delicate, a precarious balancing act of plucky overworked agents and their fragile network of allies. If their own allies turn on them, what else do they have to lean on?
If her contact in Minrathous turns on her, how fucked is she?
Sheâs still looking at what she can see of Talin, though, trying to size up his injuries, measure his state. His almost-visceral exhaustion, flopped in his bed the other side of the room. She leans, craning upward from her seat on the bed:
âOkay. Next up. You need an elfroot potion, mate? Or some food?â
đ
"Food," he murmurs, slurred and pressed almost inaudible into the pillow. He lifts his head and tries again, a little clearer this time, "Food. Already had a potion from the Doctor."
Could probably still use another, truthfully, but others had needed more attention than him and he hadn't had the energy to stick around waiting to beg another.
If Astrid has any clarifying questions, that's unfortunateâhe's fully passed back out before she can ask any.
crystals;
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And depends, I sâpose. Services for what?
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You need goods transported safely through the Frostbacks, yâmean?
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[ Astridâs still hedging, but finally continues: ]
Theyâre pretty closed-off and hard-to-reach if you donât already have a connection, but— the augurâs named Pike Asgeirson. Heâll be able to read if you send a raven. Mention that Astridâs vouching for you. Passes oughtnât be too bad in summer, but theyâre always after ways to make some gold for trade.
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But yeh. Heâs my uncle. Havenât seen him in a bit but he ought still be around. Nothing brings that old fucker down.