Fenris
It’s too much for you to take in all at once; you wind up sitting there on the ground just blankly staring upward for longer than is reasonable.
“Miss?”
Fenris. Fenris. Holy fucking nug-humping shit, it’s really Fenris? You force yourself to snap out of it, and—unable to resist—take his hand to help you rise. That turns out to be a serious mistake. There’s lyrium inscribed on the inside of his palm. At the feel of it through your skin, your aura lurches towards it with the hunger of a hundred starving wolves. You almost physically jolt from the sudden surge. You release his hand quickly, as if it were on fire, barely resisting the urge to rub the violent tingling out your skin.
“I apologize,” he says. “Do you work here? I need help for these—”
“I should have known you’d get here before me somehow, ‘just’ Emma.” Your spine straightens like you’d had an iron rod shoved up it. You recognize the Commander’s voice instantly, and there’s no hiding the instant fear reaction before you compose yourself and turn. “You have a nose like a bloodhound for elven refugees.”
“I noticed them as my group was arriving, Commander,” you say politely. “I just got here.”
The Commander is already turning to Fenris, who’s walking towards him. “I apologize. We just got news that you were coming,” the Commander says, glaring angrily towards Varric. You didn’t spot the dwarf at first; he’s standing to his right and a bit back, looking somewhat sheepish. But then his eyes flicker between you and Fenris, and he gets a grin on his face that you do not like.
“We’re really not prepared…” Cullen is saying to Fenris, while Fenris argues the need for immediate medical attention and shelter. You shake your head firmly at Varric. Whatever he’s planning, it’s got to be bad news for you.
“You know,” he interjects into the two men’s conversation-bordering-on-argument. “We can argue all day about whose fault this is…”
“Yours,” the Commander says irritably. “It’s your fault.”
“But we have a solution right here!” Varric says, gesturing grandly at you.
“Varric, no,” you begin, but he keeps talking.
“Emma already showed she’s great at taking care of refugees when no one else can! She knows how to get things done. Let her and Fenris handle this, while you and the Inquisitor go deal with, uh… Well, you know.”
“Varric, I swear to—” you begin, but the Commander is looking at you considerately.
“Emma, could you?” he asks. “I know you’ve just arrived back, but I would feel more comfortable if I knew this was in capable hands.”
You flush light pink. …Capable hands? Does the Commander actually think that highly of you? You glance over at the elves, who are scared and shaking. You were going to help anyway. You suppose there’s no helping it. “Of course, Commander. I’ll do my best.”
“Wait,” Fenris says, frowning slightly. “Emma?”
You swallow, hard. There’s no way…
Fenris turns to Varric. “Varric, is this the woman you wrote about?” Varric nods, and Fenris turns back to you. “I apologize; I didn’t recognize you. I had hoped to meet you at some point, but I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”
“O-o-of course you didn’t recognize me,” you mutter, staring down towards the ground. You can’t make eye contact. “H-how w-would you have kn-known what I looked like?” you add with a nervous laugh.
“A good point,” he says with a faint smile. It feels like your bones are melting into a puddle. Varric isn’t helping, with that shit-eating grin of his.
“Well!” the dwarf—who you’re going to kill—says cheerfully. “Seems like the two of you have this taken care of.”
“I’ll let my guards know not to give you a hard time with this, Emma,” the Commander says seriously. “Thank you.” And then he turns and leaves, Varric trailing along behind him… Although you note Varric turns long enough to give you a wink and a thumbs up. You’re going to kill him.
And now it’s just you and Fenris and a bunch of refugees.
“Varric didn’t mention you were compassionate as well. Although I suppose I should have expected it. Come. Let’s get these men and women to safety.”
Your mind is in pieces. You decide to simply focus on the task at hand and not the way your knees are weak and your heart is pounding. Thankfully, the lady you accosted has sent a few healers your way. You grab them as soon as they arrive. “F…Fenris,” you say, choking on his name as if in disbelief. “How many wounded do we have?”
“A few,” he says, and begins sorting them out to go with the healers. “Do you have a place where we can set them up?”
“I have a place we can put them temporarily,” you say with a frown. “We’ll need to find something more long term, but it’ll work better than leaving them standing in the courtyard.”
You glance around, but Solas and the rest of your caravan are long gone. Maker damnit, you could have really used his help with this… and you would have liked to ask permission before taking advantage of his hospitality once again. But that doesn’t stop you from leading the refugees up the steps and into Solas’s rotunda.
“Sit on the couch, or the floor, not at the desks. Don’t touch anything,” you instruct them nervously.
“An odd place,” Fenris comments, looking around at the murals on the walls. “Is it yours?”
You snort. “Not a damn thing here is ‘mine.’ I just work here.” You shift the bag on your back nervously. You would like very much to dump these books somewhere safe before running around bullying half of Skyhold. But you doubt you’ll get the chance. “Alright, easiest thing first, let me go down to the kitchen and get them some food,” you say with a sigh. “Then I’ll need to try and get an audience with Lady Montiliyet to see what beds we have open.” You run a tired hand through your hair. “Why they thought me capable of this, I’ll never know.”
“You seem capable. And Varric mentioned you had done it before?”
You laugh, a short, harsh sound. You feel like you must be dreaming; everything’s happening so fast that you’re having trouble focusing on any one thing for long. “With a group of two dozen elven orphans, not… Say, who are these people, anyway?” you ask with a frown. “Elven refugees, obviously, but—”
“Ex-slaves,” he says shortly.
Oh.
Well, that makes sense.
You know your expression has twisted into something angry, but you can’t help it. Ex-slaves… That reminds you, you should be talking to Belassan and dealing with Sataareth not… this mess. But it can’t be helped. It needs to be done. You let out a long sigh.
“Okay, let’s… I’m going to find Celia. You go to Lady Montiliyet’s office. Out into the hall, second door on the left. There’s going to be several clerks, and they’re going to try and make you leave. Don’t. Just stand there and look intimidating; I’ll meet you there, and by then, someone will have let her know there’s a scary elf refusing to leave.”
Fenris laughs. “That, I can do.”
The kitchen workers are glad to see you back. Even Gaston, in his grumpy way. You think that’s why they don’t give you a hard time when you ask for so much food to be delivered to the rotunda. Either that, or word that you have the Commander’s official sanction on this spread very fast. It doesn’t really matter; what matters is that the newly freed slaves will have food.
You also have the chance to pull Celia to the side. She’s probably the most happy to see you, and you could hazard a guess why.
“How was Val Royeaux?” she asks cheerfully. “Lots of time alone with your Solas?”
“Not so much that I don’t still need you to deliver his breakfast,” you say wryly.
“I do wonder what you’ve got in your mornings that are more important…”
“Don’t forget one of these silvers is for discretion,” you say sourly as you slip the coins into her hand. “And a distinct lack of curiosity.”
“Of course,” she says, though you catch the little smirk at the corner of her lips. As if you could pay her not to be curious. No more than someone could pay you for that. You wouldn’t like her so much, otherwise.
With dinner set up for your people, it’s time to liaison with Lady Montiliyet. Not exactly the way you’d hoped to first meet her coming back from Val Royeaux, since you’re certain both she and Leliana will have plenty of questions for you. Possibly the Commander, as well, although that thought makes you shudder. Hopefully the Inquisitor will be content to let his advisors handle this and won’t want to speak with you at all. There’s only so much attention from Templars you can be expected to tolerate.
Fenris is doing exactly what you’d asked him to, amusingly enough. That amusement lays in how he’s doing it, however. He’s leaning up against the doorway to Lady Montiliyet’s office, feet in one corner and shoulders against the frame, essentially creating a blockage. He’s speaking in a rather bored tone with several flustered messengers. The casual nature of his leaning somehow serves to make him more intimidating, not less, particularly in that tight black armor of his. You wouldn’t want to be the one to try and move him.
“I’m sorry, but she’s very busy with—” one man is saying when you walk over.
“What could be more important than tending to refugees?” Fenris interrupts.
“I, well…” the man stammers as you walk up next to Fenris. You have to stand closer than you’re comfortable with for effect—your aura lurches towards the lyrium-skinned man uncomfortably. You’re really going to have to figure out a way to make it stop doing that. It’s beginning to give you motion sickness.
“I confess, I’m curious as well. I hope it’s nothing to do with my shipment,” you say, your professional posture a stark contrast with Fenris’s.
“Your… Oh. Well, yes, actually, but—”
“But it can be dealt with at a later time,” comes the soft, Antivan-accented voice of Lady Josephine Montiliyet. “I apologize.” Her eyes land on you with a twinkle. “Miss Emma, I’m unsurprised to see you’ve once again volunteered to assist with those who need you the most. Please, both of you, come in.”
Fenris straightens and follows Lady Montiliyet into her office. His worn, black leather armor clashes so with her finest blue and gold silks; it’s almost humorous. You suspect that after so long on the road, you don’t look much more fitting.
“Before we get down to arrangements for the refugees, Miss Emma, I would like to thank you for your work in Val Royeaux. If you could stop by later this evening, I would appreciate the chance to speak with you about it in more detail.”
“Of course, my lady,” you say politely, with a slight bow.
She sits at her desk, dips a quill into ink gently, and focuses her eyes on the two of you. “Now. What do the refugees need?”
You’re amazed at how much easier assisting a large group of elves in need is when you have a man with a greatsword with you. Lady Montiliyet can’t offer you much for right now. You manage to find quarters for the elves to sleep, though they’ll be cramped. Dinner is taken care of, but the elves can go to the mess for meals in the future. As opposed to the large group of refugees Skyhold had received before, this group is small enough not to tax the kitchens. Once their immediate needs are taken care of, of course, the question remains of what to do with them.
“You’ve got them this far,” you comment to Fenris as you pour over a listing of empty rooms Lady Montiliyet had given you. You scribble names onto it and assign the elves as best you can. “Are you planning on going further with them? I’ll admit, I don’t know the protocol when one is freeing slaves.”
“I suspect most will opt to stay here, if work is made available to them,” Fenris replies. “They’ve come a long way.”
“Where are they from?” you wonder. “Nearby?”
“Somewhat. Tevinter slavers are preying on the chaos the southern wars are creating. They often kidnap refugees. This group, however, is a group of escaped slaves from Tevinter. I… heard about their plight from a friend.”
“Why bring them here? Surely there was somewhere closer…?”
“I was headed in this direction. And the Inquisition is one of the few places where a group of ex-slaves might find peace and safety.”
“Fair enough.” Escaped slaves from Tevinter… a group you and Fenris have a lot in common with, then. “And… Nell,” you say, eyeing your list of names. “Said she was good with children… Put her in the third room on the left with… Aelia, Elpis, and Alexis. The rest can go into the large room at the end of the hall.” You finish your frantic name scribbling and glance up. The hallway is full of elves being sorted into various rooms. There aren’t many children, thank the Maker, but there are some. Aelia in particular pulls on your heartstrings. She can’t be more than eight.
After they’ve all been settled, you let out a sigh of relief. It’s late for dinner, but perhaps you’ll actually be able to grab some. You and Fenris have been scrambling all over Skyhold for hours now, and you hadn’t done any of the things you’d wanted to do upon arriving at Skyhold. You lean back against the wall, feeling distinctly like you’re adrift in the ocean, barely keeping your head above water. And your brain is on fire with observations; you can’t turn it off. The elves don’t gather around Fenris, they gather around an elven woman with hair so blonde it’s nearly white. The woman… Nell. She has to be the one behind their escape. Fenris, you suspect, is only responsible for getting them this last leg of their journey.
Not that any of that is likely important. You sincerely doubt you need to be worried about lies and treachery from a group of ex-slaves. Still, neither Nell nor Fenris are being particularly forthcoming on where all these slaves came from, which sets your hackles to raising. Tevinter is notorious for using “ex-slaves” to spy, because of the sympathy given to them in the south. Of course, Leliana knows this. She’ll be watching them. You needn’t bother.
“I feel ‘thank you’ is slightly insufficient,” Fenris says, snapping you out of your racing thoughts. “I’m told there’s a tavern here. Perhaps I can buy you a drink?”
Fenris wants to buy you a drink.
You’d managed to keep yourself distracted with work for the refugees, but now you’re left with nothing left to think about other than the fact this is Fenris and he’s right there and he wants to buy you a drink. You hope you can blame your flush on the fact you’ve been running around all afternoon.
“I, um, I,” you say with extreme eloquence. Ugh. “S-sure. Thank you. Yes.” Just jump off the battlements, oh Maker, you suck so bad at this.
“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing you forward. Maker, you want to hold his hand again, lyrium be damned. And that armor over his fingers… It’s sharp. Is that for that thing Varric said he could do? Plunge his hand clean through someone’s chest? You’d like to see that. You’re probably not going to get a chance… unless he finds out you’re a mage, of course, and then you’re quite certain you’ll see it first hand.
That thought sobers you up somewhat, and you manage to quash the butterflies in your stomach down. You lead Fenris out into the courtyard of Skyhold. There’s a frigid chill in the air. It will be Kingsway tomorrow, come to think of it. It’s only going to get colder. Ugh. Thank the Maker you purchased blankets. Your room has no fireplace and a window. It’s going to be a long, miserable winter.
“I find it interesting that your fortification has a tavern,” Fenris comments.
“You and me both. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not really sure why. To give the soldiers something to do, I imagine.” You’re trying to keep the nervousness out of your voice, but you doubt you’re succeeding. Every time you look at him, you get overcome with a rush of what the fuck, it’s FENRIS that makes you dizzy. This can’t be happening! “I… I understand this probably sounds weird, but I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you,” you say with a nervous laugh as the two of you enter the tavern. It seems quiet there without the Chargers.
“Oh?” says Fenris, sounding a bit confused. He gets two drinks from the bartender, who gives you a long, possibly judging look. “I hope Varric didn’t build me up to be something grand; you’re bound to be disappointed.”
You chuckle nervously, fingers twisting together in front of you. “Well, you know,” you say as Fenris selects a noticeably secluded table for the two of you to sit. “You spend so long reading about someone, it can be hard to remember they’re real and not legend.”
Fenris had been taking a drink. Perhaps your timing was poor, because he chokes on it. You stare, alarmed, as he coughs, thudding himself on the chest with a gauntleted fist. “Read? Oh, Maker. You’ve read Varric’s book.”
“Did he, uh… not mention that?” you say, eyes wide. What a thing to leave out, Varric!
“He neglected to,” Fenris says sourly. “That little… I can assure you, I don’t have much in common with the ‘Fenris’ he wrote about.”
“No?” you say, a little disappointed, although not altogether surprised. “His description wasn’t very far off, if you don’t mind me saying,” you say, managing to put a bit of a teasing note in your voice, against all odds.
“The description?” Fenris says with a snort. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted, given how I’m described in that wretched book.”
“Well, I’ve yet to see you brood,” you admit. “But other than that…” You weren’t going to repeat the parts you were privately agreeing with out loud, that was for sure. But a ‘lithe, brooding figure, white hair stark against black leather armor’ wasn’t exactly inaccurate. “Did he at least get the facts right?”
“Oh, most of them,” Fenris says sourly. “Although now I’m beginning to question his description of you, given the accuracy with which he described me.”
“At least you got to read what he wrote about you!” you say with a laugh. Fenris is drinking his drink faster than you are… Let him. You don’t need to be plastered around Fenris. “I just got drunk, rambled my history at him, and prayed.”
“Really?” Fenris says with a snort. “Why did you do that?”
You pause, a flush rising to your cheeks. “He, uh… didn’t say? It was…” You clear your throat awkwardly. “Never mind.”
Fenris raises an eyebrow. The motion reminds you starkly of Solas and sends a pleasant chill through, followed by a rush of warmth. Maker. You cover for yourself by downing some of your ale.
“So what does bring you to Skyhold?” you say, grasping desperately for a topic that isn’t ‘so, hey, TEVINTER amirite?’. “You said you were heading this direction.”
“Ah… yes. I meant to meet a friend here,” he says. “I ran into the runaways on the trip and things got a bit… muddled. It took us longer to get here than it might have, otherwise. But, I’m—”
Just then, the bar door slams open loudly. You jolt in your seat and twist, expecting to see the Iron Bull and the Chargers, just returned from their job. Instead, you see a man you don’t recognize, with shaggy black hair and a trimmed beard. Behind him is Varric, who looks somewhere between exasperated and frantic. Not a look you’re used to seeing on him.
“What part of low profile—”
“Doesn’t get any lower than a tavern, Varric,” the man says cheerfully… and loudly. “Besides, I’m—Oh! Fenris!” As the man saunters over and places his hands on the table, things begin slowly clicking into place. You stare at the man with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Who’s your lady friend? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“I probably shouldn’t, considering,” Fenris says with dry irritability. “Aren’t you supposed to be off hiding?”
“There’s no use in hiding. I’m going to be here for a few days at least; I’m not going to spend it cowering in a corner. Not when there are such pretty women here,” he adds, obviously directing the comment at you, although you have no idea why. There are probably prettier women within ten yards of you at any given time. “If Fenris is going to insist on being rude, would you give me your name, ma’asha1?”
His use of Elven makes you recoil slightly, although you fight to hide the disgust on your face. A shem speaking the language. You’d sooner rip his fucking tongue out.
“If Merrill heard you, she’d cry,” Varric comments sourly, giving you an apologetic look.
“Merrill’s not here,” the man says, eyes twinkling mischievously. You feel a sick twisting in your stomach. You glance desperately over at Fenris, praying for him to interject, for him or Varric to tell you this isn’t exactly who you think it is. “Well, it’s good that Fenris has found a ‘friend’. Keep in mind though, love, three makes pleasant company.” He gives you a fond wink and then saunters off towards the bar. You turn to Varric.
“Varric. Tell me I didn’t just get propositioned for a threesome by the Champion of Kirkwall.”
“I wish I could, Stutter,” Varric says apologetically. “He’s uh… He’s got a thing for…”
“He’s an elf fetishist,” Fenris says sourly. “No doubt the length of your ears enticed him.”
You gag into your mouth a little. “You uh… Left that part out of your book, Varric.”
“It didn’t seem relevant,” he says dryly.
“Oh, but you need a paragraph dedicated to my musculature?” Fenris asks irritably.
“To be fair, he spent twice as much time on Isabela,” you interject.
“Isabela insisted,” Fenris replies dryly. You can’t help but laugh, which lightens the mood somewhat.
“You two kids have fun,” Varric says smugly. “I gotta go babysit.” He turns and trots after Hawke; you shake your head slowly.
“Is that the ‘friend’ you were talking about? What’s he doing here?” you ask insistently, your head spinning with questions now that you’re done being revolted.
“He’s meeting with the Inquisitor,” Fenris replies. “More than that, I cannot say.”
You turn to eye Hawke’s back; he’s hitting on the barmaid, looks like. At least you don’t have to worry about him being serious in his expressed desires. As if he can feel your gaze on his back, however, he glances back over his shoulder. When his eyes meet yours, he grins and gives you a wink. You quickly turn your eyes back to your mug. That’s the man who defeated the Arishok in single combat?
“He’s… unexpectedly slimy,” you mutter, and Fenris surprises you by laughing, a low, hearty chuckle that makes your chest thrum.
“Most are enamored by his legend alone,” he says when his laughter dies down.
You scowl. His legend? Admittedly, yes, you’re impressed by the stories you’ve heard about him, but among those stories is the brutal butchering of many an innocent mage. Although… you suppose Fenris wouldn’t have much problem with that. Your mood sours a little further. Surrounded by the very stars from heaven, and every single one of them would probably love to run you through. Hawke, apparently, in more ways than one.
You take a long drink, then thump the empty mug down on the table, which is enough to have the barmaid wandering towards you to refill it.
“That was fast,” Fenris comments. Before you can reply, the barmaid rolls her eyes.
“If I leave it empty, she might throw it at the Champion.”
You glare at the woman, but she just turns cheekily and wanders off.
“It seems as though you’re full of interesting stories,” Fenris says. You snort.
“Me? You’re in a book!”
“Therefore, you already know all about it. I’m at a disadvantage.” Fenris leans onto the table, resting his chin on the back of his hands. You can’t help but stare; Maker, he’s gorgeous. Those eyes… wide and green, like most elves. Like yours, a bit, although his are much more hazel, whereas yours have hints of—oh Maker you are staring into his eyes stop stop stop stop.
“I, uh… Well I haven’t done anything nearly as interesting…” you flounder, staring down at your mug again.
“We both know that isn’t true,” he says with a chuckle. “Unless Varric was making up stories again.”
You flush slightly. “Well, admittedly, I didn’t read what he wrote, but it was probably true. I don’t think he’d need to embellish.”
“You were much younger than I when you escaped. It’s very impressive,” he says seriously. “To get of Seheron on your own, and then avoid capture…”
“Well I didn’t have anyone chasing me… probably. Nor did I have any way of being magically tracked,” you point out. “I had quite the advantage, compared to you.”
“Where did you go first?” Fenris asks curiously.
“Antiva. I got passage on a ‘merchant’ ship coming from Seheron. I spent a year or two there, then traveled east into Rivain. What about you?”
“I took a similar route, though I went south into the Free Marches,” Fenris replies.
“And to Kirkwall,” you say with a grin. “To think, if I’d gone south rather than east, I could have been caught up in that mess. I had considered Kirkwall, after escaping, but its history with Tevinter slavery made me think twice.” Plus, by that point, word was spreading of Meredith’s paranoia. You had decided that Rivain was much safer for a mage newly come into their powers.
“I wasn’t intending to stay there for as long as I did,” Fenris admits. “Hawke has a way of getting you to do things that you wouldn’t have otherwise.”
You snort into your mug. “Considering the only thing he wants me to do is indulge his desire to be the filling in an elf sandwich, I really hope that’s not true.” You see a half-smile flicker across Fenris’s face. You want to see it again, immediately. “I have to admit, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.”
“I can imagine,” Fenris says with a thoughtful nod. “You had just arrived back from a journey on behest of the Inquisition, had you not? Then you get immediately swept up in the care of a group of refugees…”
“That’s… not quite what I meant,” you say with a laugh. “Although you’re not wrong. I meant, um… Well, when I first came here and met Varric, I couldn’t believe it. Now I’m meeting you. I… When I first read about you, I couldn’t believe it. Someone like me.” You chuckle. “Maybe it’s not so rare, finding other slaves escaped from their Magister masters. You seem to have found an entire group. But to me it was… I have had too much to drink already,” you decide abruptly, flushing. “I’m rambling.”
“It’s fine,” Fenris says, although it does nothing for your reddening cheeks. “I was… pleased to hear of the similarity in our stories as well. It’s a sort of… camaraderie?”
“Yes! I mean, uh… Yes,” you say at a much more reasonable volume. “I met ex-slaves in Antiva, but most were escaped from the Crows, or something similar. Antiva was… rife with slavers, as I’m sure you know. If there were other escapees from Tevinter there, we all kept it to ourselves.”
Fenris nods. “Yes… I moved through Antiva quickly. It’s not a safe place for those running from Tevinter.”
“And you went to Kirkwall?” you say with a laugh.
He chuckles slightly. “As I said, it was not my intention to stay.”
The more drink you imbibe, the easier it’s becoming to converse with Fenris. But you keep getting distracted by the sight—and sensation—of the lyrium in his skin. Maker, do you want to touch him again. How do regular mages handle themselves around him? Perhaps they simply have more self-control than you. Still, you keep yourself from drinking too much; Fenris is the last person you need to be testing your control around.
Conversation inevitably turns to the ex-slaves, which seems like a safe topic. Moreso than Hawke or your own shared histories, in any case.
“I wonder if the Inquisition can find work for them?” you’re saying. “That’s what they seem to do with most small refugee groups… Pick out the ones who can help and find somewhere safe for the rest to go.”
“There aren’t many ‘safe’ places for slaves on the run from Tevinter,” Fenris says darkly. Varric had been right. He has a tendency to brood. Varric had also been right that it was incredibly attractive.
“And Skyhold is one of the few,” you agree. “I’ll speak to Lady Montiliyet about it when… I… when… fuck.”
Fenris looks at you curiously as horror dawns on your face.
“I was supposed to meet with her! Ir abe—Er, my apologies, Fenris. I shouldn’t keep her waiting any more than I already have,” you say, standing up quickly.
“Of course. If you’ll still be assisting with the refugees, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other,” he says, and you fight heat rising in your cheeks—and other places. Yeah, you’d like to see a lot more of—wow you’d drunk more than you thought.
You apologize a few more times for good measure, and then race haphazardly across the courtyard and towards the Great Hall. You’re not extremely drunk, but you are clearly intoxicated. You doubt it will escape Lady Montiliyet’s notice, but you try to sober yourself as much as possible before entering her office.
“Ah, Miss Emma, there you are!” she says cheerfully, as you hadn’t shown up half an hour late and visibly drunk. She sets down the thing she’d been writing, sets her quill into a holder. Maker, she has nice things—you’re a bit envious, really. “We’re so glad you could make it.”
We?
And that’s when you notice that the Nightingale is in the room. And that it’s conspicuously lacking in guards and messengers, particularly as it isn’t even that late yet.
You sober remarkably fast.
- my lady (tips fedora in elven) ↩︎