serindrana

16th February 2012

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Scattered Coin :: L is for Labdanum [Athenril ABCs] →

[Not ready to go on a once a day update schedule again, but I’ve had L sitting around for weeks now, and a few people were supportive of me posting it! I’m hopefully going to finish N tonight, so we’ll see where that takes me.

Last installment was K is for Kith.

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Labdanum, n., a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.]

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L is for Labdanum

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Hilgrud is running the first watch line as Athenril bends over the crate, Orlesian Port Authority-stamped and filled to the brim with exotic and expensive perfumes dutifully liberated from its intended warehouse. She’s kept the girl close ever since their run-in two weeks before with the ginger brute, and the girl is an even faster study with direction. She’s also honest - with Athenril, at any rate - and that counts for more than Athenril is readily willing to admit.

She’s also quiet, and Athenril only notices her a few seconds before she feels the small fingers tug at her leggings, clever little hands dexterous enough to gain purchase on the fitted leather.

Athenril scowls and bats at her even as she straightens.

“What?”

“She’s back,” Hilgrud breathes, something like a stage whisper, and Athenril looks beyond her.

And there’s Aveline.

This time, however, Aveline is not wearing the armor of the guard. This time she has donned her old togs, rough tunic and rough studded leather, muscles arms bared and broad shoulders allowed to speak for themselves. Athenril eyes her warily, watches as the freckled beast hesitates- and then bows her head in greeting.

Athenril sighs. “Get over here.”

Hilgrud dashes behind the crate before Aveline is close enough that Athenril can read her unease in more than gross body language, mark the furrow lines in the middle of her brow, the tension in the set of her jaw. Aveline has always been easy to read, even if Athenril only knows the broad strokes of her: Fereldan, soldier, once married to a templar. Idealistic. Naive.

Determined.

“Here to arrest me in plainclothes?” Athenril asks, lightly.

“No,” Aveline says, and glances to the crate. “… Here to assist with lifting, actually. If you like.”

Athenril barks a startled laugh. “What, help? Are you out of your mind, guard captain? If your enemies see you here-“

“Then I crush their face in. Do you have any other objections, beyond your obvious concern for my wellbeing?”

“Why?”

The question hangs between them a moment, tense and heavy, and it’s Aveline who looks away. “Because I would have impounded these myself if you hadn’t gotten to them first. I’m not a big fan of them ever reaching their intended recipient.”

Athenril lifts a questioning brow, otherwise fighting to stay passive. “An enemy of yours not deserving their perfumes?”

“There’s poisons in there to,” Aveline says. “Or at least, there should be.”

She has always been good at not letting surprise show. It’s a weakness, as is her frustration at something slipping by her. “Good to know,” is all she says. “Well then- Higrud, you go back and run fence. And you, temporary help- put your back into it.”

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They end the night in a tavern that’s not the Hanged Man. Athenril is welcome on Tethras floorboards, and Aveline certainly is, but Athenril prefers the familiar and the private. The Golden Asp, with its gaudy Nevarran decorations, isn’t either in generalities, but she knows the right corner to tuck into.

They have Nevarran wines, too, and food that never crawls with weevils, and that’s worth something.

It’s just her and Aveline. Hilgrud is tucked into a safe house - not one of Athenril’s own, but one that she’s certain is just as safe - and Athenril doesn’t linger with the rest of her team after a successful job. They all go their separate ways. But Aveline has hung on, following Athenril for just an evening the way Athenril presumes she follows Hawke.

Now she’s frowning at the wine.

“They serve piss whiskey, if you need it,” Athenril says, leaning back in the carved wooden booth filled with stained, musty pillows.

“I’m fine,” Aveline says. Earlier today, Athenril would have called it grousing, but she can see the effort the other woman is putting in to it all. She was a damn good set of hands today, but she doesn’t actually want to be here.

Athenril blinks with feigned laziness, sipping at her wine. “Why haven’t you hightailed it home?”

“None of your business, thief,” Aveline says, and tries to cover it with a pull of wine. Athenril frowns, and Aveline at least seems to also recognize that the motion is- exceedingly odd. Perhaps it’s the Orlesian in her, rearing its head at last.

“Do you even know why?”

She catches the ripple of tension in Aveline’s arms, and waits for the woman to slam down her glass and stand. But she catches herself before she gives in to the impulse. She sets her glass down with exceeding care and then sits back, arms crossed over her chest.

“I told you. You did a job that would’ve taken me too much paperwork. So I’m buying you a round, and then I’m going.”

“Oh, you’re buying? Shame. I would’ve ordered something more expensive.”

Aveline fixes her with a warning gaze.

Athenril answers with a smile. “So does this mean we’re finally on full working terms?”

“Something like that.” Aveline is clearly itching to play with the cup to something more substantial. Golden Asp glassware isn’t particularly finely made or delicate - there are endless distortions and impurities in the glass, they’re chipped and ground smooth in places, and the rims are far thicker than the Nevarrans, at least, insist on. But they’re also not metal or wood cups that can be slammed or rolled, at least by people who are used to metal or wood.

“Good to hear. A fine day’s work, if you ask me.”

“It’s not every day,” Aveline mutters, “that you find a thief who’s the best at stealing from the rich and redistributing it all.”

Athenril laughs. “Sure it is.”

Her companion looks up sharply.

“Who else am I going to take from?” she asks with an easy smirk. “The poor have nothing I want. The rich have it all, or the connections to put me in its path.”

“And redistributing?”

“Honest pay for-“

Aveline’s warning look is back.

“For decent work,” Athenril finishes, smoothly. “Stealing livelihood is a noble’s job.”

Aveline regards her a moment, then nods.

“You didn’t pick all that up when you worked for me?” Athenril presses, drawing a leg up onto the bench with her.

“Wasn’t interested.”

“Of course not.”

Athenril considers her glove a moment. It’s not as fine as the first iteration, and she’s still trying to get the braced curl of her last two fingers just right, but there’s tooling in the leather that can keep her attention, if she needs her attention kept. She considers. And then she reaches to one of the discreet pouches at her hip and draws out a small vial, placing it on the table between them.

“Poison?” Aveline asks, frowning.

“Perfume,” Athenril replies. “Fine stuff. Take it in addition to the coin you refused from me.”

Aveline snorts, but she reaches out for the glass all the same.

“And what am I supposed to do with perfume?”

Athenril shrugs. “Not my business.”

She watches as Aveline uncaps the vial, bringing it close enough to sniff experimentally. She keeps it at a safe enough distance that were it something noxious (and it’s not), she would only feel a slight lightheadedness. She’s got a decent, if a bit thick, head on her shoulders, and she’s learning.

“Well?” Athenril asks as Aveline caps it again and sets it down, closer to her edge of the table.

“Marigolds,” Aveline says. “I like it.”

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[Masterpost]

Tagged: scattered coinathenrildragon age alphabet memealphabet meme