[ It could be worse she repeats herself, over and over and over, until the itching in her fingers stops (due, no doubt, to the fucking cold) and the head of the escort in front of her ceases to look like a target. This, if nothing else, is a great improvement, for she very highly doubts that cracking the skull of one of the men meant to defend the precious cargo in which she comes included will do their current task any good.
Looking up at an already alarmingly dark sky, she supposes that in a worst case scenario she can simply salvage the corpse of a bandit. It ought to preserve nicely at the current temperature, regardless of how long she needs to stay in the little village. It is very little, after all-- it wouldn't keep me out here for long. It is with these promising thoughts in mind that the first arrow graces her cheek, and by the time someone is grabbing her and telling her to keep low and hidden, a few many filthy criminals are coming their way, yelling and waving and making her ears hurt with all the unnecessary noise. Charming. ]
five;
[ The bard has a lovely enough voice, she supposes. It distracts her from the unsatisfying taste of her brandy (antivan, the bartender said, but if this is antivan then her ears are fucking round) and the curious looks of the agents still not used to the Inquisition's new volunteer-- if nothing else, it's also what's keeping their eyes on their sockets (where they belong) and not in a jar atop her desk (where she'd like to have them). That alone ought to make them feel very grateful, she thinks.
Not that it matters.
She leans back on her chair, eyes set on the faces of her observers and on the rest of the tavern's current crowd and, if not happy, if not at peace, at least she feels a bit less bitter and a good deal less tense, the cold send to the back of her mind-- a little inconvenience for once, instead of the constant and mortifying weight that usually tormenting her. It'll do. A hand plays with one of her earrings, the light of the candles and the fire catching in it with a pretty glint; yes, it's not perfect and it's not home, but it's nice enough.
valeria | dragon age oc | city elf, rivaini, angry practitioner
[ It could be worse she repeats herself, over and over and over, until the itching in her fingers stops (due, no doubt, to the fucking cold) and the head of the escort in front of her ceases to look like a target. This, if nothing else, is a great improvement, for she very highly doubts that cracking the skull of one of the men meant to defend the precious cargo in which she comes included will do their current task any good.
Looking up at an already alarmingly dark sky, she supposes that in a worst case scenario she can simply salvage the corpse of a bandit. It ought to preserve nicely at the current temperature, regardless of how long she needs to stay in the little village. It is very little, after all-- it wouldn't keep me out here for long. It is with these promising thoughts in mind that the first arrow graces her cheek, and by the time someone is grabbing her and telling her to keep low and hidden, a few many filthy criminals are coming their way, yelling and waving and making her ears hurt with all the unnecessary noise. Charming. ]
five;
[ The bard has a lovely enough voice, she supposes. It distracts her from the unsatisfying taste of her brandy (antivan, the bartender said, but if this is antivan then her ears are fucking round) and the curious looks of the agents still not used to the Inquisition's new volunteer-- if nothing else, it's also what's keeping their eyes on their sockets (where they belong) and not in a jar atop her desk (where she'd like to have them). That alone ought to make them feel very grateful, she thinks.
Not that it matters.
She leans back on her chair, eyes set on the faces of her observers and on the rest of the tavern's current crowd and, if not happy, if not at peace, at least she feels a bit less bitter and a good deal less tense, the cold send to the back of her mind-- a little inconvenience for once, instead of the constant and mortifying weight that usually tormenting her. It'll do. A hand plays with one of her earrings, the light of the candles and the fire catching in it with a pretty glint; yes, it's not perfect and it's not home, but it's nice enough.
Awful brandy, though.]