All her equipment is hide and leather, not nicely-made silver and metal. She says, casually foul-mouthed but with no particular spite in it, “You try keeping a sachet safe and dry when crossing the mountains in winter, and through the roads into fucking Ferelden, and then across the Waking Sea when it’s pissing rain. I’ll need to stock up.”

Astrid stretches, legs extending and toes curling in her well-worn boots, getting as comfortable on the edge of the scaffolding as she can. It’s an alright place to sit and have a smoke. She’s been trying to place the man’s name and accent as he speaks, but she doesn’t have much experience yet with foreigners. So maybe her assumption’s wrong and maybe it’s unfair for her conclusion to simply land on well that’s a fancy man, but stereotypes are stereotypes and —

“You’re from, what, Antiva? You’ve all got more fields than the Frostbacks. Easier to grow shit.”