Astrid doesn’t much go in for surnames anyhow. Runasdotten says something more about her mum than about her —
But she looks back in time to catch Hermione’s display and laughs, which perhaps isn’t the most ringing endorsement, but she’d seen the girl with her hair tied up for work and clothes dusty from the excavations at the safehouse, which is an unfair advantage. It is a good, frightening look.
“More than. He’s a coward anyway,” she declares, and then moves forward to push her shoulder against the door, knocking it open and leading the way indoors.
Inside: it’s not a place for magisters. It’s a bar for dock workers, merchants passing through, tired Ambassadoria employees clocking out and needing a drink, other human civil servants without a drop of magical ability, the cogs which keep the city running. A lot of dwarves, a lot of sailors. Perhaps there’s a down-on-their-luck Laetan or two, but they’re by far the minority.
And— there, in the corner, Avigd Nista. A burly dwarf guard off-duty and seated at a table, deep in his cups in the way that’s not really fun anymore, and his companions are looking a little weary of it while he opines. As the women approach the table, he stops and stares at Astrid in clear recognition, struggling through the haze to figure out why he knows her.
Then, spooked, like he’s seen a ghost: “Lavina,” he hisses, jerking and spilling some more beer on his shirt.
Astrid stares back in blank cluelessness for a moment before it clicks into place — oh, right, that was her pseudonym at the time, wasn’t it, fuck, spywork is hard. “We need a chat with our friend here,” she announces, sliding onto the bench beside Avigd and slinging an arm over the back of his seat, temporarily blocking his exit. There are a couple other dwarves seated at the table which Hermione will need to shake loose to clear their chairs.
no subject
But she looks back in time to catch Hermione’s display and laughs, which perhaps isn’t the most ringing endorsement, but she’d seen the girl with her hair tied up for work and clothes dusty from the excavations at the safehouse, which is an unfair advantage. It is a good, frightening look.
“More than. He’s a coward anyway,” she declares, and then moves forward to push her shoulder against the door, knocking it open and leading the way indoors.
Inside: it’s not a place for magisters. It’s a bar for dock workers, merchants passing through, tired Ambassadoria employees clocking out and needing a drink, other human civil servants without a drop of magical ability, the cogs which keep the city running. A lot of dwarves, a lot of sailors. Perhaps there’s a down-on-their-luck Laetan or two, but they’re by far the minority.
And— there, in the corner, Avigd Nista. A burly dwarf guard off-duty and seated at a table, deep in his cups in the way that’s not really fun anymore, and his companions are looking a little weary of it while he opines. As the women approach the table, he stops and stares at Astrid in clear recognition, struggling through the haze to figure out why he knows her.
Then, spooked, like he’s seen a ghost: “Lavina,” he hisses, jerking and spilling some more beer on his shirt.
Astrid stares back in blank cluelessness for a moment before it clicks into place — oh, right, that was her pseudonym at the time, wasn’t it, fuck, spywork is hard. “We need a chat with our friend here,” she announces, sliding onto the bench beside Avigd and slinging an arm over the back of his seat, temporarily blocking his exit. There are a couple other dwarves seated at the table which Hermione will need to shake loose to clear their chairs.