Hermione’s impression of the crazy-eyes are very good — and trust her, Astrid’s known a few — and it does the job.
Avigd frowns. There’s the dwarven inexperience with magic, the inherent mistrust carved even deeper. “Fucking Stone-blasted mages,” he mutters, and wrings out some of his beard. His words are tighter around the edges, clearer than when they first met him in the tavern: “Fine. Tell Lemmit to mind his own business, I’ll clean it up a bit.”
It’s only a brief compress on the wound, she suspects. A temporary staunching of the bleeding. She’s known alcoholics in the hold, the ones who get too deep in their potato vodka in the depths of winter when there’s little to do and the long nights and darkness are taking their toll, and they found too much solace in the bottom of the bottle.
So they’ll need to come back here, maybe, but in the meantime…
“You gonna be able to find your way home?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, girl,” he grouses. And, desperate to be away from these two problem children, he squares his shoulders and marches off into the night, still dripping water. At least it’s summer in Tevinter; it’s so warm up here he won’t freeze to death or anything. Would’ve been a problem back home.
Astrid watches him go. After a moment, “Thanks,” she says.
no subject
Avigd frowns. There’s the dwarven inexperience with magic, the inherent mistrust carved even deeper. “Fucking Stone-blasted mages,” he mutters, and wrings out some of his beard. His words are tighter around the edges, clearer than when they first met him in the tavern: “Fine. Tell Lemmit to mind his own business, I’ll clean it up a bit.”
It’s only a brief compress on the wound, she suspects. A temporary staunching of the bleeding. She’s known alcoholics in the hold, the ones who get too deep in their potato vodka in the depths of winter when there’s little to do and the long nights and darkness are taking their toll, and they found too much solace in the bottom of the bottle.
So they’ll need to come back here, maybe, but in the meantime…
“You gonna be able to find your way home?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, girl,” he grouses. And, desperate to be away from these two problem children, he squares his shoulders and marches off into the night, still dripping water. At least it’s summer in Tevinter; it’s so warm up here he won’t freeze to death or anything. Would’ve been a problem back home.
Astrid watches him go. After a moment, “Thanks,” she says.