I’m not good at that sort of thing, Astrid had said to her Scoutmaster, once upon a time, blanching at the description of some of their tasks; but there’s always time to learn. And as much as she’d like to spend all her time surveying territories in the wilderness and drawing maps and reporting back on Venatori movements, Riftwatch needs variety, needs their people to pull multiple duties.

Sometimes she has to be in a city. Sometimes she has to pretend.

So today, she’s strolling along beside Abella. The Imperium has its fist around Minrathous’ throat, and that means guards everywhere, watching the population, the people look harried. She’s picked up some more information from her Ambassadoria contact today — something about golem control rods, a scheme being offered by someone named Vaclav — and they need to get back to the safehouse with the details.

They’re pausing at the street corner, catching their breath, getting their plan ready in case they get stopped by guards on the street. (They’re gonna get stopped in the street.)

“What’s your cover story gonna be?” she asks, quiet. “I can probably pretend to be a dock worker; they don’t have to know I get sea-sick as fuck.”