Other people are supposed to be better at this than Astrid. The last time she’d needed to distract the authorities, she’d yanked down her trousers and pretended to take a piss in an alley. That probably isn’t going to work this time. Her brain freezes, hand instinctively latching onto Abella.
She’s good at weaselling her way out of a scrap when she’s on her actual feet, cutting and running, shoving opponents over a bridge. A fight. But they can’t fight the guards here; they’re in the middle of occupied Minrathous. Can she use the fake girlfriend excuse again? No, that doesn’t make sense here.
“It’s my little brother’s birthday,” she blurts out. “He’s twenty-five. We need lots of candles.”
The men stare back at them, unfazed. “You’ll have to go to one of the other markets,” one says dryly. “Workers need access to this street.”
Astrid’s staring past him at where the magical anomaly’s fucked up the row of buildings. This particular market district is where they need to go, to reach the Bear’s Tooth tavern and their makeshift headquarters. And the second guard’s still looking at them: “Who even needs that many candles for a birthday cake? Only children still do that.”
“He likes, um, surprises. We’re throwin’ a surprise party,” Astrid says, windmilling. “You could be invited too?”
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Other people are supposed to be better at this than Astrid. The last time she’d needed to distract the authorities, she’d yanked down her trousers and pretended to take a piss in an alley. That probably isn’t going to work this time. Her brain freezes, hand instinctively latching onto Abella.
She’s good at weaselling her way out of a scrap when she’s on her actual feet, cutting and running, shoving opponents over a bridge. A fight. But they can’t fight the guards here; they’re in the middle of occupied Minrathous. Can she use the fake girlfriend excuse again? No, that doesn’t make sense here.
“It’s my little brother’s birthday,” she blurts out. “He’s twenty-five. We need lots of candles.”
The men stare back at them, unfazed. “You’ll have to go to one of the other markets,” one says dryly. “Workers need access to this street.”
Astrid’s staring past him at where the magical anomaly’s fucked up the row of buildings. This particular market district is where they need to go, to reach the Bear’s Tooth tavern and their makeshift headquarters. And the second guard’s still looking at them: “Who even needs that many candles for a birthday cake? Only children still do that.”
“He likes, um, surprises. We’re throwin’ a surprise party,” Astrid says, windmilling. “You could be invited too?”
Oh no.