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((14 Harvestmere, 35 Dragon, Mid-afternoon; @Aveline Vallen ))
Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic stood outside the closed door to his captain’s office, wondering what he had done to earn the summons he had received. The list of possibilities was, unfortunately, not a short one. Guard-Captain Hendallen was a stickler for rules, protocol and by-the-book law enforcement, while Donnen tended to lean heavily toward the get-shit-done philosophy. Since it worked for him more often than not, the Iron Lady usually let it slide, but when it didn’t work, he heard about it. He lifted a hand and knocked three times on the heavy oaken door.
“Enter,” barked a no-nonsense voice from the other side, so he did.
Captain Hendallen sat behind her desk, managing to keep a parade-erect posture even so. Her hair, the fiery red of a Waking Sea sunset and tied neatly at the nape of her neck, gleamed faintly in the light from the oil lamps. Eyes as green as emeralds remained on the report that lay on the desk for a moment longer before lifting to regard him, the cool disapproval frosting her gaze something he’d seen often enough. But he could also see the light dusting of freckles over her nose; no one with freckles could be completely without a sense of fun, and Donnen wondered – not for the first time – just what the Captain was like when she let her hair down. Just what kind of passions lay constrained beneath that tightly controlled demeanor. And in his heart of hearts, the once-retired guardsman knew that the reason he’d come back wasn’t his passion for justice, or boredom, or even because a drunk had burned his tavern to the ground, but the chance that he might be able to find out for himself.
Varric leaned back in his chair to re-read the passage he’d just written and nodded in satisfaction. Pure literary gold. This one would have it all: action and intrigue, romance and steamy parts. It couldn’t miss, and he took a celebratory swig from his mug of ale.
Movement from the direction of the front door caught his eye. Maybe the hair wasn’t quite as red as a Waking Sea sunset, and maybe the eyes were closer to moss green than emerald, but he still sprinkled a bit of sand over the still-damp ink on the parchment and casually shifted the page beneath a few others as his visitor headed directly for him with a no-nonsense air that Donnen Brennokovic would have recognized at once.
“Aveline,” he greeted her cordially. “Just happen to be in the neighborhood and decide to drop by? I'm flattered.”
Guardsman Donnen Brennokovic stood outside the closed door to his captain’s office, wondering what he had done to earn the summons he had received. The list of possibilities was, unfortunately, not a short one. Guard-Captain Hendallen was a stickler for rules, protocol and by-the-book law enforcement, while Donnen tended to lean heavily toward the get-shit-done philosophy. Since it worked for him more often than not, the Iron Lady usually let it slide, but when it didn’t work, he heard about it. He lifted a hand and knocked three times on the heavy oaken door.
“Enter,” barked a no-nonsense voice from the other side, so he did.
Captain Hendallen sat behind her desk, managing to keep a parade-erect posture even so. Her hair, the fiery red of a Waking Sea sunset and tied neatly at the nape of her neck, gleamed faintly in the light from the oil lamps. Eyes as green as emeralds remained on the report that lay on the desk for a moment longer before lifting to regard him, the cool disapproval frosting her gaze something he’d seen often enough. But he could also see the light dusting of freckles over her nose; no one with freckles could be completely without a sense of fun, and Donnen wondered – not for the first time – just what the Captain was like when she let her hair down. Just what kind of passions lay constrained beneath that tightly controlled demeanor. And in his heart of hearts, the once-retired guardsman knew that the reason he’d come back wasn’t his passion for justice, or boredom, or even because a drunk had burned his tavern to the ground, but the chance that he might be able to find out for himself.
Varric leaned back in his chair to re-read the passage he’d just written and nodded in satisfaction. Pure literary gold. This one would have it all: action and intrigue, romance and steamy parts. It couldn’t miss, and he took a celebratory swig from his mug of ale.
Movement from the direction of the front door caught his eye. Maybe the hair wasn’t quite as red as a Waking Sea sunset, and maybe the eyes were closer to moss green than emerald, but he still sprinkled a bit of sand over the still-damp ink on the parchment and casually shifted the page beneath a few others as his visitor headed directly for him with a no-nonsense air that Donnen Brennokovic would have recognized at once.
“Aveline,” he greeted her cordially. “Just happen to be in the neighborhood and decide to drop by? I'm flattered.”
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