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Of A Particular Quality

Chapter 7: In and out the Eagle

Thankfully, Beraht didn’t ask for a mess or a message today, just for it to be done. She is a honorable man, when she can choose to be, and today she has a choice. She will make it fast. She will make it painless. Her opponent will not needlessly suffer.

Word count: 3,558

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[AO3]

She realizes very quickly that she’s underestimated the building’s ability to muffle sound. The noise hits her like a wall as soon as the door is open, and makes her flinch.

She forces herself to cross the threshold anyway.

There’s about two dozen people inside Tapster’s, none in groups any larger than three, all scattered about to various places in the room. Nowhere near the building’s capacity, a fraction of the number of people that the bar handles nightly, but unfortunately for Brosca they are all talking at exactly the same time.

And one of them is singing. No, two of them. Two people, singing different songs on opposite ends of the building. And the owner is loudly telling off a barmaid. And somewhere unseen, a mug hits the ground and rings metallic through the whole room, which leads to more telling-off. And and and.

Brosca steps inside fully, door closing behind her, and then the smell hits.

The air is warm, and it reeks of moss wine and ale and the stale pooling of both on the floor, growing new life in the corners no one sees and, therefore, no one cleans. There’s frying nug-skin, hot mushrooms, the scent of many sweating bodies. Various perfumes. The strange dirts that surfacers track in on their boots. A trace of vomit that wasn’t mopped up as well as it should have been.

She wrinkles her nose at it involuntarily. It’s a lot. It’s too much. But as much as she’s not happy that she’s only two steps in the door and already overwhelmed and irritated, there is some cold comfort in the fact that she is definitely, definitely, no longer hungry.

“Must’ve been busy last night,” Leske says.

“What makes you say that?”

“It fucking stinks in here.” He claps her on the shoulder, hard enough it makes her jolt, then squeezes. “Put your mean face on, kid, I gotta talk to the barman.”

Brosca pulls the loose square scarf around her neck up over her nose and mouth, careful to leave her brand mostly visible. It’s meant more for keeping out soot and miasma than scents, but it smells like herself, like the soap Rica washes their clothes in, like her house, and that cuts through it somewhat. It’s better than nothing.

Eyebrows pulled together, she ducks her head and follows him to the bar.

The big guy who runs Tapster’s has a name, but Brosca always manages to forget it. She knows him by sight though, short brown hair, beard cut close everywhere but his upper lip. He’s more soft meat than muscle, and wears copper in his ears and discreet silver around his neck. Some money, but not much, and what he does have he keeps careful track off. Not worth pickpocketing unless you’re desperate.

He’s just finished his dressing down of the barmaid when they step up to the counter, and scowls at the sight of their brands.

“We don’t serve the gangue here. Get out before I call the guard.”

Leske puts his palms on the counter anyways, rocks foreward and puts his weight on them so he’s in the other man’s face. Brosca takes her usual place next to but slightly behind him, body angled outwards toward the rest of the room just enough so that she can see both it and whoever Leske is talking to, hand resting on the hilt of her knife. It’s clear, without being so obvious as to attract undue attention, that she’s the muscle. That she’s watching his back, that she’s ready.

“Are you deaf? I said we don’t serve brands. Out.”

Brosca frowns behind her scarf. It isn’t even true. Lots of casteless drink at Tapster’s. Everyone in her neighborhood knows it. She’s had drinks in Tapster’s, and she doesn’t even drink. He’s just making a show for his caste customers. If they’d come in less obviously, or when it was busier and with their brands harder to spot, he would’ve sold to them without blinking.

Like so many places, Tapster’s was more than willing to take casteless coin, so long as no one had to deal with the humiliation of actually being seen with one.

“Don’t act like you don’t know who we are,” Leske says.

The barman looks at him for a long moment, then looks at Brosca.

It’s not hard for her to put on her mean face, all the movement and sounds and scents in the room around her already have her feeling like she wants to kill something, so she doesn’t have to pretend. She squares her shoulders a little to seem bigger, glares at him over her scarf, rubs her thumb over the pommel of her knife meaningfully.

He looks away.

“I already paid Beraht for this month.”

“We aren’t here to collect, Budimir, we’re looking for someone.”

(Budimir. Budimir Budimir Budimir. She doesn’t know how she always forgets that one.)

Budimir makes a frustrated noise, looks around uncomfortably.

“Hurry up and tell me who so I can get you out of here.”

Leske leans in so that his elbows rest on the counter. Arms crossed, stomach overlapping the edge. Putting as much of his Ancestor-forsaken body on Budimir’s nice stone countertop as possible, making it clear he intends to be there for a while.

Budimir seems unhappy, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Name’s Oskias. Me and my friend heard that he’s camped out here.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Brosca?”

She turns and takes a heavy, purposeful step towards the counter. Pulls her shoulder back and unsheathes her knife just enough that a glint of metal is visible.

Budimir backs away in a hurry. Hands up in front of his chest, palms out.

“Oh for fuck’s- fine, fine.”

Leske gestures at her, and she backs off. Releases the hilt of her knife so it slips back into its sheath.

Budimir goes back to his spot, mumbling something that sounds a lot like “fucking animals” under his breath as he brushes off the front of his shirt in an attempt to appear composed.

“He’s in the back, near the smaller fireplace. Merchant caste, red hair, no beard. He’s dressed all… surfacer-like, the fucking idiot. Sticks out like a sore thumb, ya can’t miss him.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Leske pushes himself up to standing, “tell your girl not to bother with his table. We don’t want to be disturbed.”

Budimir nods, hesitates.

“Hey, how-” he clears his throat, lowers his voice a little, “how mad is he at this guy, exactly? Beraht, that is.”

“Oh, extremely.”

Budimir makes a face. If pressed, Brosca would have to call it a wince.

“Try not to make too much of a mess?”

Leske laughs.

“No promises.” He nods to her, a signal to follow. “Brosca.”

I can promise, she thinks, but says nothing as she falls into step behind Leske, follows the path he’s cutting through the bar’s many tables. She’s not a sadist, she doesn’t like dragging things out or making a mess.

Thankfully, Beraht didn’t ask for either today, just for it to be done. She is a honorable man, when she can choose to be, and today she has a choice. She will make it fast. She will make it painless. Her opponent will not needlessly suffer. She can promise.

Leske’s sheathed sword catches on a chair as he passes, jolting it. The chair’s occupant turns, half-rises, but sits back down after she growls at him, the warning clearly enough.

Dark brown hair, blue eyes, thick beard, gold jewelry. He seems familiar, but she can’t place him. She keeps moving.

As promised, they find Davedna sitting in an odd little corner near the back, a place where you’re out of the way, but still visible. Seen but ignored, unless you do something specific to call attention to yourself. Brosca thinks it was clever of him. A good choice.

He does look odd, though. Surfacers always look odd, you can tell what they are, usually, just by looking at them. Brosca does think he could have been a bit smarter with that. Made himself smaller.

Leske makes a gesture near his hip, a flick downwards with two fingers, and Brosca nods, even though he can’t see her.

The table is empty, Davedna is alone, running the tip of his finger around the rim of his cup as he looks at the fire. They split apart a few feet away from the table, Leske going to stand beside him on the right while Brosca curves around the table to stand by his left.

He startles, when he finally notices them, but by then its too late. The already have him boxed in.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re a hard man to find, Oskias,” Leske says, bracing his hand against the back of his chair and leaning in, looming over him, “it’s tiring, looking for you.”

A quick look-over reveals that he’s unarmed, so she wastes no time getting up in his space. Her boot bumps up against a bag half-hidden beneath the chair as she’s getting into position, and she bends down to pick it up. It’s nice, albeit a little worn. Good leather and heavy fabric, strong seams. It seems mostly empty, and Brosca feels a little spark of hope. Maybe he isn’t stealing. Maybe she doesn’t have to kill him.

“That’s mine.”

Brosca ignores him. He tries to stand, but Leske pushes him back down.

“Hey you can’t just- this is a public place, that’s my property, you can’t-”

She tosses the bag in a short arc over the top of him. Leske catches it, and Davedna squawks in protest as he starts searching it.

“I know people! I’ll have you know that I am under the personal protection of Anor Beraht-”

Leske laughs. It’s mean, but genuine.

“Personal protection, huh?”

“Yes!”

“And what’s he going to do when he finds out you’re cheating him?”

Davedna pales. He turns to Brosca, and she stares him down silently. She’s big and scary, especially with her face covered, arms crossed over her chest to make herself seem even bigger, the knife in her belt is right at his eye level. She sees it in his face the moment he realizes that this isn’t something he can brush off, that it’s real. She sees it also, the moment he realizes that they have him boxed in. That her wedging her leg in-between his knee and the table has effectively pinned him. That he can’t move without moving her first.

He smiles at her with all his nice, white teeth, body language changing completely. A cornered animal, rolling over to show you its stomach. It makes her stomach twist up.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he turns back to Leske in a real hurry.

“Look,” he says, almost pleasantly, “I-I’ve always been loyal to Beraht. He’s been good to my family, I know how much I owe him.”

Leske upends the bag’s contents onto the table. Various small personal items scatter over the stone surface. A comb, a brush for teeth, a small bottle of liquid, a near-empty coin purse, a stray two coppers, a pebble, dust. She looks over the pile for evidence of close family. A wife, children, nephews, even. She finds none, and is sickeningly relieved for it.

Leske drags his fingers through the dust, rubs it between the pads of his thumb and pointer fingers together, holds them more to the light. There’s something almost shiny about it. A fine rock dust mixed in with the gray dirt that glitters when you look at it from the right angle.

Davedna shifts in his seat.

“If you’re so thankful then why are you holding out on him?”

“I haven’t.” He looks up at Brosca. “I wouldn’t.”

It’s not very convincing. She arches her eyebrow at him, and he shrinks back.

“Really, I-I wouldn’t. It’s not in my nature.”

Leske picks the bag back up, starts feeling around the inside of it.

“You won’t find anything.”

“What’s this?” Leske says, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Got a little extra pocket hidden in the lining here? Bit lumpy. Where’s the opening…”

“Okay, fine. I have- I do have some lyrium ore.” He says, very quickly. “I have a little deal with one of the mining families and- if it worked out I was going to bring Beraht his cut I swear. I-I’d be crazy not to.”

“Suicidal, one might say.”

Leske is clearly struggling with the bag, feeling around blindly, practically turning it inside out trying to find where the lining opens up. She would offer to help, but he’d probably get mad at her for it. She addresses Davedna instead.

“How much did you take?”

“Not much,” he assures her, “just twenty-five sovereigns, that’s all.”

She thinks she misheard him, at first, and when it finally settles the amount makes her feel dizzy.

Leske’s clearly grown impatient with the bag, here’s a sound of fabric ripping, and Davedna flinches. Twenty-five sovereigns. You could gather all her neighbors together and they wouldn’t have a quarter of that between them. It’s baffling to hear him talk about it so casually, or to imagine a sum like that belonging to just one person, or even just being in just one place all at once, for any length of time.

She could do so much, if she had twenty-five sovereigns in her pocket. She imagines nice bedding, good blades, meat for dinner every night of her life. Gold jewelry for Rica’s wrists and shiny pins for her hair.

“This doesn’t seem like twenty-five sovereigns to me.” Leske says, pulling two lumpy, purple stones out of Davedna’s bag and placing them on the table by his other things.

She’s never seen raw lyrium in person before, she realizes. Too low down to be involved in that part of the business, even tangentially. She sat near a crate of the stuff once, while waiting for Jarvia to come shout at her, but she never saw the inside of it. Could feel it, though, through the wood. It made the hair on her neck stand up on end.

She leans across Davedna to pick one of the lumps up, rolls it between her fingers. Blueish-purple. Mishapen, with a smooth suface like glass. She sort of wants to put it in her mouth, imagines it would feel good against her teeth and tongue. Knowing it’ll make her sick comes at a great disappointment.

It’s very beautiful, but it doesn’t seem like enough to justify all the trouble people go through for it. All the money, all the killing, all for this. And they don’t even keep it whole. It gets ground up, put it in a bottle where you can’t even see it.

Twenty-five sovereigns.

“No, no most of it is with my buyers on the surface. I just picked up a few pieces down here.”

“Who do you sell it to?” she asks, more to satisfy her own curiosity than anything else.

“All sorts,” Davedna babbles, “Surface-surfacers use it all the time. Mages for their spells, smiths in their weapons, templars who aren’t- it’s always a sure thing, if you know who to offer it to. Folks’ll pay good coin not to have to go through the Chantry, you know?”

Brosca doesn’t know, but she pretends she does.

“Anyways I just, I sold it all off and I took the money and ran.” He catches himself, eyes wide. “B-back to Beraht, that is. To share the profits.”

“Hm.”

“Sure,” Leske says, rolling his eyes so only Brosca can see, “Right. And how long has this been going on?”

“Not long! I mean- I’m not-I’m not a cheat,” he turns to Brosca again. She wonders why he seems to think that she’s in charge. “I’m not cheating him.”

She stares at him. He falters.

“What I mean is… this is my first time?”

“Is that a question?” Leske asks

Davedna shows his teeth again. It feels a lot like watching a man dig a hole, worrying all the while about how deep it’s getting. She feels bad for him. She can’t help it.

He looks at Leske, just as stone-faced as she is, and then back at her. His shoulders slump.

“Okay. Okay I know I fucked up. I just-” He swallows. “Please don’t kill me.”

It’s hard to look at him. His wet, doomed eyes. His desperate expression. She keeps her face flat, looks at Leske instead.

“Sounds like a confession to me,” he says, “Brosca?”

She growls under her breath quitely, shifts her stance, hand on the hilt of her knife.

“Hold him still.”

“No! No wait-”

Leske puts his left hand against Davedna’s chest and leans in with his whole weight, pressing him back while using his other hand to pin his wrist against the arm of the chair. Brosca does the same to the wrist on her side, and bends her knee so it presses into his in a way that may or may not hurt, but definitely keeps him from moving it.

It happens fast. He struggles, but fruitlessly, and too late. They have him pinned.

Brosca goes for her knife.

“I’ll give it back!” Davedna says, half-shouting, “I-I’ll find more! I’ll get Beraht double what he makes in a year. You don’t-triple. I’ll get him triple! Just, just don’t-”

They lose their grip on him for a second, she shifts her grip more towards his elbow, growls in frustration. Why does he have to make this so hard.

“Stop squirming,” she tells him, “it will hurt less.”

If she does it right, she’ll cut the big artery in his neck and his windpipe clean through on the first shot, and he’ll twitch and struggle for a moment and then-and then stop. She’s done it before, and from her perspective, it doesn’t even seem to hurt that much, it’s just scary, but not for very long.

Her knife slides smoothly from it’s sheath. Clean through the neck, one side to the other. Cut the artery, cut the windpipe, if you can. It’s barely even killing, when you think about it, it’s butchering. Same thing you do to nugs. It’s awful, really, how close it is. How similar the task.

(Except nugs don’t beg. They’re never nearly as scared. They’re small, easier to hold still. And she’s never cried herself to sleep over a nug.)

He squirms again, tries to pull his chin in towards his chest. Leske makes a frustrated noise and shifts enough to get his hand free, puts it heavily on top of Davedna’s head and pulls it back and to the side, exposing his neck. Giving her a clean shot.

“It was a mistake, it was one mistake. It’s-it’s just a bunch of rocks,” his voice breaks, reedy and desperate, on the verge of tears, “you’d kill me for that?”

She doesn’t usually talk to them, during. But then again, they rarely ask such direct questions.

“I’m sorry,” she says, gently as she can manage, bringing the blade up near his throat, “I wish there was another way.”

“There is! There is, you can- you can let me go. I’ll give you the lyrium, you can sell it, do whatever you want with it and I won’t tell anyone. You’ll never see me again.”

Twenty-five sovereigns, she thinks, but dismisses it quickly, shakes her head.

“If I help you Beraht will come after me next.” She adjusts her grip, “I have people at home, ser, I can’t risk it.”

Leske shoots her a look, and she hears his voice in her head along with it. Stop talking to the mushroom food, kid, we don’t have all day.

She’s just doing what she has to do, and it’s just for right now. It won’t always be like this.

Deep breath, preparation for the movement. It’s just like nugs, she tells herself, it’s just like killing nugs. It won’t always be like this, it won’t-

Davedna grabs her arm, digs his fingers in-between the gaps in her leathers the way a scared child would fist their hands in their mother’s skirts. It startles her, delays her from making the killing motion.

“What would you want if it was you?”

She stills.

A moment passes, another. The bar seems quiet, suddenly, she can feel Leske’s eyes on her. The skin of Davedna’s throat is pale, smooth and unblemished, so very close to the edge of her blade. She thinks about the flesh parting under the metal, thinks about cleaning his blood off of it later. Scrubbing it out of the creases in her hands, scraping it out from her fingernails and cuticles. She thinks about doing the guilt, again, the trying to forget, again. She thinks about the lyrium on the table.

“You good, kid?”

Brosca exhales.

Beraht’s going to kill her anyways.

“I’m good,” she says, “can you follow my lead for a moment?”

“Uh, sure?”

He sounds really confused. Brosca doesn’t blame him.

“We’re taking this outside,” she tells Davedna, “this is the only chance you have at getting out of this, so do what I say and don’t try anything smart, got it?”

Davedna swallows, the stone in his throat bobbing. He nods.

“Got it.”

“Because it won’t work. I’m faster than you.”

“Right.”

“And much stronger.”

“I believe you.”

“Good. Leske, let him go.”

Hesitantly, Leske does what she says.

Davedna looks relieved for a moment, she cuts it short by baring her teeth, yanking him to standing as roughly as she can. It seems to do the trick.

“Move.”

#YAYYY #just brosca i love u. most relatable ever.#i think she could bite lyrium if she wanted. give him a chance #i love how u flesh out game dialogue it comes out so natural #warden brosca

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