Noble Thief
Author's Note: Hope everybody enjoys, and feedback appreciated so that I can improve my writing 💓💋

Chapter 1: That's How We Worked

Foamy crests of waves beat down on the beach of rocks, the cry of gulls echoing in the air. Sera perches herself atop a boulder and carefully sits so as not to slip, ankles clapping to appease boredom. She watches the Herald—down by the shore—from afar.

To this day, Sera knows she's seen the nob somewhere, but she doesn't know where. Maybe on a job? Which would be bad; no telling what side of the job the Herald was on. Sera should probably be careful with this one. She should probably get a name too—maybe it'll help jog her memory.

Trevelyan removes her mud-caked boots and rolls up her breeches to her knees, wading in only enough for the waves to lap at her shins. She looks like she's enjoying herself, combing her fingers through her bangs as the breeze kicks up her hair. Sera wonders what's so enjoyable about being stuck out in the middle of nowhere on this miserable coastline, where the cold cuts through clothes and every squelching step slips whenever they attempt scale hills that may as well be one giant mudslide; the rain's stopped a good while, at least.

Every brush of the wind leaches warmth from Sera's skin and she shudders, deciding to head back to camp to scrounge for a blanket. She still has to mind where she steps with all these jagged rocks. Lady Herald's crazy for going barefoot. Solas' elfy face is stupid, puffing like a rooster, toes curling in the dirt and grabbing pebbles. What for? So daft.

"Mud. Blegh, gross," Sera scoffs under her breath. She checks inside a tent, grinning when she finds a treasure trove of equipment and fabric. The Inquisition lackeys won't mind if she borrows a blanket for a bit. She wraps it around her shoulders and clutches it tight against her chest, eyeballing it when it's suspiciously silky soft against her skin.

Ears perk when she hears Cassandra outside. "Are you sure we can trust the Blades of Hessarian, Herald?"

Boring. Everything after that is tuned out. Sera experiments with which fabric appeals to her most, grabbing a weathered blanket that chafes slightly, but the color—now a washed out red—is better than pampering silk. It'll take forever to warm up in that. Light filters in the tent and she looks over at the entrance, smirking when Trevelyan comes straight for a blanket too.

"Shouldn't'uv went swimming, that was just daft." Sera's eyes dip down to the damp edges of the breeches, sniggering. "Look at yer legs. White as that foamy stuff."

"It was refreshing." The Herald grabs the silk blanket and gives her legs a vigorous rub, her crisp accent and proper comment goading an eyeroll from Sera instead. And then a grin. "For a minute, anyways. I can't feel my toes anymore—the Seeker surely thinks me strange for how I walked."

"Not all yer strange for. Here. That one y'got ain't no good to warm up, y'daft tit." She offers her blanket and drapes it over the Herald, though it slips when the woman kneels in a daft attempt to blow warm air on her legs. Sera laughs and crouches, playfully swatting Trevelyan's hands away as she uses her blanket to rub. "Why ain't anyone startin' a fire?"

"It'll probably start raining as soon as we do," Trevelyan sighs dejectedly. "With this hole in my hand, I'm convinced I'm bad luck."

"Augh, fuck. This place is shite, Herald. Even Haven's better."

"That's absurd!" She rubs her hands together and blows into them. "Haven is a freezing dump. The buildings aren't close enough together."

"That why you're always runnin' everywhere, to keep your gracious ladybits warm?" Sera teases, shoving the blanket in Trevelyan's face to wipe the dainty smile off her face. It's giving strange thoughts—strange as her; but she's a noble, and there's no way Sera's going to smack gobs with nobs. Pale green eyes dance with amusement and Trevelyan wraps the blanket around her shoulders, standing with a dignified huff, but it's off. It's not... Noble-y?

"I'll have you know my ladybits are not divine or gracious by any means. They are very impolite."

Sera blinks. It sinks when the woman walks to the exit with a smirk, and she bursts out laughing. "You cheeky tit! Ladybits don't have manners!"

"My point exactly," Trevelyan shrugs, never looking back when she leaves the tent without another word—but not empty-handed; and, like a game of cards, not showing her hand. A noblewoman that's not so noble-y. Sera grins. She's seen this nob on a job somewhere, alright, and this nob knows how to play.

Sera should definitely be careful with this one.

-—-—-—-—-—-

Mercenaries are a welcome sign than serious and mopey soldiers rolling all over the camp. Sera has her eye on the qunari. Has a lot of questions for him too.

But first, a drink at the tavern.

Sera's in no mood to chat it up with mercenaries she had traveled dreadfully long and soaked to the bone just to meet and recruit; or, well, for the Herald and Hairy Eyeball to recruit. Sera all but rushes to the tavern and claims her usual table—so kindly offered after a simple push off for the drunkard to free up her chair.

Laughter overpowers the bard's song, and conversations—hushed and hopeful and scared and brave—buzz as mugs click in toasts or accidents. The stagnant air and stench of alcohol makes her feel at home, and the rowdy atmosphere in here perks up her spirits. She sets her bow on the table and her quiver on her chair to hold her spot for her, weaving through the crowd of warm bodies to Flissa.

"Couple mugs of that chasind mead o' yours!" She yells to be heard above the others' shouting, slapping a few coppers on the bar. Flissa nods and her mouth's moving, but even that high-pitched voice of hers is drowned by the noise. Sera leans forward and strains to hear, yelling. "What?"

But she isn't heard either, or she stops hearing; number two more than one—there goes a wasted joke—when a certain Lady saddles up beside her. Trevelyan brushes her hair to lie over one shoulder as her head lulls, flush lips pushing out a little; an innocent gesture that provokes not so innocent thoughts.

"Coup—hic!—le for me too, Flissa!" She turns to the side with as much grace as a drunk has, smirking at Sera. This isn't helping those not so innocent thoughts. The Herald leans forward, offering a sneak peek at the valley between her breasts—whether intentional or not still isn't helping those not so innocent thoughts. Sera's gaze snaps up when she barely catches a devious shout-whisper, if such a thing exists. "I stole your table."

"What?" She looks over at her table; sure enough, her quiver is abandoned on the table with her bow.

Two mugs hit the bar; sure enough, Trevelyan takes them too. She stumbles when she leans closer, alcohol permeating every breath with mischief dancing in her deceivingly innocent eyes. "And I'm stealing your drinks." Her mouth quirks up in a lazily satisfied smile, turning with elegant coordination she doesn't have. She weaves through the crowd without spilling a drop, and Sera doesn't know what she wants to do first; cuss, yell, prank, or drag the Herald to the nearest bed.

"You cheeky tit," Sera mutters under her breath, grinning. She turns to Flissa, who's staring expectantly, expecting the bartender to move for two more mugs. It doesn't happen. "What are you waiting for, Flissa?" Her throat burns with how loud she has to yell. "Two for me too!"

Flissa turns her palm up and bounces it.

Uh huh.

Coin talks.

Sera throws a glare over her shoulder at the woman who's stolen her table and her drinks, and Trevelyan wiggles her fingers in a taunting wave. This noble tit's too cheap to pay for her own drinks and she doesn't know who she's messing with—she's going to pay, alright. Sera hands over the coppers and waits impatiently for Flissa to serve her. She twists to look at her table, anger dissipating to disappointment when she finds it empty. The Herald's gone.

"Looking for me?" A hot breath hits the side of her neck and she whips to the other side, the embers of her anger spark back to life. She's ready to slew cusses and demand coin, until bold hands rest behind her hips, and Trevelyan steps over to the other side. It's a sloppy distraction—one that shouldn't work and does because fuck Sera's a sucker for the pretty and witty and pretty witty ones—and the mugs are taken again. "About to look for these?"

Trevelyan disappears.

Sera wants to cuss at the top of her lungs.

"Flissa!" She slams her last coppers on the table. "I'm not payin' for the fucking Herald! Give it to me, for shite's sake!" Rattled by the outburst, the flustered bartender rushes, handing the next drink—free of charge this time—directly to Sera. She turns around and weaves through the crowd with a burning vengeance. She's definitely going to prank that daft tit.

Who the hell does miss uppity snooty Herald think she is? She's all dainty and polite with everybody else, and for some reason, she's picking a fight with Sera. She's picking a fight with the wrong person and she's going to regret it.

...But as soon as Sera makes it to her table—her empty table—she cusses at the top of her lungs.

Trevelyan's not here.

And neither is Sera's quiver.

-—-—-—-—-—-

"Not an arrow in here is the bloody same as it's neighbor." Lucia spills them all out on her table, studying and comparing them to her own choice of arrows. There are broadheads, bowfishing points, field target points. Even blunt tipped arrows—and those are designed to kill small game through blunt force trauma; they're useless in the field, especially when the Red Jenny never goes hunting for them. This is baffling.

How in the world does Sera know what she's grabbing when she's pulling an arrow from her quiver?

If it were organized somehow into sections, where she knew she'd draw a barbed bowfished arrow to deal with an enemy of thick hide or plated armor, then Lucia would understand the merit and the thinking behind Sera's style of fighting. But she has no style. She's self-taught, following whims, treating every shot like a trick shot, or an artistic expression rather than an extension of her body and a deadly weapon. Nothing's changed all this time.

"I still don't understand her..."

Instead of coming closer to that understanding, Lucia's driving herself farther away. Reading people and figuring them out is the only reason she's survived and thrived for so long, but there's no predicting someone who thrives on unpredictability. The notion is new, and unknown, and fascinating. Sera's abrasive honesty is still taking Lucia time getting used to, but there's a sort of rustic charm that demands all mysteries be solved.

Lucia jumps in her seat when her door is kicked open with a yell. "Herald! Arrows, now!"

"Good evening to you too. How do you do, Messere?" She rises from her chair with a happy-go-lucky smile, but the Red Jenny is having none of it. She gestures to her table. "They're all here. I was just studying them." She steps aside and clasps her wrists behind her as Sera stomps up to the table, stealing sideways glances, seemingly suspicious of something.

Cold drafts sweep into the cabin before the door closes, and Lucia shudders. She meanders to the fireplace and turns so that it warms her back, watching Sera watch her.

"Why? They're just arrows." Her eyes narrow. "And what happened to being drunk, Herald?"

"I was pretending so you'd let your guard down around me," Lucia shrugs, massaging and wiggling her jaw in her hand. "I've fallen out of practice. My cheeks haven't hurt like that in a long time." Warmed in more places than just her back, she confidently strides to Sera's side and rests her hand on the arrow the Red Jenny wants to pick up. "As for why I was studying your arrows: I was interested and curious to see if they were different. None of your shots at the Storm Coast were the same." Her fingers linger close to Sera's, and she dares lean just a touch closer as well. "And as for why I was pretending: I'm interested and curious to see if you'll be different."

Sera grins as she crosses her arms and fully turns towards Lucia. "None of the stories they say about you are the same as what I'm seein', Lady Herald."

"My point exactly," Lucia answers quaintly; she observes Sera's posture—erect, graceful, strong as a practiced dancer, exuding confidence. Or is it just posturing? The noblewoman wants to see if she's right about the signs she's read thus far. "I've thoroughly enjoyed our dance, and it's come to my attention that you'd like to play with me." She dares rest her hands on Sera's hips, wondering if it truly is alright to not court, proper.

It seems the sentiment's appreciated; Sera rises on her toes and angles her head, staring straight, unflinching. "We already played."

"Oh?" Lucia schools her composure, ignoring the way her heart skips and pounds it's way to her throat, only to be rejected when the Red Jenny abruptly twists away and starts to collect her arrows. Disappointment must not be revealed. Lucia takes a step back and takes the hint, deciding to collect her thoughts as she returns to the fireplace. A small part of her wonders why she's hiding.

"You played me when you stole my shite," Sera scoffs, "I'm all for a good laugh, Herald. But you were an arse."

"You played me when you stole my shite," Lucia parrots in the Red Jenny's accent. A lump lodges in her throat, but she swallows it down as she reaches for the required assistance of whiskey by her night table, always certain to be within reach. The bottle turns up and she takes a swig, raking her hair out of her face when it comes back down. She steals a look and smiles—pretending, to hide bittersweet dreams—at how confused Sera looks. "I apologize for earlier, I had assumed you were all for a good laugh."

"What?" Sera's face screws up. "I am. I just said that." She stares, lost, then scoffs as she slings her quiver over her shoulder. "Right. You're not really sorry, you're just playin' with me now." She marches for the door, grumbling. "So much for bein' polite and dainty and saintly now. Was daft of me believin' that shite."

"If taking a couple of mugs bothered you so, I have whiskey right here that I'd be more than happy to share with you." Lucia closes the bottle with the cork and casually tosses it Sera's way to stop her from leaving. The Red Jenny, startled, almost scrambles—catching it just in time before it crashes on the floor. "And I apologize for my crude and obscure manner of inviting you to my cabin; as I said, I assumed you were all for a good laugh, as well as a few games."

Sera's gaze pans from the whiskey in her hand to Lucia, never lifting her head. "What sorts of games?"

Finally, her attention's captured.

"We can start with a drinking game. We have whiskey, and a couple of hours." Lucia smiles sinfully. "And anything can happen in a couple of hours."

-—-—-—-—-—-

Alcohol pours. And pours. And pours.

Questions make Sera's head hurt. The world's spinning. She's laughing—or is it the Herald? Her mug is never empty. She's determined to drink this smug nob's smirk off her face though. Sera's eyes are always wandering, darting, lingering on sneak peeks of the breasts hiding from her. If this is a plan to take advantage of her, all the Herald had to do was strip and ask if she was interested. Trevelyan would have her full and undivided attention in an instant.

Games are fun too, though. And the chase. And—why does she keep asking about Charade? That Jenny is way too far to care about here.

"Last I heard, she's somewhere in Tantervale. Y'know her or something, Herald?"

"Please, call me Lucia." She pours another round. "I do know her. I've been trying to reconnect with her for years. Is there any chance you can get me in touch with her?"

Still with the questions. Still making Sera's head hurt. She massages her forehead and nods, then knocks back the mug, her throat numb to the burning and stinging. "I s'pose..." She stares into her mug, swirling the alcohol that's no longer there. "I s'pose... I could do that." She lazily looks up, thinking it odd that the noblewoman still looks so normal. And pretty. "You've got pretty eyes." Her cheek dimples as she somehow musters a grin, reaching across the table to poke the Herald's lips. "Pretty smile." Her finger drops, ensnaring the shirt's collar. She revels in the noblewoman's stunned look. "Pretty tits too, Lucy—Lootzi—Loony." She stops and looks up in thought. Her grin widens and she slaps the table in glee. "Loonia!"

"I appreciate the... Straightforward... Compliments, but could we stick to my real name, for once?" Lucia frowns; she's still so pretty.

Wait. For once?

Augh, why's this feel so familiar?

Lucia—Lucy, Luce—leans forward. "So when can you get in touch with Charade? Do you know where she is in Tantervale? Would it be possible to convince her to come here?"

"Come here?" Sera's brow furrows, and a pang of jealousy sobers her a little. "Why? You crushin' on her? Want to smush bits?"

"W-what? That's absurd! I want nothing of the sort!"

"Then why?" She steals the bottle and helps herself, swaying unsteadily when she tries to get out of the chair. The bed's right there. "If y'don't wanna kiss her, d'ya wanna kill her? She stole summin from you?"

"I don't want that either." Lucia grabs her elbow, but not to stop her. She helps her to the bed, plucking the bottle and keeping it safely out of her reach until she gives up trying to get it back. "I shouldn't have given you so much. My apologies; I didn't think you'd trust me and agree to help me."

"Not gonna, 'til you tell me why." Sera tries to focus, but there are three Heralds right now and they won't stop spinning. A burst of anger churns in her stomach and she shoves Lucia off of her. "Shouldn't have given me so much? Tricked me. Again. Fuckin' user you are—like all nobles. Forget Charade. Ain't helpin' with shite."

The Herald still won't answer straight. Why? She's hiding something, and it's only making her look more suspicious.

Lucia stands, slack-jawed—or Sera thinks she sees three slack jaws—until her lips purse thinly. "I don't want to kiss her, nor kill her. She did steal something from my family."

That sobers Sera completely. She snarls, growling. "So you want payback."

"No. Or you would not be here if I wanted revenge." Lucia attempts to grab her again, but her hands are slapped away. "Let me help you to the bed, at least."

"Don't need no help from a noble." Sera snaps, marching—or she thinks she's marching—to the bed; what she collapses on feels far more rigid and cold than the warm straw mattress she expected. She watches pairs of boots spinning in her vision, revolting when a gentle hand comes upon her shoulder. "Piss off!"

"No." Lucia kneels, her gaze firm even when Sera glares at her. "Let me help. A favor for a favor. That's how we work, isn't it? I'm not just a noble. I'm your friend."

Confused, Sera allows it, if only to ponder on what the fuck the Herald is talking about. She doesn't want payback; apparently Sera wouldn't be here if she did. She wants Charade for something. She's asking a favor from Sera and trying to pay that favor back.

And that's how they work.

That's how they work.

That's how friends work.

It's Sera's turn to stare, slack-jawed. "No way. Yer not a Red Jenny. Can't be. You're a noble."

"Nobody said nobles can't join. Charade's the one that recruited me." Lucia sighs. "I wanted to thank her and extend the courtesy by recruiting her into the Inquisition. Now will you let me help you get into bed? This floor can't be comfortable."

"Wait, wait, wait. The job. Stealing summin from your family..." Sera squints at Lucia, and the pieces of the puzzle start to make sense with the foggy familiar feeling. Hair that looks like ash stripped the brown away. The pale green eyes, sucked dry of life from court life. The nicknames Sera always fired to annoy the prude noblewoman. Lucy. Luce. Lucia. Lia. Liar. A memory finally beats it's way to the tip of her tongue. "Now I know you! Yer the one who got us inside."

The pretty innocent smile turns into a devilishly sinful smirk.

"That's how we worked, wasn't it?"