Noble Thief
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Chapter 11: Nightingale's Eyes, Crow's Lies

Foreign smells tickle Sera's nose before she opens the door to the cabin. A sideways glance at the mabari—perked ears, head tilted, quiet grumble—warns her something's amiss. She doesn't waste any time and swings the door open, dumbfounded when Loony's weird brother jumps up and away from the fireplace.

"M-m-my apologies," he sputters shyly, avoiding her eyes.

"It's o—"

"I'll take my leave, now." He charges for the window, opening it and turning into a crow in the blink of an eye before he flies off like it's the most normal thing to do.

"Leaving usually means usin' the door, yeah? Frigging weirdo..." She grumbles under her breath, anchoring to the strange comfort the mabari brings as he nudges his weight against her leg. That mage still makes Sera's skin crawl, especially when he's as nervous as he is. Nervous and mages never go well together. Why does he have to be Lucia's brother—and why the hell can't they both just sit and talk like normal people already?

Whole bloody family must be arse over tits messed up.

Sera locks herself inside and marches to close the window, shivering at a fresh draft blowing in, and scrambles to the fireplace for it's meager scraps of warmth before she feeds it a couple logs. Haven's chill today cuts right through the bone and she still has yet to find—steal—thicker clothes. So she digs in Lucia's drawer, grinning when she pulls out a plush red blanket. Of course it's red; hopefully the blanket and Lucia are as warm as they look. When Sera turns around, her heart squeezes at the sight of the hound curled up in a ball in front of the fireplace. Her eyes travel over him, widening at the sight of the bed.

Who fixed it? Loony never said anything to anyone. Maybe it was her brother?

Curious, Sera heads over and kneels to look under. The frame that split in half looks good as new; there's no way that could've been mended. Or can it, with magic?

Ugh.

Shudders roll through her at that thought and she unfolds the blanket, draping it over Griffon for now, then turns to survey the cabin.

Every little detail is picked apart in her eyes. If there's one thing she's learned about Loony, it's that the noblewoman is very good at hiding—and not hiding, but making it look like it. Daft and confusing. She still makes no sense sometimes. Sera scans the room to look for anything out of place, trying to get into Lucia's head without going loony herself. It has to be some place that's klutz-proof to access quickly, and—

Griffon barks, and she yelps. She spins to admonish him, but all he does is point his muzzle and stare at the books atop the fireplace, sniffing the air. On a limb, she rises on her toes and checks behind the books—and laughs, pulling out a thin journal. "How'd ya know this is what I was lookin' for? Didn't say nothin'..."

Mabari intelligence is no joke, she knows that now for sure.

But something else catches her eye, and she also takes out a pouch from the hidden stash. A peek inside reveals treats. She rolls her eyes and tosses one to Griffon—that's what he was sniffing. Should've known it was just food; but then it provokes curiosity again. Why does Loony have treats? When did she get them?

A peek in the journal should reveal everything, hopefully, anyways. Sera stashes the treats back as she takes her spot beside Griffon, pulling one end of the blanket around her. She flips to her favorite passages first—the ones talking about her, reading the progression of Loony gushing to Loony worrying to Loony freaking out excitedly. Sera can relate to the excitement. Now she can, anyways. It wasn't like this before corny Loony—and it's scary.

In my dream she is mine, but in my life she's just a dream.

Pages spin by her thumb, the stop engraved in muscle memory. Sera grins lazily at her next favorite snippet.

She laughs at my dreams, but I dream about her laughter.

Some small part of her wonders why she took this journal out in the first place, but she's carried away when she flips to the next page. Griffon shifts and rests his muzzle on her lap, making her heart and mind wage war as one demands to call the beast cute, and the other demands that he's just getting chummy for more treats. She opts for the easiest option: ignoring anything in Griffon's direction and return to the precious, precious entries.

It's not just the hopeless pining that she likes though—perhaps, most of all, are the entries that are utterly random and hold absolutely no significance whatsoever.

I like storms. They let me know that even the skies scream sometimes.

There's drawings here and there—horrible ones, but it's easy to tell Lucia is trying really, really hard. Some of them are scratched out beyond recognition; probably embarrassing, probably for the best. Sera flips by until she comes to more recent passages, smirking smugly when much of them are still the usual worries and gushing and freaking out excitedly. It stings to read parts where Lucia is concerned whether Sera is bored with her—it couldn't be further from the truth.

"Things are bloody grand, Loony. The heck were y'thinkin', writing this?"

It's her turn to worry. There are no clues revealed as to why daft Luce thinks Sera's bored.

Another page, and there's a single entry in the middle of the page. It looks different—fancy cursive writing. She frowns at the message.

At first glance her face looks youthful and full of life. But if you gaze deeper into her eyes, you'll see torment and experiences beyond her years.

Sera shuts the journal. This is not what she wanted to find—not what she expected. Why the hell did Lucia change all of a sudden? Does she seriously think that Sera wouldn't go peeking in here again, just because she peeked once? Even she's tailored her own entries in the inevitability that Luce will go poking in her private things.

...It makes her wonder what use is a journal—meant for private thoughts—if private thoughts aren't written down. Lucia still seems to be, as clearly seen here.

Looking around, Sera decides to take to the table with the writing tools and ink pot still out. She grins mischievously as she goes back to the last page before the strange entry.

I saw Sera look at an apple pie yesterday, and it occurred to me...
I want her to look at me the way she looks at apple pies.

Beneath it, Sera scribbles.

That means a whole lotta slobber like Griffon's, Loony. Real wet and messy. But you'd like that, wouldn't you?

-—-—-—-—-—-

"I'm afraid of falling," Lucia mumbles under her breath, her thumb stroking the corner of Sera's journal lovingly. There's an urge she can't resist. She digs in her satchel for her writing tools again, looking around to make sure nobody's watching her. She selfishly takes up a whole fresh page for herself, writing differently than she usually does just to throw Sera off—even for a second.

I
HAVE
WINGS

And she doesn't sign it.

It'll teach Sera not to leave all her things in the tavern in a sack, with an obscure sign reading 'Red Jenny' beside it. It's less a warning and more an invitation—or at least, it's inviting Lucia. Maybe it's warning everybody else now that the soldiers in here know what Sera can be like. Who'd want to earn the ire of a jenny and be revenge-pranked for the rest of their life, after all?

Lucia smirks devilishly. There's no other life she can imagine for herself.

As soon as she has her fill of fun, she packs up her things and slithers the journal back into the pack when she leaves the tavern—and yelps when a bolt embeds in the frame, beside her head. She narrows her eyes at Varric, who wears an apologetic expression as Cassandra stands beside him with a smirk.

"You're pinned down by archers, Herald. What do you do?"

"I'm just going to surrender, Cassandra. That's what I'm going to do." Lucia falls on her knees and holds up her hands in mock surrender. "And then I'm going to die."

"That's not acceptable, you must—"

RUN!

Determined to take this soon-to-not-be-a-secret to her grave, Lucia reveals nothing and scrambles around the corner, sprinting away and knocking sacks over to slow Varric when Cassandra's order—"hunt her down, Varric!"—echoes throughout Haven. There will be no bolts smacking her calves, or...

Wait.

These aren't wooden swords.

These are real bolts that could pierce her.

Varric's been given permission to shoot her.

Any injury she gets from this session will have to be dealt by herself, and there is no way she's going to be digging an arrowhead out of her. She must ensure that—if hit at all—it'll be the front, because it's going to be impossible to deal with alone if she's shot in the back. Maker, there's no way every soldier or spy—who's name isn't Cassandra—goes through this kind of training. Do they? Every one of them has her deepest admiration and respect now.

All thoughts fly away when a bolt flies right by her head, impaling a post, and she nearly breaks down into a sob; but if there's one valuable life-saving lesson she's learned: it's to keep her screaming internal and save air. Cassandra only punishes her even worse for 'wasting breath' or telegraphing what she's going to do as revenge.

Not that she ever has the chance to exact that revenge.

Desperate, she recklessly takes to the roof of her cabin again, flattening herself. Cassandra thinks she's unprepared, and the Seeker is about to realize she's thought wrong. Thanks to how much time Lucia's found herself spending here, she's stashed a small crate of non-lethal weapons—glass flasks of water, potent knockout grenades, a blowgun and it's respective darts doused in the same solution. She doesn't want to get any innocents caught in the crossfire and there's too much action in Haven today. The path before her is clear.

"You are trapped, Herald! You cannot keep coming here and expect to be safe every time, especially when a true enemy will pursue you!" Cassandra's voice closes in quickly, and Lucia hastily loads the blowgun as the Seeker is the one to waste air this time. The dart fits snug into the bore of the gun just past the mouthpiece. "Until you deal with Varric, he will continue to—"

"Sorry Varric!" Lucia shouts as she pops up and throws the flask of water at them, taking aim with her blowgun when both the dwarf and Seeker dive out of what they perceive is the danger zone. She sucks in as much air in her lungs and holds it, waiting until Varric starts to sit up. Chance. A forceful exhale, and the dart flies smoothly with a plink, barely loud enough to give it away. She works another dart into the blowgun without waiting to see if she hit the dwarf or not; when she rises again, Cassandra's by the unconscious dwarf's side, pulling the dart out of his neck.

"Surrender peacefully or you will suffer the same fate, Cassandra!" Lucia yells, making a show of readying her aim when the Seeker glares venomously.

"Maker, you weren't supposed to kill him, Herald!" Uh... Is she actually concerned about Varric—even with the bad blood between them? Well, now.

"No worries! He's just taking a nap," Lucia grins sloppily, "he's earned a break after trying to fucking kill me!"

"What's this?" Sera's voice pipes up behind her, and she yelps, catching herself before she slips off the roof. The blowgun's nonchalantly taken from her.

Lucia holds a hand over her heart when she looks over at the elf. "Oh, it's just you."

"Oh? Just me? What's that supposed to mean?" A devilish grin sweeps over Sera's face, and every part of Lucia's body and fucking soul is screaming at her to run away while she still can. "Hey, so... This is how you use this thing, right?" The blowgun's aimed at her. Lucia immediately whips her hands up in surrender, her feet nearly slipping out from under her. A fall from this roof won't be fatal—hopefully—but it won't be an injury she can mend by herself.

"S-Sera..." She sucks in a breath, and it wheezes out in a flurry. "Honey, gorgeous, beautiful, best Red Jenny in Thedas, please. I know you don't want to do this."

"You sure 'bout that, honey tongue? 'Cause I know I do."

A high pitched plink.

And the abyss swallows Lucia in the blink of an eye.

-—-—-—-—-—-

Seekers, assassins, hounds, beloved traitors.

Graven honestly pities his little sister. He rarely feels for anyone—if he feels at all. She's fighting so hard, and she's beaten down every time, body and spirit. She'll never close the breach at this rate. That tevinter magister is going to kill her faster than her little toy dart; and he isn't sure who's the most frustrated right now. Lucia, drunk with drowsiness, throwing yet another dramatic fit in the snow—or the Spymaster overseeing the session a safe distance away, the shadowy mastermind who's orchestrated every single one of these scenarios. She doesn't look satisfied with this outcome—but she should already know that all of this is futile.

Nothing she does will prepare his sister for him.

Time is running out. He'll have to report soon, and he's troubled with the information he's gathered thus far. His sister's journal revealed much, and not much at all. Over half her entries are pining for the thief that just betrayed her—as typical of thieves; the rest of it are doubts of whether or not she's who everyone says she is.

The blessed Herald of Andraste. These fools, blinded by faith, will believe and excuse anything—anything she does. It's only a matter of time before power corrupts purity.

It's no blessing. It's a curse. Like a bird in a cage, she's trapped in the illusion of freedom, that what she has is all she can get and who she can be. She will be forever defined by others' words because she allows it, too weak to stand on her own two feet. If only she realized that the definition is at her fingertips. She already knows who she is; she just has to search for it inside, not outside.

Eugh...

Sentimentality.

He's not supposed to be—he never is, usually... But his target is his little sister. Blood relation ceased to matter the moment he stepped foot in the Circle, but observing this young woman has proven that there's potential to be family—with or without the blood coursing through them. She has that timid yearning in her eyes and in her voice every time she talks to him. Or is that her tendency to charm and befriend whomever stands in front of her? Is it genuine desire, or a calculated risk in order to lower her target's guard? He must keep his up.

Graven stretches his wings and dives down from the tree when Lucia finishes her tantrum and stands up, shrieking in fright when he settles on her shoulder. It's the best seat in the house—the best way to get to know her... And the best way to rile her up. It's his duty as a brother, after all; plus it's free entertainment.

"Maker, Graven! Would a bloody warning seriously kill you?!" She stumbles a little, sluggish fatigue clear; and all the others do—especially the elf—is smirk. He pecks her cheek to annoy her further, and to try to hint that it's slightly impossible to warn her in his current form. Instead, she interprets the hint entirely wrong. "Was that a kiss on the cheek?"

To ensure nothing is left to interpretation—especially another blasphemous one—he flaps his wings furiously to beat on her cheek. She cries indignantly and laughs, free and contagious and happy-go-lucky, despite everything that's always beating her down.

And yet she never stays down.

"Love you too, Graven."

Love? Foolish girl! She doesn't even know him!

...And would she, still, if she did?

The surprising confession is compounded with a tender stroke under his bill. Conflicted, he takes off; his keen hearing tunes to her sigh. "There he goes again... So awkward."

No. Not awkward.

Dangerous.

All that she is training for right now, she is training to deal with him. She just doesn't know it yet. He knows the Spymaster does. Her eyes follow him in flight, her smirk growing when Lucia whines why all her training consists of friends murdering her. The Spymaster has made her move and has outplayed him. There's no escape. It's inevitable; but he knew he dug his grave when he did not sink his knife into Lucia's neck.

He must confront the Nightingale if he wishes to stay alive.

-—-—-—-—-—-

"I can't believe you betrayed me when you weren't even part of the training session," Loony sulks. As usual.

Sera still thinks it's grand every time.

"I could've fallen off the roof and cracked my skull open." Her and her what if's. There's no end to them. "Or never wake up ever again. Or both."

"So it's alright if y'shoot Varric, but not when it's you?"

"That's not the point. It's totally reasonable for me to be unreasonable and hypocritical and..." The rest of the mutters muffle against the table Lucia's whinging into, and presses her lips against the wood, blowing a raspberry. Then she grimaces. "Disgusting. I think I just tasted the stew I spilled last week, by 'accident', of course. Karma has me on the Short List."

"Shite," Sera sniggers, "you really believe everything's out to getcha, Luce? Shite happens to everybody, yeah?"

"It just so happens that it's more likely to happen to me, evidently. I've cause to believe this 'blessing' of mine is actually a curse in disguise."

"Fuck, c'mon, now yer just bein' daft. Cheer up. I know how..." She comes over and pats between the shoulder blades, then rubs fiercely until Lucia wiggles, her groans hitching and skipping every time Sera jerks in a different direction. It's too daft not to laugh at. It's too much to say no to. So she doesn't. "Griffon, bite anyone who tries to come near the door." She grins, and the mabari wags his tail happily as a deep bark rumbles in his chest. Sera goes to open the door for him and shushes Lucia when the noblewoman looks like she wants to protest. "What? I didn't say kill. Or arrows."

"Have you seen how big his teeth are? No, because you're not the one he had to pretend-kill."

"Ugh, fine." Sera opens the door and peeks out, smirking at the loyal mabari standing at attention, dutiful and eager to carry out her command. Maybe it's not so bad to have a mangy mutt around. "Psst, Griffon. Don't bite-bite. Pretend-bite." No other clarification is given intentionally, and Lucia will just have to deal with that. She needs to stop thinking about others and start thinking about herself.

Sera marches back to the loony and grabs her hands, tugging harshly until she stands.

...And pins her beside the fireplace.

"W-what is this?" Lucia gasps shakily when a leg tucks between hers, and she bites her lip. Pale green eyes darken with desire, screaming with hope—screaming to be freed—but still she tries to hide. "Is this another session? Shall I turn around now so you can choose where you'd like to mark my back?"

"I'll mark somethin' alright." Sera roughly twists the noblewoman around and slams her against the wall, conforming to her back. Lucia's legs are nudged wider and her breaths grow ragged the moment Sera's hand snakes around and runs along the thigh, rubbing through the trousers. She sweeps Lucia's hair over the shoulder to expose the neck, nipping it. She smirks when Lucia undoes her belt buckle, bucking against the hand that needs no other hints.

Five minutes. Five messy minutes. That's all Sera needs to convince this daft tit that nobody is and never will be bored.

"This can't be happening," Lucia mumbles, dazed, doubtful. That can be fixed. Sera grins as she pulls a crude, delicious—sinful—moan from miss holy prude.

"It can. It's not a dream anymore." She presses her mouth against Lucia's ear, thriving off the shiver as she whispers huskily.

"You're mine."

-—-—-—-—-—-

Confront the Spymaster, he said. He wouldn't actually be skinned alive, he thought.

Oh, and he thought wrong.

Pain bites the flesh of his throat as a knife presses lightly—for now. His hands slowly rise to surrender, and the Spymaster glares. "Stop. Keep them down. We're no fools—you know you will not be able to disarm me. Not without one of my agents putting an arrow in your skull."

"I also know I will not walk out of here alive anyways." Graven complies nonetheless. "Not unless I make a deal."

"I already have what I need." She narrows her eyes, her voice devoid of warmth. "I intercepted the courier that carried your last report."

"You mean I gave you the last report. I know you've been watching me the moment I arrived in Haven." Graven masks his grimace when he can feel something trickle down his neck as his swallow makes the dagger sever flesh with ease. "And I assure you, I'm not that sloppy."

"It would seem the Antivan Crows are, if they sent you on this mission."

"We did not yet know of the contract when the Chantry requested our aid."

"Who in the Chantry, specifically?"

"That I'm uncertain. I never met my employer personally; only a hefty sum at the dead drop, promising far more so long as I reported regularly. I've not yet received a kill order, but I'm certain that's what it will lead to. One does not employ a Crow simply to watch."

"Make sure that it does not lead to more." The Spymaster seethes, but pulls her dagger away. "They will send other Crows to finish your job once they find out you won't."

"Precisely." Graven rubs his neck, stealing a quick glance at his hand. Blood. He bites back a sigh—he liked this shirt. "Which is why I would like to make a deal."

The Spymaster sheathes her knife and crosses her arms. "I'm listening."

"In exchange for my life, I will work for you. With your eyes, I can find who contracted the Crows; then I will make them cancel the contract and silence them."

"My agents and I can handle this ourselves. Why would I risk angering the Crows and waste resources to protect you just because—"

"Because I'm the Herald's brother. The best bodyguard is not a slobbering war dog for all to see, gifting the enemy time to plan an attack. It is the bodyguard in the shadows, the one they do not live long enough to expect."

"And I am to suddenly take you for your word that you will not harm her? You seemed quite content with the idea of killing her regardless, when you first arrived."

"If this was the case, she would have been long since dead in the Hinterlands. You know this." He casually unbuttons his shirt and helps himself to her supplies, dipping a cloth in a bucket of water to wash his neck. "That is why you're preparing her to kill me, should I attempt again. That is why you employed the mabari, knowing she will not." He twists and smirks smugly. "I thoroughly enjoyed watching your plan blow up in your face when the mabari imprinted on a thief. Perhaps the hounds are not as intelligent and honorable as the dog lords make them out to be?"

The Nightingale says nothing; no sweet and powerful song sung to lure into a trap.

Confident his offer is being considered, he sets the cloth aside and buttons his bloodied shirt up. He'll have to visit the apothecary or a healer before he shifts with a wound like this. As he leaves the tent, the Spymaster's amused voice stops him—and her lilt sends a thrill through him.

"You're the second Crow I know who makes a terrible assassin."

A second Crow? Intriguing. If he gains her trust, her connections are his; but his life will be hers. Only time will tell if the gamble is worth it.

Graven looks over his shoulder—to wave goodbye, of course, and not just to see if she is measuring her knife to his back. "My lady, I promise you will be most pleased with my work and professionalism; that is, so long as you do not contract me to kill this sister."

"This sister? Yours, or are you referring to me?"

"Mine, of course." He looks away to hide his smile. "She is the only one who loves me."

"She does not yet know what you are."

"That is true... But she loves you, does she not?"