Damnable woman.
That was all Sten could think, over and over, as he scrubbed himself clean of blood.
It was not even any one thing she did that bothered him, really. It was everything. Perhaps it was because he'd spent so much time with her lately, together at sea, but he'd started noticing things about her that he never really noticed before. The way her hair fell on her shoulders. The delicate lines of her neck. The way her robes seemed to emphasize her every curb. Until now, he did not dwell too much on these observations. He noticed things. It was his job. It was no real surprised that, due to the monotony of the ship, he'd started observing his companion more closely.
But there had been a small niggle of uncertainty in the back of his mind, a distant question of why he was seeing the things he was. And he could ignore it and push it aside. Concentrate on other, more immediate things.
Until she touched him.
That, in itself, was nothing new. They did touch, occasionally, albeit through cloth and armor and that one time when it occurred to him that he hadn't warned her about the Tal'Vashoth occasionally poisoning their blades and he found himself uncharacteristically alarmed at the thought that she could have died from his carelessness... But she was fine and her shoulder showed no signs of poison (or perhaps her healing spell had taken care of it, he did not know) and when she placed her hand over his and asked what was wrong, in that particular voice, it struck him that he had taken liberties he shouldn't have.
This time, it was different. It shouldn't have been, really, because she was merely healing him. She'd done it before, long ago, before Wynne joined them, though back then she'd been rather worse at it and everyone tended to treat their own wounds.
Now, however, feeling her fingers over his skin, cold and soft, firm and gentle, it had all inspired a terrible uncertainty in him. It was unbecoming for an officer of the Beresaad to feel such thing. His duty should always be readily apparent.
But yes, uncertainty was definitely what he'd felt when she'd been near. When she'd touched his face, when she'd looked at him the way she did, he was torn between the knowledge that he should push her away and the immediate need to pull her closer, so close that he could feel her heartbeat and drown in her scent. It was dizzying, to realize so suddenly that she was female and within his reach, closer (in more ways than one) than any woman had gotten to him in years. It would have been easier if he could simply relent to the instinct to reach out and possess her, to quench this immediate need for her. But they were interrupted and it all came rushing back, and he remembered that she was not just a woman, but the Warden, and his kadan, and foreign and a mage and countless other things that would have made such a decision ill-advised.
It still stung, on some deeper level, the manner in which she'd fled the room. But it shouldn't, Sten decided. It had been the rational reaction. He could not fault her for it.
Sten sighed, exasperated.
Damnable woman.
* * *
Amell left the inn. She tried to tell herself that she was not running away, that she was not avoiding Sten and that she most definitely had done nothing to warrant running away or hiding, but it was a mission made all the more difficult by the relief she felt as she distanced herself from the inn. She was already outside by the time she remembered to look back and memorize the name and general location of the inn, because she had no real idea where she was going.
She had a general plan of finding a tailor or a clothier, someone who could fix her ruined robes. She'd asked the innkeeper about such a shop, but she'd been so preoccupied, that she hadn't really been paying attention to the directions the woman gave her.
She was still preoccupied, if she were to be completely honest about it. She dreaded having to return and face Sten again. She was so wrapped up in these concerns, in fact, that she almost passed a tailor's shop without noticing it.
Amell doubled back. The sign next to the door advertised "The Tailor Ghenswip, Purveyor of Fine Clothes, Any Style, Any Size, Any Price". This sign seemed overly bombastic to Amell, as in Ferelden, such a shop would have a discreet placard reading only "Tailor's" and a drawing next to it, to help those less literate discern the purpose of the store. This just seemed like overreaching.
She entered anyway, since there was no use questioning the strange habits of this place. The interior surprised her just a little. Far from the enclosed, dark spaces lit by flickering torches that she'd come to associate with Fereldan stores, this one had wide open window providing ample sunshine, which reflected on the white chalky walls to fill every part of the building with seemingly endless light. The wares were not hidden behind counters, away from the grubby hands of customers, but displayed along the walls, folded neatly on shelves. A dour-looking elven woman was folding some dresses while two chatty human women, probably customers, were busily grabbing other clothes from the shelves, unfolding them and loudly discussing the merits and price of each piece.
There was a counter, tucked away in a corner, where an impassive man watched the room like a king would watch his domain. Amell pegged him for the owner right away. He was wearing an expensive-looking blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up, as if its value was a secondary concern to him. He was trying to appear aloof while another, younger, man was talking, apparently trying to convince him of something.
As she approached, the younger man drew her attention. He was dressed in a yellow shirt (and if that shirt had started this color or if it had become it over time, she could not tell), a light blue vest and a pair of inexplicably purple trousers. (He had a sturdy pair of boots, however, and Amell thoroughly approved of that.) His hair was a common shade of brown, but it was styled in a long braid, coming down to the middle of his back. It was not until she saw the lute in his hand, however, that Amell realized he must have been a minstrel of some sort. (She also felt a momentary pang at the thought of Leliana and wondered how her contemplation of the Urn was going.)
As she got closer, she began to hear his words, as well, marked by a hard-to-place accent.
"...you will get your merchandise's worth, I grant you, even more so! Why, I would not be surprised if by the end, it is you who will bestow payment upon me--"
"Look, this isn't negotiable," the owner interrupted, looking quite put-upon. "I can't make any exception for you. Next thing, I'll have other customers wanting to pay me in song, or in poetry, or in prose, or in dirty limericks, or what-have-you. We only accept money here. Good, solid coin, to put a roof over the head and bread on the table."
Amell had to choke back a laugh when she realized the minstrel was attempting to pay his bill with a musical number.
"Ah," the young man continued, putting a hand to his chest dramatically, "but what is shelter and food for the body, if the soul starves? Am I not right about this, fair maiden?" he asked, turned to Amell with a dramatic swoop. His green eyes were twinkling merrily and he had a charming smile. Amell might have almost been taken in, had she not met some equally charming individuals along her travels.
"Oy, don't harass paying customers!" the owner grumbled, shooting a glare at the minstrel. "How can I help you, ma'am?" He looked at her with an expression that made it clear what he was thinking: You are going to pay in actual money, yes?
"Hmm, well, I have these robes that need mending," she started, taking the knapsack off her shoulder and pulling her robes out.
"Ah, the lady is Fereldan!" the minstrel exclaimed, taking her hand and making a show of kissing it. "I, too, have visited your lovely lands and have found nothing more refreshing than your rolling green hills upon a late spring morning," he continued, grinning at her cheekily.
The owner, who'd been inspecting the robes, shot another look at the minstrel.
"Yes, well, these can be fixed well enough," he addressed Amell, "but if you're going north, they won't be terribly appropriate for the weather. Perhaps I could interest you in something lighter?"
"I suppose," Amell said, after some hesitation. Her robes were very comfortable and she was used to them, but they were made for the harsh cold of Ferelden and the Tower.
"Here we go, how about this?" he pulled up a set of lovely green robes from under the counter.
Amell had to squelch her immediate delight at the sight of the fabric.
"It looks very nice," she said evenly, running her fingers over the material. "Is it flame retardant?"
"Is it... uh..." The owner recovered quickly. "Well, I wouldn't run into any burning buildings, at any rate."
"What about frost?" she continued.
"What about it?"
"Does the material hold up to frost?"
"...It's not made for that kind of weather," the owner blinked, confused by this line of questioning.
Amell pursed her lips and looked down at the robes again.
"It doesn't have any metal wiring, I hope," she muttered.
"Look, is this a joke?" the owner frowned at her disapprovingly. "Because I won't stand for being ridiculed!"
The minstrel burst into musical peals of laughter.
"Not a joke, good man! The lady is a mage!" And he punctuated this proclamation with a few notes on his lute.
Amell had to grin at the minstrel's antics. Never before had this revelation been met with such enthusiasm, unless it was the other kind, the one involving swords and accusations.
The owner seemed to wilt away from Amell, however, and she suppressed a sigh.
"Look, just fix my robes. I'm sure I'll still have a use for them," she said as gently as she could, using her 'I'm a good little mage, I promise' voice.
"Ah, yes, of course. It... it will cost eight silvers in all," he managed to say.
"I don't suppose I could pay you in dirty limericks?" she asked with a lopsided grin, as she searched her pouch for the coins. "A friend taught me some really good ones."
The minstrel chortled at the owner's expression.
"Oh, and I'll be paying his expenses as well," she gestured towards the younger man. At his questioning look, she added, "Consider it your reward for figuring out what I am."
He gave a sweeping bow at this and Amell could almost believe he was completely serious.