[ She takes a swig and passes it over, wipes her mouth along the back of a sweaty hand. ]
Merci.
[ Wren's distantly aware that leaning on an axe in her undershirt looking hungry for blood isn’t the ideal image to project — for the Chantry, for the Inquisition, for her own shambling reputation.
But fuck it. They’ve both seen worse of each other. ]
Care for a turn?
[ She lifts her brows to the axe, a glance back to Teren. She’s stronger than the first impression of bony arms would give (a decidedly blurry memory, that). It seems only fair to offer. ]
no subject
Merci.
[ Wren's distantly aware that leaning on an axe in her undershirt looking hungry for blood isn’t the ideal image to project — for the Chantry, for the Inquisition, for her own shambling reputation.
But fuck it. They’ve both seen worse of each other. ]
Care for a turn?
[ She lifts her brows to the axe, a glance back to Teren. She’s stronger than the first impression of bony arms would give (a decidedly blurry memory, that). It seems only fair to offer. ]