Chapter Text
— Brynnor —
“I know this car tops out at three hundred kilometres per hour,” Brynnor hissed through gritted teeth as she gripped the handlebar over her door, “But that’s not, like, a challenge, Viago.”
“You drive a motorcycle.”
“Yeah, as the driver. I hate being passenger, especially your passenger.”
Viago just smirked back at her as he turned the car, a low-riding neon green Cavalese Model 3, around another hairpin corner.
“I don’t like seeing you have fun. It’s creepy.” Brynnor reached into her purse that had cost way too much money and popped another anti-acid tablet into her mouth. “Cojeme—!”
Viago swerved into the other lane to avoid a large pile of snow that had sloughed off the cliffs, the wheels of the Cavalese leaving skid marks on the asphalt as he swerved back.
“I did not think to read the avalanche report,” Viago mused, and to Brynnor’s relief, he dropped his speed another twenty klicks.
Brynnor just groaned and tried not to throw up in a car that cost as much as their two-bedroom condo in Treviso.
The road curved and switchbacked up the slopes of the Orlesian side of the Frostback Mountains towards the ski village of Sahrnia. Brynnor had never been to Orlais, until this trip, and already she was looking forward to leaving once the job was done.
The Cavalese’s engine purred as Viago dropped gear and the village came into view, high in a basin ahead, and the towering ancient elven ruins came into view across the canyon. One of the ruins, a gladiatorial coliseum, had been reconstructed in a towering glass cage and turned into a theatre; an old castle’s facade was reincorporated into one of the luxury resort hotels that occluded whatever industry the village of Sahrnia had once maintained before the modern era.
Brynnor’s felt her skin itch at the sight of the old elven ruins, and she tugged her fur cap down a little tighter over her ears.
In the town proper, Viago shifted down to second gear, crawling the Cavalese down the narrow windy streets; they passed other high-end cars and well-dressed people strolling between the hotels to the shops and restaurants on the village’s only main street. Brynnor didn’t see another elf in sight, until they passed a spur road that led to a loading dock, where two elven men unloaded a delivery truck. High above, along the mountain’s peaks and couloirs and slicing past the tree line to the resort’s backsides, tiny dots of people carved down across white slopes.
This was definitely not Antiva.
“Last chance to speak freely,” Viago told her as the Cavalese rumbled towards one of the more modern luxury hotels, a low-slung, wide, four-story thing made of glass and burnt wood and warm light strips. It looked odd next to the castle-like resort behind that. Appearances aside, however, Brynnor knew this village was far from kitchy; only the truly wealthy could afford to come here. If you wanted to be a ski bum, you had better luck on the eastern Frostback slopes, in Ferelden.
“I think this is a bad idea,” Brynnor said.
“It worked in Vyrantium.”
“That’s because I didn’t know what you and Teia were doing! We’re in Orlais—” and Brynnor didn’t speak Orlesian, “—the laws are different here, they have that weird thing about the game of double-speak, and I don’t know how to ski, and you can’t.”
“We’re not here to ski, Brynnor,” Viago reminded her.
“I know, I know.”
Viago pulled in front of the main doors of the hotel, and immediately three young, handsome human men in hotel-branded uniforms jumped to attention. “We’re on.”
Viago put the Cavalese into park and grabbed his cane from the back seat before he opened his side door. Brynnor stretched her fingers briefly, grabbed her ridiculously expensive red wyvern-skin handbag from where it sat between her feet, and checked her silver pistol inside and made sure the safety switch was on before quickly clasping the bag closed. One of the human valets opened her door for her, and Brynnor stepped out of the car.
She shivered at the transition of the warm Cavalese interior to the cold high alpine air, and pulled the front of her white fur coat a little tighter. The matching fur hat kept the top of her head warm, the ear flaps just covering her long ears from first glances; but anyone paying attention would see the tips poking out, her large amber eyes, her wide flat nose, and know her for exactly what she was: an elf.
Under her thigh-length fur coat, she’d worn a silver silk slip gown, sheer hose, and knee-high leather boots. The diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist felt heavy, clunky, and the equally-ostentatious silver earrings in her earlobes were weighing her down.
On the other side of the car, Viago was quietly yet effectively giving a series of warnings to the valet before he passed over the Cavalese’s keys, and he leaned on his cane as he walked around the hood of the car to meet Brynnor.
If Brynnor was all light colours, amber eyes and curving lines, Viago was her total opposite: tall, narrow, built of only sharp angles; with dark hair and a dark finely trimmed moustache, he cut a void-like slash through the otherwise bright afternoon. His coat, his suit, sucked up light. The only bright things about him was his blue eyes and the shimmering jade and mother-of-pearl handle of his cane.
If you looked at the two of them together, like this, you’d never have known they were born of the same elven woman. Especially not Viago, with his lanky height, round ears, and the proud eyes and nose that he’d inherited from his human father.
Their goal: to look like new money, but with taste. Teia had secured for Viago a white-gold watch that cost more than the Cavalese (for free, too; the Trevisian watchmaker owed Teia big-time), and Brynnor had spent the past month using every skincare serum Teia forced upon her, got her nails done and her calluses buffed out of her hands and feet, and took lessons on makeup and how to properly style her straight golden hair. They’d prepared for this job far more than they had for any other job they’d done so far.
Brynnor prided herself in not stumbling her first step out of the Cavalese, which—again—was a neon green low-riding monstrosity that probably couldn’t handle a speedbump, but Viago was all too happy to drive it from the airport in Halamshiral. It was all part of the appearance.
The valets collected Brynnor and Viago’s luggage from the trunk of the Cavalese. “Careful,” Brynnor purred at them as they picked up her leather suitcases. She smiled a little as the valets immediately looked like they were going to sweat. She slipped her hand through Viago’s elbow and led him up the steps to the hotel lobby, his cane silent on the low-pile black non-slip carpet.
Brynnor tried not to swivel her head around too much in her search for Teia, but in the low-lit, richly dark-coloured and plush lobby, Brynnor didn’t see Teia; only other humans, many of them who turned their heads the moment Brynnor stepped through the doors on Viago’s arm.
Viago bent his head towards her ear. “I’ll handle checking in, you go find Teia.”
Brynnor nodded. She passed a human couple with a surly teenager, all three dressed in sleek ski suits and carrying hard ski boots in their hands, who turned to watch her pass by. The wife of the couple eyed Brynnor’s handbag.
The soles of her boots clicked across the floor as Brynnor entered the lounge, casting her eyes across the low, plush chocolate-coloured leather booths and black marble tables. The entire opposite wall was glass, facing the mountain and the foot of the ski area. Snow reflected intensely bright light into the room, and every person was backlit to Brynnor’s view; she squinted her eyes a little as she walked forward, scanning each person’s head, seeking out the silhouette of pointed ears.
Because Brynnor knew, this was not the kind of place most elves could afford. Teia, and Brynnor, were the exception. And Brynnor felt several pairs of eyes land on her back, her pure white fur coat, the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist, the expensive handbag she carried.
It’s true: Brynnor was a fraud. It was all an act.
Within moments, she laid eyes on Teia, and Brynnor walked carefully—yet casually—around tables towards where Teia lounged back in her seat, a small cup of steaming espresso pinched between her fingers as she looked out the window at the mountain.
“There you are,” she said, and Teia looked up at her. Brynnor spotted a relieved look behind her eyes.
Brynnor had just slid into the seat next to her when movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Across the room, two dark-haired men stood up. One of them wore a silver ring that flashed in the light.
Brynnor was used to observing her surroundings, taking in details of every face that passed her—she had to, for her own sanity and survival—and she nearly dropped her purse and tripped into her chair when she saw the face of the man whose movements had caught her attention.
She herself was a beacon in the lounge; her silver dress, the white fur hat and coat, her shining blonde hair. She might as well have put a big flashing light on her head.
So it was no surprise that in the otherwise muted, dark furnishings of the lounge, he would also catch notice of her as he stood up from his table.
Brynnor’s eyes met those of Lucanis Dellamorte’s for all of two seconds before he quickly turned away.
Brynnor threw herself down in the seat next to Teia.
“We have to call it off,” she immediately whispered to Teia, who almost spat out her espresso. “Call off the whole job.”
“What?”
“Trust me,” Brynnor balked, but she couldn’t tear her gaze fully off of Lucanis Dellamorte, his smoothed-back hair, the neat beard he’d grown in since the last time she saw him, and the sharp tailored cut of his shirt and slacks. Standing up next to him was his equally tailored and trimmed cousin.
Lucanis spared one more glance at her, over his shoulder, as he and Illario left the lounge room.
This job had barely begun, and already, it was so fucked.