Chapter Text
*
Ølen den er kaldere
enn toppene på Hemsedal!
The beer is colder
than the mountaintops in Hemsedal!
— a Freljordian god (drunk, probably)
*
It is early April —the seventh day, to be exact. It is the best time to go skiing because the sun hovers on the mountaintops for a while longer as spring is fast-approaching and the temperature does not start to drop until four o’clock in the afternoon. Ashe knows all this because she is from a small town in Freljord called Vattkjær, and Freljordians understand snow, and winter, and ice, and dark nights because this place is their home.
Ashe is sitting in a small minivan, having taken the seat at the very back so she can stretch her long legs. Her blue mittens and woolly hat are folded neatly in her lap as she stares out the window; the white landscape twists and curves around the van. This is a particularly mountainous area of Freljord. Ashe is, perhaps, six-hundred meters over the ocean. But it does not matter where the ocean is because the slopes are steep and winding and you have to stand on one of the mountain peaks to be able to glimpse the blue water in the distance.
Her friend and biathlon teammate, Andrine, is busy handing out ski lift passes to the rest of the group. The biathlon World Cup has just ended and to celebrate a very successful season, the National Freljordian Biathlon Team have decided to go skiing —alpine skiing, which is both at once ironic and quite typical. Andrine twists in her seat, the seatbelt digging deep into her neck, and tosses a pass in Ashe’s direction. Ashe smiles, a tight-lipped smile, and tucks the pass into one of her many jacket pockets.
Ashe looks out the window and sees the lake Mjǫrs, which is now frozen over. A thin layer of fresh snow has laid itself across the ice. The evergreen branches hang low and heavy, the very tips of the branches have been dipped in frost.
Tarjei is today’s designated driver, which means he is in charge of making sure everyone makes it in and out of the van. He had made a big thing of it earlier in the morning; counting everyone by patting their heads as they crawled, one by one, into the van. Now he is playing overly loud Freljordian afterski music and everyone knows the words by heart because the songs are repetitive, annoying, and slightly chauvinistic, but Ashe does not mind because this type of music is never too serious and so she sings along with her team.
They are going to Reinheimen, the most popular skiing spot in northern Freljord.
The sky is brilliantly blue above Ashe when she steps out of the van.
Kjell is busy distributing the skis and poles to everyone. He makes fun of Trude’s short twin tip skis because Trude only comes up to most Freljordian’s shoulders. But Trude, despite her short legs, is a rocket on the track and is the best sprinter amongst them. And Trude swipes her skis from Kjell and then knocks her fist against his chest, making him sputter.
Ashe walks up the path with Sejuani, her skis are balanced on one shoulder and both poles grasped tightly in one hand.
Sejuani cranes her neck, looking up at the steep slopes in the distance. She makes an off-handed comment about the weather, mentioning the fresh snow.
Ashe grins with excitement and adjusts the goggles on her head.
The snow is dazzlingly bright. The rounded mountain peaks of Reinheimen are a sight to behold and so very inviting to avid skiers. There are not many people on the slopes yet; it is still quite early. But that is a good thing, because it means that most of the snow has been left undisturbed, and Ashe and her team get to be the first people on it. And that is a very special privilege because skiing on fresh powdery snow is like skiing on a cloud.
*
Ashe’s heavy skis slice through the snow. She twists, elegantly, feeling the snow pushing back against her skis as she continues carving her way down the steep mountainside. She is focused; her knees bent, her arms close to her sides. She controls her breathing, making sure she is getting enough air in her lungs, because that is an integral part of her sport, of biathlon —despite the fact that what she is doing now is alpine skiing.
She passes Tarjei who is a much more technical and careful skier than everyone else in the group. Ashe notices Trude further down the slope, her mint green jacket unmistakable, and Trude is a daredevil and has found a small jump and flies down the slope with incredible speed. Ashe decides to follow in Trude’s tracks.
Andrine, Sejuani and Kjell have already reached the end of this trail and are waiting for the gondola that will take them to the top again.
*
There is a certain type of concentration and discipline that comes with skiing: this is a skill taught to Freljordians from childhood, not for sport or competition, but as a cultural necessity. The mountains are their home, the heavy snowfalls and the thick ice are a natural part of their way of life and living, which is why there is a famous saying in Freljord: all Freljordians are born with skis on their feet.
*
They eat lunch at Ornns Stue, choosing to sit outside. The sun is a blaze above them. The snow has melted slightly, which makes it less exciting to ski on. But that does not matter much now because Ashe and her group are a bit tired and keep having to remind each other that this is supposed to be their day off, so they should not push themselves.
A waiter brings over two large kebab pizzas drenched in a garlic and herb sauce and places them on the table. Everyone helps themselves to a slice.
Ashe and Sejuani are drinking a dry pilsner from a brewery four hours south of Vattkjær. It is crisp, cold and refreshing. The others tease them, saying they are having their own private vors, meaning pre-drinks. Ashe just waves the dark green can in front of the others and sticks her tongue between her teeth, laughing.
*
They are out on the slopes for another two hours before they declare themselves too tired to walk.
Ashe staggers, holding her skis and poles in each hand. Her boots are heavy and suddenly feel too tight, which makes walking a struggle. She has lifted up her goggles so they are sitting on her forehead. Her white oversized puffer jacket is unzipped, underneath she is wearing a fleece jumper with old Freljordian patterns on it. Her thighs are burning, but it is a nice ache and it makes Ashe look forward to a long warm soak in the bathtub at home.
Tarjei, who has a surprising amount of energy left in him, stops at the top of a small slope where Grisehuset sits, a popular afterski bar. He turns and squints against the golden haze. He watches, with much difficulty, his friends hobble up the hill and makes a point to count them by tapping them on their shoulders when they eventually reach him.
When Ashe reaches him she laughs and shakes her head, telling him he is being ridiculous.
*
After having put away her skis and poles, leaning them against the ski rack, Ashe makes her way to a long bench and table where her friends are sitting. The other half of the table is taken by a different group —foreigners by the looks of it. Not that Ashe has gotten a good look at their faces, Ashe is not that shallow or narrow-minded. She can tell by their clothes that they are not Freljordians.
Their jackets are expensive, but offer no resistance to the extreme cold. Ashe knows this because she had been an ambassador for this specific brand, but then quickly cut ties with it when she realised the clothes were useless in warding off the cold —and a Freljordian is always prepared for cold weather.
Ashe sits down and the first thing she does is undo the buckles on her ski boots. She groans, elated, and tips her head back. She shrugs out of her jacket and drapes it over her legs, using it as a blanket.
Kjell returns to the table with everyone’s drinks. It is a game he always does; he guesses what everyone wants. Today he has bought himself a double shot of vodka with lemonade because he has yet to outgrow his rebellious russ-phase. For Trude he has bought a pale lager from Ionia. Andrine gets a Mango IPA. Ashe and Sejuani are handed the same dry pilsner from earlier. Tarjei, because he is driving, has to settle for an Oskar Sylte pear soda.
They clink their drinks together and shout; «skål!»
The afterski theme is reinforced when the pub begins to blast Freljordian afterski songs from Ashe’s youth, followed by the latest russ-music, which Ashe is surprisingly familiar with. She has Sejuani to thank for that because Sejuani regularly shows Ashe fan-made video edits of her and the choice of music is always some heavy bass and synth song with the most obscene lyrics in existence. It always makes Ashe scrunch her nose, it also makes her wonder what on earth Sejuani’s social media algorithm looks like.
«My friends! You are doing it wrong!» Kjell suddenly calls out, pointing at the people sitting at the other end of the table.
Ashe and everyone else snap their heads to look at the confused group who are staring back at them —at Kjell and his loud mouth.
Kjell shuffles down the bench, bumping his shoulder against a rather wide-eyed burly-looking man.
«You eat it like this,» Kjell points to what would be the end of a rolled up sweet bun and makes a tearing motion with his hands. «You are— »
Kjell looks back at his group, then at Ashe because he is convinced that Ashe speaks the best Velarian in the group. But Ashe is still trying to process what is happening and gives Kjell a confused look.
«Sacrilegious?» Trude offers.
«Yes!» Kjell snaps his fingers.
«We’re eating it wrong?»
The man’s voice is a low growl. He drags his hand through his dark hair. His eyes are black as coal. He slides down the bench, making a point to get away from Kjell.
Kjell does not care. Kjell is fearless. «Yes, my friend, food is to be enjoyed! You are destroying this lovely— »
Kjell looks at Trude, wanting help again. «Kanelbolle?» he mutters.
Ashe clears her throat; «cinnamon bun. He means to say cinnamon bun.»
Her voice is loud in her ears, her Freljordian accent is less prevalent than Kjell’s. Ashe suddenly feels silly and her cheeks are warm, as if they have caught fire, and now everyone around the table is looking at her as if she is some otherworldly creature. Ashe inhales sharply and holds her breath as she leans back against the bench, hoping she can hide behind Tarjei’s large frame.
She has only had two pilsners. It usually takes a couple more to make her this dizzy and so self-aware. She latches onto Tarjei, grabbing his arm and groaning. She can hear Kjell speaking in broken Velarian about cinnamon buns. And she can hear the other man grunting in response. She can hear the annoying russ-music, which suddenly brings her back to her youth where she did things she now regrets. But she had felt so alive back then and for some odd reason she feels as if she is coming alive right now.
Tarjei teases Ashe, asking if she wants his pear soda.
Ashe vehemently shakes her head, then laughs, and reappears, pulling herself away from Tarjei’s arm. She drags her hand through her white hair, accidentally knocking her fingers against her goggles. She laughs, then mutters that she will be fine. She looks at her half-finished pilsner and makes a mental note that she needs to drink slower if she wants to survive the rest of the evening.
*
The sun is sinking in the distance. Shadows race across the slopes. It is getting colder and Ashe has wrapped her jacket around her shoulders. She is drinking her fourth pilsner, being mindful of having a glass of water in-between drinks. She is less dizzy, but still feels jittery. A bit excited and nostalgic because it is so easy to get swept away in the music from her youth. And it makes Ashe think of silly, teenage things again.
She glances at the group sitting at the other end of the table. And Kjell. Of course Kjell is there. Ashe frowns. Kjell is excellent at making friends because he has this ability to not care what others might think of him. But he also has this tendency of deserting his friends. And he loves talking about Freljord. He is now trying to re-tell the unification of Freljord which happened more than two centuries ago.
The other group does not seem to mind, listening diligently, or perhaps they have had too much to drink so they cannot be bothered to care about Kjell and his yapping. There are five of them; two men and three women. The one closest to Andrine, the woman with red hair and designer sunglasses perched on top of her head, intrigues Ashe the most. She has this way about her; she is both at once striking and dignified, but there is this curious scar across her eye which is occasionally illuminated by the outdoor lamp that flickers above her.
Ashe has always been attracted to danger and things that make her heart race. She bites her lip in an attempt to keep her thoughts and feelings away.
Kjell stands, excusing himself, which quickly turns into an announcement. Then he crawls across the table, falling off the end, face down in the snow. The others peer at him, blinking. Kjell stands abruptly, brushing the snow from his pants and jacket. And then he wanders into the bar.
Andrine mutters to the others saying she will go with him and chases after Kjell.
Ashe wants to hide her face in her hands. It is not the first time she has seen Kjell this way, but she is surprised every time. And when she finally lowers her hands, she glances at the other end of the table. Her eyes catch the other woman’s. And Ashe inhales sharply, then bites the inside of her mouth and hastily downs the rest of her pilsner. It really is quite strange; how attractive women tend to make Ashe so thirsty.
«My friends!» Kjell calls as he returns from the bar, «let me introduce you to my friend; akevitt !»
«Å gud,» Trude groans.
Sejuani laughs and slaps her hand against her knee.
«I did try to stop him,» Andrine explains, carrying a bunch of small shot glasses; ten of them. She passes them around and suddenly Ashe’s group merges with the other group. And now they are all sitting a bit too close for comfort, sharing names and stories.
The woman with red hair has taken the spot across from Ashe. The sun has sunk into the snow and it is suddenly very dark and there are plenty of shadows on the woman’s face; beneath her eyes, by her lips, along her jaw and down her neck.
«I’m Katarina. Kat for short.»
Ashe is instantly smitten. Katarina has the loveliest eyes Ashe have ever seen; it is impossible to find anyone in Freljord who carries such a dark shade of green.
Katarina places her elbows on the table and leans in closer; «don’t know if you can tell, but we’re from Noxus. She’s Shuriman, though.» Katarina glances at the woman with black hair beside her, then winks back at Ashe.
«I can tell,» Ashe giggles.
«And your name?» Katarina reminds her.
«Ashe.»
«She is Ashe Stormbringer!» Andrine announces proudly and puffs out her chest, placing her hands on her hips. «We are biathletes!»
«What’s that?»
Katarina’s smile is a soft and peculiar thing; this slight involuntary tug at the corner of her lips.
«We like to ski with guns,» Trude says with her excellent grasp of the Velarian language.
Katarina is immediately confused and looks at Ashe for an explanation.
«Not real bullets!» Ashe explains quickly.
«But the guns are real?» Katarina raises an eyebrow.
«Our guns are very real,» Ashe confirms.
«Rifles, actually,» Sejuani interjects.
«Ashe shot the fastest standing round this season!» Andrine’s loud voice catches everyone’s attention, and Ashe sinks into her seat, wanting to disappear, «she was just like —Bam! Bam! Bam! And she won the women’s sprint, then the ten kilometre pursuit and the mass start!»
«Pursuit? You hunt each other for sport?»
«Yes, yes. It is a lot of fun.»
«Trude!» Ashe gasps, throwing Trude a warning glance.
Katarina seems impressed. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, her thoughts quickly coming and going.
«You must be really good.»
Ashe bites her tongue and shivers. «I am an excellent shot.»
«Ashe is,» Andrine fumbles, searching for the right words, «ski dronninga —in the flesh!»
This makes Katarina laugh and throw her head back.
The sound and the way Katarina returns to look at Ashe pulls Ashe out of her shell. She feels giddy, excitement pools in her stomach. And the overbearing music is starting to make sense, so is the cold pilsner, and now Kjell is reminding everyone that there is a bottle of akevitt that needs to be finished so he pours everyone another shot.
«Cheers,» Katarina says, her voice smooth as silk, and raises the glass so it is level with her eye.
«Skål,» Ashe corrects her.
Katarina suddenly leans across the table and angles herself in such a way that all Ashe has to do is turn her head, less than a centimetre, to whisper in Katarina’s ear.
The movement makes Ashe swoon.
«Say it again for me.»
Ashe plays around with the word in her head for a moment, testing it and imagining the sound of each letter and how she can make them as delectable as possible. Then finally she lets the word roll off her tongue. She emphasises the sharp K-sound and then that thick L-sound.
«Skål.»
Katarina pulls back, slightly, and the green in her eyes is both at once glorious and dangerous. She parts those pretty lips of hers and says; «your accent is, like, really sexy.»
Ashe tries to not gape at her. She is taken aback, flustered, and now she wants to play a game of cat and mouse and see how long they can chase each other before the other gives up and goes home —home together? Possibly. That would be lovely, actually. And now Ashe shakes her head because her thoughts are not making any sense. Ashe looks down at her empty shot glass and wonders if she has made a mistake.
But Katarina and her group are suddenly standing, saying they are going to head inside because it is getting too cold outside. And the sun is completely gone. And the slopes are shrouded in darkness.
Ashe has this snarky remark about Freljordians being absolutely fine with cold weather sitting on the tip of her tongue, but then Katarina insists that Ashe and her group join them inside.
And Ashe agrees, a bit too eagerly.
*
The music thrums around them. The deep bass batters against the walls and makes the floor vibrate. The lyrics only make sense to Freljordians, and if Ashe continues to think about the words while looking at Katarina she might faint.
Ashe has left her jacket on the back of a chair along with her fleece jumper. She has stripped down to just her base layer; this black tight-fitting top made from a wool blend. She is still wearing her ski pants, which are large and clumsy and makes a static noise every time she crosses her legs or stands to get another drink from the bar.
She has swapped her expensive ski goggles for Katarina’s designer sunglasses and looks rather satisfied and proud of herself, grinning at Katarina from the other side of this awkward semi-circle that the group have made.
Kjell and Andrine are up on their feet, trying to teach the others how to do the reinlender; a traditional folk dance that is usually performed to a fiddle and not this artificial electronic sound that is being pumped through the speakers. Andrine has abandoned Kjell and is encouraging the Noxians to join her. Sejuani beats her fist against Katarina’s shoulder, urging her to stand.
Katarina looks flustered and confused, but her smile is bright and her eyes so very curious. Andrine places her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow. She stamps her foot in tandem with the beat, then surges forwards and grabs both of Katarina’s hands. She spins them around, and Katarina tries her best to keep up with the steps —she really does try.
Everyone is laughing, and clapping, and pointing, and the music steadily grows louder and louder. And at some point, Katarina’s eyes catch Ashe’s, and now Ashe is twisting in her seat, trying to hand off her pilsner to someone else. She stands, not quite knowing how or why. She confidently pulls Katarina closer by the waist, knocking their hips together.
«This is how you do it,» Ashe laughs, tossing her head back.
«Show me then!» Katarina calls over the music.
Ashe guides them across the floor, circling and spinning, and she feels like she is fourteen again learning this dance in gym class. And Katarina is her clumsy dance partner because she is everywhere; all dangly limbs and awkward posture, but she is real, and alive, and warm to the touch. It feels as if butterflies are going to explode out of Ashe’s chest.
Katarina’s hands intertwine with Ashe’s and the music changes to this upbeat EDM song that all the Freljordian’s seem to know. Everyone is up and jumping, having completely forgotten the reinlender.
Ashe and Katarina are pushed closer together, a crowd forms around them. Ashe sings, at the top of her lungs, in her native language; du esje som de andre, ingen andre e som deg! and Katarina just nods along. Something about all these old songs and pilsners that Ashe had earlier makes her obnoxiously patriotic and gives her this heightened sense of self. And she desperately wants to share her culture with Katarina, to make her understand.
«I’m going to teach you all the songs!»
Ashe looks at Katarina with her bright blue eyes, and Katarina throws her arms around Ashe.
«Yeah?» Katarina breathes, grinning, «you’re going to teach me Freljordian phrases?»
«The worst ones!» Ashe teases, shaking her head. She sways her hips, running her hands through her hair. Her fingers get caught on the designer sunglasses on her forehead, making them fall across her eyes, and now Ashe is looking up at Katarina through dark lenses.
«Okay, try me,» Katarina mutters, adjusting the glasses on Ashe’s face. She lingers, purposefully, touching and drawing circles into Ashe’s cheeks, then hooks a slender finger under Ashe’s sharp jaw, gently tipping her head back.
Ashe can feel Katarina’s breath; hot and moist on her lips.
Sejuani barrels through the crowd, knocking against Ashe’s shoulder.
«You can say; sleng pikken over gjerdet!»
Ashe is pulled from her stupor and quickly covers Sejuani’s foul-worded mouth with her hands.
«Don’t teach her that!»
The music changes. Ashe cannot stand this song so she escapes the crowd. Katarina follows diligently behind her. Ashe orders another pilsner from the bar, then finds her seat. She sits on the very edge of the chair, balancing there and wonders how many more distractions and disruptions will come her way this evening. Kjell is next to her, looking tired and worn-out. He watches the energetic crowd with empty yet serene eyes.
Katarina shrugs out of her jacket, letting it drape across the back of a chair. She is less prepared for the colder weather, but perhaps that is a good thing, because the only clothing she is wearing under her jacket is a tight black t-shirt that accentuates her body —she must work out as well, Ashe concludes.
«They say that Freljordian’s have the best afterski, is that true?»
Ashe accidentally knocks the can of pilsner against her teeth in an attempt to hide her smile.
«You tell me,» she says softly, eyeing the dark patterns that twist and bend around Katarina’s toned arms. Ashe wonders how far the tattoos reach. Over Katarina’s shoulders? Along her chest? Perhaps stretching down her ribcage? Ashe has heard that the ribcage is quite painful to have tattooed.
«You have many tattoos,» Ashe hums appreciatively.
«Just a few,» Katarina says in such a snarky and arrogant way that it makes Ashe’s heart thump against her chest. «What about yourself? Got any?»
Ashe only has one; a spur of the moment kind of thing. She had gotten it in southern Shurima in this studio that sat hidden under a souvenir shop. She remembers the purple neon light-strips running across the ceiling and the humidifier in the corner. She remembers the sound of the needle gun and the cold gloved hand that pressed against her stomach to keep her from squirming in the chair. It had all been worth it, of course, and it had made Ashe feel quite rebellious and bold for many days after —but not bold enough to tell her Mamma about it.
«I have one on my hip. A bird. Right here. I will show you later.» Ashe taps a spot just below her waist.
There is this hungry look in Katarina’s eyes. She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, and Ashe suddenly wonders what it would feel like if she felt those teeth against her skin —her neck, perhaps? Or maybe on her hip, right below her bird?
Ashe’s cheeks burn at the thought. She takes off the sunglasses and shakes her head, her long white tresses fall like a curtain around her face. She sees, through the white haze, Katarina standing slowly and walking towards her. The sunglasses are carefully wrenched from her hands. She feels her hair being brushed back and Katarina’s fingertips grazing her scalp. It is a wonderful feeling. The sunglasses are back on her forehead and Katarina’s hands are on her shoulders.
She glances up and sees Katarina above her. She reaches out to curve her finger around one of Katarina’s pant loops, pulling her closer. She flicks her tongue against the back of her teeth, the motion of it all makes her dizzy. Is this what swooning feels like? When Ashe tries to stand up, she has to brace herself, holding onto Katarina.
«Do you want to go again?» Katarina calls over the music.
Yes, yes —a thousand times yes!
The words are stuck in Ashe’s throat. She nods, jerking her head. Then furiously reminds herself of who she is. She is a world-class biathlete champion, having already carved her name into legend. She has won gold —several times, several times in a row in fact. Ashe controls her breathing and imagines herself outside in the snow with her pale blue rifle in her arms, the pad pressing against her shoulder. She lets her body become relaxed for a moment. She holds her breath and thinks of her target; of Katarina with her lovely green eyes who is watching her with acute awareness.
Katarina is, perhaps, a person who has never allowed herself to be prey.
The thought of it all is so exhilarating to Ashe. She smiles at Katarina, then tugs Katarina closer and Katarina does the same to her, so they collide.
And now Kjell has come to and is sluggishly pushing himself between Ashe and Katarina. He is taller than both of them. He places his hands firmly on Katarina’s shoulder, looking deep into the depths of her lovely eyes. He blinks harshly, as if to rid himself of his sudden vertigo.
«Listen, I will tell you the secret to northern women,» Kjell says, sounding deathly serious.
Defeatedly, Ashe wonders how many times one of her friends is going to interrupt them.
«All right,» Katarina chuckles, though she seems unamused, «go for it.»
Kjell, who is struggling while being drunk, ponders for a moment.
«Northern women are very independent and strong-willed,» he concludes, then quickly adds, «so you need to be as direct as possible. If you say æ ska ta dæ med hæim, then you have to do it. Because a lot of times northern men will say they will do things. But they do not. You are not allowed to be a loser, because northern women do not like losers. They will lose interest.»
«Good advice.» Katarina nods stiffly, glancing at Ashe.
«Yes? You think?» Kjell seems rather hopeful, proud of himself and his guidance. Oddly, it feels as if he wants Katarina to succeed.
«Very.»
Katarina turns sharply to Ashe, reaching for her and pulling her close again. And Kjell is now slumped over in a chair with his hands folded in his lap. He has already fallen asleep.
«Æ ska— » Katarina begins, but it seems she has forgotten Kjell’s words, so she swears and presses the palm of her hand against the side of her head.
«Do you really trust Kjell and his advice?» Ashe laughs; a brilliant sound.
«No, I’m starting to have doubts now.» Katarina scowls. It does make her look rather attractive.
Oh! But Ashe does not have the time to swoon and get lost in all the ways that Katarina moves, and turns, and glances at her; how Katarina’s hand is blazingly hot on her skin, or how her eyes pierce her like a stray bullet. And now Katarina is talking in that thick Noxian accent of hers.
Katarina and her friends have rented a five bedroom cabin nearby. It is secluded, and private, and high up on the mountainside. Katarina describes the view as terrific, and Ashe knows exactly what she means, can imagine it in her mind: the mountain peaks and the frozen water. The clouds drifting lazily overhead. The snow shimmering like silver gems in the darkness. It is very dark out now. And cold. And the air will wake them both up, making them sober again.
Ashe hopes that Katarina will be more direct and hurry up and just say the words. Then she suddenly becomes embarrassed because maybe Kjell had given Katarina splendid advice?
Katarina drawls on and on about the cabin, saying it has a nice old fireplace. There are three large and heavy elnük pelts draped across the back of the sofa in the living room. There is plenty of white wine and beer in the fridge. Katarina mentions, sounding very secretive, that she has smuggled smoked meats and artisan cheeses from Noxus. And then, when Katarina thinks that Ashe might be losing interest, Katarina steels her gaze and admits, a bit too seriously, that Ashe is probably the most beautiful person with the palest blue eyes and whitest hair that she has ever seen. Ashe is more than a poster girl for Freljordian Beauties because she knows how to ski and shoot and is very, very good at it.
Katarina rounds it all off by finally asking Ashe if she wants to spend the night with her.
Ashe says yes — yes! A thousand times yes! — she would love to.