#josephine montil

[breadedsinner]

Call him Sebastian Veal because he’s so tender.

[bunabi]

call her Josephine Montil-yay the way I’m always happy to see her

[nirikeehan]

Thalia, Samson and Pravin, crime sentence starters: ❛ i don’t think you fully understand the situation you’re in. ❜

Okay okay, so this really is just the start to something, but I wanted to see Pravin and Samson facing off so badlyyy and I'm sure I'll continue it in some form soon.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 525

CW: Samson is a creepy sad sack, you know the drill

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“I don’t think you fully understand the situation you’re in.” 

The dagger stabbed the wood in the table between them. It was a fine piece, well-made but not ostentatious. A dagger made for stabbing, not ornamentation. 

Samson looked from the glinting metal blade and the wrist that twisted it to the face of the man opposite. One of those insultingly handsome men, who had no right to walk around looking as good as they did. Dark-skinned: Rivaini or Antivan at a glance, piercing green eyes, a flamboyant sense of style and flair for the dramatic, if he was willing to mar the wood to make a point. 

“Not sure I know what you mean.” Samson had no intention of giving the fop what he wanted, whatever it was. Play it cool, close to the chest. Admit nothing. “The Lady Inquisitor is most generous. She offered me quite the deal; I took it.” 

“Yes, though I am told you led her to believe you were dying at the time.” 

A close friend, then. At the least. The girl came to Samson in secret, all teary and looking for a soul to save. He doubted she would have told just anyone about it. And here this bloke was, cross enough to drag Samson from his cell and lock him in this windowless chamber, strewn with bookshelves and covered in cobwebs, for an impromptu confrontation.

Wasn’t there an Antivan on her small council? No, two Antivans. There was the pretty one, Josephine Montil-something. This must be the other one. The bard. 

Samson flashed a grin. “Figured I ought to give her a show. Something I’m sure you know something about, Messere Talavera.”

The cough overtook Samson then, a theatrical flourish if there ever was one. Pity he couldn’t control it. The hacking left his throat raw and his chest aching. 

Talavera’s eyes narrowed. They were a tad darker than the emerald leaking from Lady Thalia’s hand. Samson’d had a damn good look at that during their talk in the dungeon. The anchor’s gash across her dainty little palm had sung to him, a song almost as sweet as the red lyrium. So much work down the drain, all because the little miss had snooped in the wrong room at the wrong time, and now paraded the consequences around for all to see. He could have reached through the bars and snatched her wrist. Caressed it, maybe. She was a compelling creature. He’d had prettier, but there was something impish about her face that he liked. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you know my name?” Talavera deadpanned. “It’s been public for quite some time.”

“And a good deal less ridiculous than Fidencio Frye.” Samson guffawed. Yes, he remembered the intelligence reports now: Sister Leliana, Josephine Montilyet, Cassandra Pentaghast — and Cullen, of course — and Fidencio Frye, real name Pravin Talavera. Third cousin to Lady Thalia Trevelyan. Aha. 

“I see how it is,” Samson said, wagging his finger at Talavera. “This is some familial intervention, ain’t it?” 

“Not sure I know what you mean,” Talavera retorted, throwing Samson’s Lowtown accent back at him. “This is an interrogation, Messere Samson.”