Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 11

"Good afternoon," Gwen calls to the gardener. He swipes back his hat, eyes narrowing in the harsh sunlight. "I was wondering if you had a wide bucket I could borrow?"

"Going to wash up?" the man asks, his eyes drifting down her body. The wind is soft, perspiration building in the high heat, but at least she needn't worry about her dress clinging to her form without a care for decency.

"It's for Lord Branson," Gwen explains while bobbing on her toes, watching as the gardener pulls a wooden barrel from the shed. It's over three feet wide and two deep, causing the Governess to struggle to hold it in her smaller arms. "He's been folding paper ships all day and I want to teach him how to make them watertight."

"How's that?" the gardener asks, the man more than happy to chew the fat in the shade.

A smile warms Gwen's lips as she thinks back to her younger days. "Dip the bottom in wax and it seals it up as good as any Clipper."

"Huh," the gardener says, a shovel clanking in his hands as he turns to his tools. "We never did that. Would drip hot wax on my brother's stomachs while someone held him down, but..."

Gwen's pleasant eye wanders across the verdant lawn of the estate. A man dressed in a tattered tunic and trousers stands beside one of the other buildings on the grounds. He leans upon a stack of crates, most of his face hidden in the shadows. But as she hears that hell-deep gravely laugh, a face with stringy black hair, pocked cheeks, and red-rimmed beady eyes snaps into her memory.

The gardener's nostalgia over torturing his brother fades as Gwen stomps across the lawn. Her hands drop the bucket, her heart catching in her throat as the man nods to one of the many hands working the estates. It is him.

"Samson."

His smirk reveals teeth yellowed from cheap tobacco, the stench of fish and decay wafting over her. "Well, ain't this a thing and a half to find."

She whips her head around, making note of the many servants drifting around the grounds. Most are hiding from the sun, but it is best to keep careful. Knotting a fist around Samson's tunic, Gwen hauls the taller man into a stand of bushes, vanishing them from any peeping eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she snarls, her grip tightening even as he raises his hands in adjudication.

"Funny, was about to ask you the same, Lil Pup."

Her eyes flare, Gwen's sweet demeanor crackling to reveal bared teeth, "That is my name no longer."

"Heard that bit, least some of it. What was you going by now?"

"Never you mind," she opens her clenched fist, letting Samson the bandy-legged man of ill-means stumble back. He never falls for long, the man with more lives than a cat.

Samson rubs the mottled whiskers on his cheek, saltier than she remembers, his reddened eyes trying to pierce through her. "So you got yourself a cushy job in a Duke's lap--"

The dagger is at Samson's throat before he can blink, Gwen's fist knotting up the balding hair to trap him. He coughs once and mutters, "Forgot about your little sting."

"Why are you here?" Gwen repeats, her voice steelier than her blade.

Slowly, the eternal-drunkards eyes roll up to hers and he cracks a smile. "Same as you, got a job to do."

Bullshit. Samson dealt in only crooked work, not even close to skirting past the law. No chance of a man of the Duke's caliber suffering someone such as that in his employ. But, what did she really know of him? So he has kind eyes, a shy smile, and cares for his nephew? What in that speaks of a man who will not take the easiest coin on the table?

Shaking her thoughts off, Gwen glares into Samson's eyes. "You will not speak of me to anyone here."

"What? Not even--"

She draws the blade closer, Samson gasping at the prick. "Fine, fine, my lips are sealed before you cut 'em off and wear 'em as a necklace."

It isn't a guarantee by any means, drink or coin certain to loosen those lips, but it's all she can hope for. Gwen releases her hold, her dagger slipping to the sheath hidden in her boot.

Samson massages his neck, mostly for show as she barely nicked him. His skin shows more damage from a drunkard's hands attempting a shave. "I hate your family's greetings. Not a hug or a drink for an old friend, just straight to daggers and blood every time."

Narrowing her eyes, Gwen snarls, "That is not my life. Not anymore."

After peering out of the shrubbery, Samson takes a single step towards freedom. When Gwen doesn't lash out, he risks another. There are no parting words, no goodbyes. They don't deal in those. Before he exists back to his dark deeds, Samson asks, "Oh, want me to tell your brother you said hello?"

Gwen answers with a sneer and a draw of her blade.