"Hmm. Maybe as hired muscle," she noted, her back still to Aurin as she convinced the fire to grow, slow and careful, but once the tinder began to lick hungrily at the rest of the wood in the hearth, she deemed it well enough to survive on its own, brushing her hands off on her thighs and settling back on her haunches. "But you're a bit too clean-looking for brainless muscle in Denerim. Don't shave, next time." A slanting smirk as she stood up and headed for the dresser, rummaging through the drawers with the absent surety of someone who knows what they seek lies within, but hasn't opened the drawer for some time.
"Thank you. I have to, in my line of work. Sit before you fall down." Without glancing over at him, she pointed with one arm to the cot, then began loading her arms with rolls of yellowed linen and little paper packets, slightly musty, but good enough for her purposes. It was a strange juxtaposition, her brisk businesslike movements and her smirking face, her eyes more green than blue in the firelight.
An apostate, he said. Well. If Azabeth hadn't been sure before who he was from his scars alone, she was certain now, because only one type of person talked like that, and they weren't meek abbey-boys and scholarly Brethren. "Well hell, Aurin," she grinned, for the first time using his name as she strode for the cot, "I could have told you that." She dumped the supplies on the cot and then clambered over herself, sitting on her knees, ready to pry the dagger from Aurin's back once he was properly in position.