The Shadow and The Huntress

Avorra blinked once, then again. This vile, insolent, stuck-up prick dared to mock her? Little duck?! How DARE he? Her blood was practically coming to a boil, but she made no show of it. She kept her outward appearance calm, considering the sharp-witted bastard's words. He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. She was lost here, with no more leads to follow. She needed his help, and unfortunately, that meant playing nice. She watched as the Elf made a mocking point to inspect the shelves for dust, yielding nothing. Alright, perhaps she was exaggerating on that bit, but she couldn't help her impatience in the matter. She had played this game before - the search for an end, with the feeling of time being fleeting. She was in no danger this time, but old habits were hard to break.

Consider your words, girl. This may be the only information we get. The Old God's words were swimming through her violent thoughts.

I have a name, you know. Avorra replied in her mind.

An irrelevant name that you yourself chose. But I digress - consider your words, carefully, Avorra. The remark was followed by silence.

Her eyes met that of the archivist's, betraying her deadpan expression. Oh, how she so desperately wanted to flay this creature. But that wouldn't be productive, would it? The whole of Arlathan would be down on her head in a moment's notice. Instead, she opted to use a more diplomatic approach. If she wanted information, she was going to have to politely work for it.

I apologize, the journey here has been long. Her words spoke true, but she could hardly make them sound sincere. At least her blank expression hadn't changed. I've stepped out of line - perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot. If now is the time to ask the right questions, then perhaps I can start off by asking your name? My name is Avorra. Now she was being sincere. For the most part, at least.

A new voice interrupted the conversation, Avorra turning her head both in irritation and out of instinct. At first, she didn't recognize the person. She was in the process of turning her head when the realization hit her. As she locked gazes with the archivist once again, her eyes went wide. The Vitaar. The black and white colors adorning her face. The voice. Memories suddenly flooded her mind, as her blood once again began to boil. Many of her friends in the Fog Warriors had died to this persistent creature alone. What was a Qunari doing here? Were they hunting her again? More importantly, why did Arlathan allow a follower of the Qun to walk these hallowed grounds? Then again, Avorra could say the same for herself.

Evening, Huntmaster. Avorra spoke the name of her old nemesis, lacing it with an obvious venom in her voice. She kept her eyes locked on the archivist in an acute display of outright dismissal, not daring to look at the shadow of her past. This day was already turning out to be eventful.