Work Text:
She swaps her black, sheer chiffon blouse for a simple doublet. Fastens a belt with an engraved buckle. Refreshes makeup.
The coup is not a reason to forget about lipstick.
The coup.
This word tickles the palate, tickles the nerves. It tastes like a vague anticipation of hunting excitement.
Sabrina Glevissig loves to hunt.
“And the persecution of traitors… Emhyr’s whores,” the sorceress corrects herself vindictively, “promises to be no more difficult than fox hunting.”
After all the preparations she takes an elegant dagger with her, although it certainly wont come in handy: the well-thought-out plan of the equally well-thought-out Philippa does not involve the use of brute force. Only the element of surprise, impudence and a handful of Redanian soldiers.
It's time. She descends the stairs swiftly, accompanied by a smell of sandalwood and saffron, goading accomplices-sorcerers as she goes:
“Fasten your belts! It's going to be a bumpy night.”
She remembers those words a little later in Garstang, when she wipes the blood of Ferkart from Cidaris from the blade. The dagger still came in handy.