sweet pea for mace?
Sweet pea - delicate pleasures
Mace looked at her loot, and then the large, segmented box filled with small bottles filled with pigments. Her very own powdered rainbow, each pinch of these expensive Orlesian colours worth more than Rivaini saffron. Beside the box was a glazed clay bowl filled with beeswax and oil and a powder more blue than anything she’d seen yet.
She closed the lid of her treasure and hid it under some lambskins, when Hanna’s voice rang out behind here.
What are you doing, Mace? A high but peppery voice teased, and her girl slid down onto the cold white cave sand and warm furs behind her, leaning her chin on her shoulder, peeking at the bowl of mixed grease and blue pigment.
Mace turned in her arms and smiled her gap-toothed lush smile.
Here, she said, let me make you pretty. She dipped her fingers in the mixture, coating them in the vibrant cyan.
Not pretty enough for you? Hanna crooned. Humans didn’t talk with their ears like Mace did. They talked with their reddening cheeks and sweat.
You’ll like it, Mace said and pulled Hanna close, brushing her fingers over the girl’s forehead, over her brows and eyelids and the bridge of her nose, dabbing specks one two three in a row on her cheekbone. She wiped her fingers on her own cheeks, two streaks of cyan on each, and leaned back to admire her girl.
There. Your war paint, she said and laughed. Hanna wasn’t going to fight anyone. She was eighteen, a year older than Mace, but half her size, a runaway from some noblehouse in Kirkwall. She doubted the reasons for her ending up in the Vimmarks, but there was no doubt that the girl was used to riches and paints and all things pretty, as she now beamed with a hundred gold pieces worth of pigment smeared over her forehead and cheekbones.
A pinch of familiarity for Hanna, and a colourful dab of obscene luxury for the lanky girl from Kirkwall’s alienage.