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“What do you see in her, anyway?”
There was nothing specifically wrong with this statement. Every consonant was enunciated, every vowel fully formed, every word in its proper place. Yet, if you knew the speaker well, you could hear an infinitesimally small lag within and between each word, indicating a possible lack of sleep, or in this instance, heroic quantities of “imported” liqueur. “Imported” being a euphemism for “confiscated”.
“Why is that any of your concern? You have no interest in making an honest man of me.”
All of the points mentioned above apply to this statement also, with the additional note that the liquor had imparted a warmth and cheer not normally present.
“She’s … not good enough. For you.”
Fenris shrugged. “I am flattered by your assumption that I am a valuable asset to any virtuous woman’s arsenal. A ‘catch’, I believe you Fereldans call it.” Fully intending to savour the glass of citrus-scented syrup in front of him, he ended up downing it in one gulp.
“You deserve someone who’s not a thieving liar.” Registering a raising eyebrow, Aveline qualified “who’s not me.”
“I have no property, and there is nothing worth concealing from me.”
“…stability.” Her glass clunked loudly on the hardwood table.
“I have been here for four years. Try again.”
“Prettier.”
Fenris smirked. “Comparisons are odious, Guard-Captain. Especially when you have selected yourself out of the race.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“You assume I know the answer.” He waved his glass in her general direction, and she topped them both up.