Chapter Text
The response from the Inquisition came shockingly fast. Bram reads it over and over again, handling the simple roll of paper until it takes on a rather weary look, until he memorizes every single word. It’s a rather short letter, Lady Montilyet’s words are elegant but precise with the offer of support for Bram’s proposed expedition. In summation, the Inquisition forces will scout the Basin first and establish a base camp while Bram travels across Val Royeux to the Fereldan Frostbacks with his caravan of supplies and people. It ends with a single sentence “Head Scout Harding will ensure that you receive any assistance required upon your arrival at the Basin Floor Camp.” and a graceful looping signature from the Ambassador.
In the madness that is organizing the expedition and his short leave from the University of Orlais, Bram often finds himself wondering what sort of person this “Head Scout Harding” is. He imagines a gruff fellow, similar to the salt-of-the-earth mercenaries hired to protect his group when he was just a young field researcher for the Department of Antiquities in Starkhaven, excavating several pre-Chantry ruins in the Vimmarks. It was from them that he learned to hold his liquor, the basics of swordplay, and several swear words involving Andraste and increasingly outrageous and improbable sex acts.
When Bram finally manages to convince Professor Cheval Laurant to care for his rare Seheron Walking Fish, leaving the older scholar muttering about fishes (the fish in question is most certainly not a fish but an amphibian, which Laurant should know considering his field of study in Ancient Era Herpetology), Scout Harding has become a cantankerous white-haired veteran of the Blight.
When Bram updates Colette with the news that the Inquisition has backed their expedition (it’s the first time he’s ever seen her anything less than calm and collected. Collected Colette he called her. Just once anyways. Colette had given him A Look that quickly cut off his good natured chuckles), the mental characterization of Scout Harding morphs to that of a middle-aged woman. Steely-eyed, blunt, but oddly charming and terrifyingly competent.
Of course all of his imagined versions of Head Scout Harding fall woefully short when confronted with the real person. His arrival at the Basin Floor Camp sets off a sea of activity and Bram is quickly swept up, hours go by on the intricacies of camp organization, before he even has a chance to think to ask after a certain Scout Harding. More often than not Bram finds himself pulled in as a mediator between the pragmatic inquisition forces and the more esoteric scholars that came with him from the University. He is in the middle of one of these negotiations (this time for bookshelves of all things) when a lilting voice interrupts the scouts response.
“Ah, you must be Professor Kenric! I’m Scout Harding, pleased to meet you.”
Bram looks down. And then even more down. His thoughts are busy cataloging the differences between his Scout Hardings and the reality (Young. Female. Dwarven. Attractive) that he barely notices her subtle dismissal of the scout that speaks of a confident and competent leader before turning her attention back to him. She reaches out a hand in greeting (Fingerless gloves. Scars across the knuckles), Bram is too lost in the disarray of his generally organized mind that the years of training from his noble parents on the matter of gentlemanly behavior take over. “My lady.” He utters automatically while taking her hand in his and bending over it, brushing his mouth over her knuckles.
It’s a matter of seconds. Bram whips back to his full height, mentally flagellating himself for being such an utter ninny, but then she giggles. He finds himself unable to stop the self-deprecating grin from spreading across his face.
“My lady. Never been called that before. Scout Harding or just Harding is fine.” She says, still smiling. She shakes her head and snorts “Lady Harding!” and Bram is so charmed by the noise that he makes a promise then and there to call her Lady Harding just to see if he can get her to make that sound again.
Scout Harding gives him a tour of the camp, providing a detailed account of the defenses and supplies. Kenric in turn tells her of his studies and the reason he requested Inquisition support. They have an engaged and lively debate over what one would consider as the worst field rations; Harding wins handily but his story about stuffed sheep intestines of Starkhaven is a close second. She leaves him at the door of his assigned cabin, but not before offering her and her scouts assistance in tracking down artifacts to help his research. Bram, distracted by the enormity that is the unpacking and organization of years of his research into the small quarters of the wood cabin in front of him, asks belatedly “Buckles. Any buckles you find, please send them my way.” before leaving Harding behind, mouthing buckles to herself in bemusement.
Hours later though, Bram was having trouble keeping his mind off of the woman. As he shelved the few books he managed to fit in his kit, he thought of her hair; more brown then red, coiled tightly up on her head which seemed a failing attempt to tame its waves. He thought of her eyes, not the particular color (Green? Brown? He couldn’t quite remember) but the emotion. The subtle spark of mischief usually overshadowed by calm competence and the passion that blazed as she spoke of the Inquisition. As he organized his desk and the stacks of scrolls that comprised the entirety of his recent research, Bram found himself lingering on her face; lovely in its expressions, the long scar that graced her lower cheek, the curve of her mouth, and the freckles that dusted the surface.
“Sweet Maker, man. They're just freckles!” he mutters to himself. He had been stacking and restacking the same five scrolls while his mind wandered into territory that he knew was unprofessional and even inappropriate. He shouldn't be thinking about Scout Harding’s face much less her mouth in such detail. Or wonder what her hair would look like down or her lips taste like. But he did think these things. And he did wonder.