Avery was used to people being bristled by her personality. She was also used to those who took a more cavalier approach; this man — one Mr. Trystan Selwyn — clearly fell into the second category. And yet she still felt a bristling at his at-ease demeanor (though that could just have been the residual cold that she was feeling). Still, there was something of a challenge to his introduction, and Avery’s mood soured even more. “Alright, alright, you didn’t need to go n’ give me your entire life story,” she muttered, making sure she had a good grip on her kit before eyeing his outstretched hand.

She had half a mind to not give him her name, or perhaps give him a fake one; not the first time she’d given someone here one of her false aliases. But there was something humorous he found about this situation, she felt, and she was half-worried if she gave him a false alias, he would needle her until she gave in and told him her real name. “Avery Davenport.” She offered reluctantly; gruffly, and she reached out to grasp his hand. His palm was warm, which only made her grip his hand harder. She wanted to be in front of a fire now.

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The following 1 user Likes Avery Davenport's post:1 user Likes Avery Davenport's post
   Elias Grimstone

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avery speaks with a mixed south appalachian drawl

Trystan just laughed again at her grumbling, because he was deliberately refusing to be irritated by her, sure that this tactic would annoy her more. (He was practised at this. He had been married almost twenty years to a woman infuriated by his mere existence.)

“Avery Davenport,” he repeated as she took his hand, committing the name to memory and turning it over on his tongue as if to test whether it tasted true. (A little research, and he was sure he could track down more about her, whatever her name was. He had not been an Auror for nothing.)

But he didn’t wait for her to complain again, just whisked them both into the relative furnace of the Leaky Cauldron. A fire blazing, the smell of pies and ale, a background hum of noise. “Well, there you are,” Trystan said, suddenly brisk as he freed her hand – pretending to be keener to leave her than he was. “Tell me where to take the horse, and I’ll be off.”

(And he would stop at the bar on his way out to insist that anything she bought – food, a drink, a room to change in – could be put on his tab, because he fancied this had been more his pleasure than hers.)

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What was with the people here repeating her name after they heard it? This had happened on multiple occasions with her clients and it was only with this man that she was now noticing a pattern. “Yes, yes that’s my name, no need to say it thrice and summon a demon or whatever superstitions y’all carry.” (This was what she had been about to say, however without further ado, Mr. Selwyn had turned on the spot and apparated them exactly where he said he would, and Avery had subsequently gotten cut off around saying ‘thrice’.)

It was a welcome smell, and yet she still shot him a glare to reproach him for apparating without warning her. It was only half-as venemous as the others had been, given she’d been somewhat mollified by the welcome smell of the food and drink in the background coupled with the sudden warmth of the pub. Or perhaps that was just her lungs burning after having been squeezed into infinitesimal space, then spat back out again.

“Thank you.” Was all she managed as she gathered herself, releasing his hand to press her own to her side. Blinking, she took a minute to reorient herself before stooping into her bag. She drew out a series of cards - addresses she’d written down of her clients for the day - and selected the one for the horse before handing it over. “I’ll send them a letter explaining everything later. If you could just let him out into the pastures, he should be fine.” She conveniently left out the fact that the horse got heated when the lead rope and halter were taken on and off. “And…thank you again for - well, rescuing me and everything.” Seeing as the warmth had put her in a slightly better mood, the smile on her face this time was much less frosty.

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avery speaks with a mixed south appalachian drawl

A thank you? Actual, verbal thanks? Trystan was flabbergasted. His eyebrows might have inched upwards in surprise, but he swiftly schooled himself, supposing she would not take kindly to his shock.

So Trystan tucked away his astonishment with his amusement, to marvel at another day – and took the card for the horse’s owner obligingly. They had horses at Selwyn manor, and he had taken dark wizards to task in his day, so this did not feel like a terribly daunting task. He was loath to leave her here, only because his interest was not yet satisfied – but when she thanked him again, Trystan thought he should take that win, and mark it down as progress. He had done her a favour, after all. “No need,” he said casually, waving off her thanks. “Get yourself warm,” he added, as he bid her good night and stepped away to disapparate. “And try to stay dry.”

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