(closed) the coldest story ever told

[byblow]

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Maxwell Trevean, Pel Ashara, Salem Ghilan, Alistair
WHAT: A Dalish mage Ron Swanson, a Dalish warrior who throws eggs, an Antivan assassin and his many knives, a Warden who's probably technically exiled, and one single actual human nobleman on whom we are hanging all of our hopes and dreams try to make a dude stop being a big meanie.
WHEN: Haring 5-?
WHERE: Northern Ferelden
NOTES: Plotting post!

Comments

... sorry, please make this happier.

[byblow]

It hasn't snowed this far north yet, but the nights are still cold enough that Alistair sets aside his usual display of native-Ferelden masculinity and winds up sitting close to the fire, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A blanket. He's getting weak in his old age.

He's also staring into the flame with a hollow, empty-eyed gaze that goes beyond being simply tired. The others' quiet murmurs elsewhere in the camp aren't distracting enough to keep him from listening to the song instead, feeling watched from the inside and not fighting it for a moment, before movement at the edge of his vision snaps his attention away from the fire.

He has to blink twice before he looks fully present again, but then he smiles.

Challenge Accepted!

[ombranera]

If one from this wonderful, muddy country was wrapped up against the cold- the resident Antivan was positively frigid. Layers upon layers of leathers and wool and cotton he wears and it is still blowing right through him. At this rate he is going to lose the tips of his ears and his fingertips. Ten years ago it was not this bad, was it? Perhaps he had put the memory from his mind.

Zevran trudges to the fire in hopes that it, at least, will do as it should when he sees Alistair.

Sitting. Staring. That same strange, wavering look he would get during the Blight when precious little could draw him back to the present. The song.

An answer to both of their problems presents himself when he walks around not to sit next to Alistair, but to nudge his arms and the blanket out of the way enough to drop into his lap and tuck his head under the warden's chin. There. Much better. "I am going to lose my toes to this cold before we reach our destination, just you wait."

thank you ;-;

[byblow]

Alistair pliantly lets his arms be nudged and his lap sat on with a smile that's a little bit you're ridiculous but mostly just fond, and just as easily rearranges when Zevran after Zevran has settled to stretch the blanket around him as well.

"Not your toes," he says. "Not on my watch."

After a moment of thought, he turns his head down to press his mouth to the top of Zevran's head and blow a large noisy lungful of hot air into his hair. He's helping.

thank you ;-;

[ombranera]

Little brothers get to be little shits- even if he is the older one here he is, of the two of them, smaller. Even for an elf. But it simply makes settling back into the warmth that is Alistair easier, soothing-

At least until the sudden blast of air from above startles him- ears flicking back sharply- "What are you doing?"

[byblow]

"Wrminpured."

In addition to being, probably, incomprehensible, it earns him some elf hair in his mouth. Getting it back out requires some more puffing.

"Warming up your head," he clarifies once that's taken care of. "Did it work?"

[ombranera]

"Yes, I know, but why like this?" That Zevran can understand that muffled, mumbled, incomprehensible slur of sound is probably a sign of some manner of madness. Or a sign of him being fluent in all things Alistair. "Yes, yes, it worked, but now my hair smells of that mint you chew when you get tired- which is not the worst thing it can smell of, but it clashes with the sandalwood oil I applied this morning."

[byblow]

"Is that what that is?" He sniffs--without shoving his nose into Zevran's hair again, mostly just to make the sound for show--and plants his chin back on top of Zevran's head. "Eugh. Fine. I'll just sit here unmoving and let you use my body."

He knows exactly what he's saying, for the record--he's an adult, he catches two out of three innuendos these days, or at least two out of four--and above Zevran's tucked-in head he's failing horribly at keeping a straight face.

[ombranera]

"Yes, Alistair, that's what this is. If you'd let me do the same for your hair it will not frizz so in this cold air, and it would smell just as nice." Ugh, sniffing. He snuffled like a mabari when given cause- it makes him wonder again at enhanced senses but he's never asked about it.

Besides.

When there's innuendo about he simply has to play along. "You can move if you like, it'd make the using a bit more interesting . Friction is also a marvelous way to generate heat."

[byblow]

"You smell like a desk," Alistair says, chipper, "and if I had perfect hair I'd spend more time fending off women than genlocks. You know I don't have time for that."

He doesn't do a good job staying still. His chin knocks against Zevran's head when he talks, for one thing, and when Zevran talks he wiggles his head for no good reason, digging said chin into Zevran's scalp, solely to be obnoxious.

"Is it?" He wraps his arms crossways over Zevran's torso, and he isn't laughing aloud but his chest is shaking from containing it. A warning sign, maybe, before he punches Zevran's ribs and twists--there's some friction for him.

[ombranera]

"I smell like home, you outrageous buffoon." Is eyerolling audible? It is now. Zevran's skilled that way. Much as the chin knocking and wiggling and digging is irritating- it means Alistair is in the present rather than lost to that song. It is not much of a win but Zevran, as always, takes what he can get. Even if he tries to twist so it is not quite so uncomfortable.

It works until he's held, the dull rumble of laughter swallowed rife in Alistair's voice- and then the strike.

"Abuse!" He cries, attempting (not really) to wiggle away. "How ignoble of you to abuse your traveling companions so!"