faderift | [ OPEN ] Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

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[ OPEN ] Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

WHO: Zevran and YOU
WHAT: Zevran's Birthday and Ardent Blossom Contest
WHEN: Forward dated to Guardian 5
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Shenanigans connected to this announcement

Someone had been a sneaky little shit, preying on Zevran's lack of familiarity with traditions and dates and the weight people tend to put on something so mundane as a 'birthday'. Someone (Alistair) had spread word and made a thing of it, despite Zevran not seeing the point nor truly wishing to cause a fuss. He had, however, decided to take a day for himself to do nothing. No fuss, no stress, no real work. A day to indulge in a few of his many hobbies. He did not know what one did on their birthday normally but here he was, sitting in the Courtyard with one of his found spoils on his head, awaiting those that paid mind to his earlier announcement. When he wasn't idly sketching whoever he saw in the courtyard he was in the Herald's rest, enjoying a quiet drink and making notes on the better stories or songs he has heard throughout the day.

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Nahariel is quiet on the approach, but easily noticed. She's carrying what looks like an egg shape of a lightly polished golden-brown wood, her set of carving tools buckled to her belt.

"I've a story for you, if you like."

"Ah, Morena." He smiles, setting aside his notes and sketches for the moment to offer her his full attention. "I would like to hear it. Please, sit."

She slides into place a bit away, and smiles.

"Some time ago, deep in the forest, an egg was laid," she begins, pushing the wooden egg from her palm to her fingertips, pulling the first of her tools free from its pouch.

"Before the bird within the egg knew how to know, it could feel the weight and warmth of its mother upon it, and all was well." As she spoke, she began to carve. The warmly colored wood came free curl by curl under her practiced hands.

"One day, soon before it was ready to hatch, the warmth went away. And, when it hatched, it was alone." The egg slowly gave way to the shape of a bird, what would become wings partially raised behind it.

"It did not know what it was, or how to become what it should be, and it called out into the forest in its confusion." Its beak became evident, the head curving slightly down towards it.

"There was to be a response to its call--but not the one it had hoped." She carved a space beneath it, leaving what would be legs connected to the bottom of the egg.

"For it happened that in this forest there also lived a flock of crows, and they came to answer the cry with their hunger, rather than their help." The last vestiges of egg disappeared beneath her patient knife, turning to a perch of sorts.

"When they came to take the bird as food for their young, however, the leader of the crows had an idea. She could see an opportunity. For she was old and wise, and knew what the fledgling was. If they could raise it as one of their own, it would grow into a strong hunter, and provide much more than it could as the small meal it was that day." The beginnings of talons appeared, gripping the perch.

"And so, they took it back to their nests, and the bird became a crow." She paused for a moment to switch to a finer tool, and to sweep the mess of shavings from her lap into a bag that had been folded up and tucked into her belt.

"It grew as the others did, perhaps a bit more. It spoke their guttural cries, though perhaps more piercingly. When its feathers came in and did not match the glossy black of its fellows, it thought perhaps it was not trying hard enough. But they all took wing together, and never did it doubt the old matriarch's assertion: it was a crow." As she spoke of its cries, she shaped the beak--long, flat like a crow. For fledging and flying she began to detail feathers, giving it tracings of a crow's spread primaries, the eyes small at the sides of the head.

"It came to pass that the matriarch was right. The bird had sharp eyes and sharper talons, and over the years it provided much for the flock. It never asked why it was different, and she never told." She continued her detailing, adding more feathers, the grasp of the talons on its perch.

"It came to pass one day, while the flock looked for food, that another cry was heard in the forest. Going to see if it could be a meal, the bird was astonished to see another like itself. She had been attacked by wolves, and would soon perish. In the trees, the crows waited for her end so that they could feast upon her." As the bird saw its like, she began to change the carving, rounding and widening the eyes.

" 'Why do we not help her?' asked the bird, 'Why do we wait for death?'. 'If we do, we will go hungry,' replied the old matriarch. 'But if nature takes its course, we will all be full. Perhaps if we look, we may find eggs as well, and grow even stronger.' " She began to carve the primaries, different than the lines she had carved lightly into the wings before.

"Suddenly, the bird remembered how cold it had been before it hatched. It thought of the crows, waiting in the trees, perhaps waiting for its own mother to die--and so, indeed, had it happened. The old matriarch saw the change in its eyes, and became scared. 'I was wrong to take you!' she cried. And then, in fear and anger, she spat its name." Nahariel carved away the length of the beak, turning it into a wicked hook.

"'Hawk!'" And so it was. Under her hands, it had changed from a crow to a kestrel, gripping its perch, wings slightly spread as if about to burst into flight.

"The other crows became frightened as well, and their meal was forgotten in the fight that followed. There were many crows and but one hawk, but it fought with the ferocity that only one who has lived so long without its name can fight. At the end, many crows were slain, and the rest fled, screeching vengeance and fear." She replaced her tool for a finer one again, continuing her detail work on the wood. As she spoke of the fight, the perch emerged in more detail as a weapon hilt.

"The hawk winged down to its fallen sister, then. With her dying breath she told of her nest, and the hawk promised that the eggs there would not go uncared for. That from the moment of their hatching, they would be taught what they were, and how to become what they should be--" Another tool, this time to gently smooth the wood in the places that were not as detailed.

"--For in the end, nothing is as powerful and free as someone who has come to know what they are." Finally, she applied a few drops of oil to a soft cloth and rubbed the carving with it until it shone as well as the egg it had started as.

With a small smile, she brushed the wood shavings from her lap again--they were finer, nearly dust, so this time she let them fly off into the afternoon breeze. Then she turned, and held the finished carving out to him.

"Happy birthday."

Edited 2016-01-31 03:56 (UTC)

He set down his pen as the story began, eyes flicking between her face and her hands. The smooth, certain strokes that brought shape from nothing- slowly crafting a bird, a crow, from lines marked into the wood. With the burr and lilt of her voice he wonders if she knows exactly how close to the truth she is. That he'd lost his mother, that he'd been sold, trained, reshaped into something that, if not quite what he is was close enough to suit until he learned better.

That it took a death of someone or something dear for him to learn that his life wasn't as it ought to be. That he could be more- should be more. Or that he was nothing like those that shaped him into the weapon they'd needed.

He'd been smiling at the start, caught and entranced by the tale and her hands as much as he had been her whistling before-

But it slowly drew somber, contemplative- an old ache coiling behind his eyes and in his gut to have it set out so plainly. Perhaps he ought to seek out those like him and do more than offer a merciful death. Perhaps-

No.

A tale told, a good tale told, a beautiful carving made? "Beg pardon?"

He blinked a little at the offering, at her smile, puzzled. He'd chosen, yes but-

"...Alistair has been telling tales."

Nahariel had made some guesses at the shape of it, enough to pick through old stories in her mind until she found one to suit, had tailored it a little more closely--perhaps a little too much so, more than she'd known. She knew she'd been taking a risk with the telling; after all, she hardly knew him, and a journey of finding oneself was never without sorrow. There had just been something about him that had reminded her of her own small isolation, and so she'd reached. She was sorry to see the vestiges of that ache in his face.

And rather embarrassed to hear she might have been wrong about the occasion in the first place.

"Is it... not?"

"I- no. It is but- In the crows we did not celebrate such things. It is a day as any other- most of us did not know when...Alistair made me choose a day." He snorted a soft laugh, cradling the carving in his hand. A Hawke- and not any. A Kestrel.

Years ago he made a joke to a stoic Qunari in the middle of the dusty road and now? It feels horribly appropriate.

"He asked if he could spread the word. I suppose I now know why." His eyes, when he lifts them to her again, are warm, shining with sincere affection. "Thank you. This- and the tale- they are beautiful."

She'll smile then, wide enough that the curved line of her vallaslin where it touches her eyes disappears for a moment in their crinkle.

"Ma neral," she replies, dusting herself off again as she stands to head back to the garden, "It was my pleasure. I wish you joy of the rest of your day."

"Morena." He reached out to take her hand in his, stroking the backs of her fingers. "Join me for a drink?"

Just one, a little longer in her soothing company if she would allow it. There are shades in her he thought, perhaps, he might have known better had the Dalish of Antiva better wished to take in those lost that came to them.

Obviously torn, she was still for a moment. Her eyes flickered towards the garden. She'd been away from Sina's bedside for longer than usual already. If her First were to wake in any true way without her there...

But at the same time, it had been near a week of fretting. Of staring into the dim light of the tent; sharp and clean with the dawn, dappled with the waving leaves of the garden's trees at midday, soft with the dusk, and warm with candlelight. Each light shone on them the same, like statues. The bucket of cool water, the herbal smells of tea and remedies, the small stack of unsent letters to Keeper Thalia; half written, crossed out, discarded, re-purposed as sketches of flowers, herbs, halla, Adelaide bent over Sina at rest to heal her.

And the sun and wind were so sweet on her skin, and Zevran a lovely companion for it.

But her da'halla, her leal'u'vun.

"I... would like to. Very much," she'll smile wistfully, and give his hand a brief squeeze, "But... perhaps if we can take them to the garden?" Her eyes will sparkle with a hint of mischief, "Or if you'd rather stay in the courtyard so that you can be easily found and receive your myriad birthday gifts, I can return and meet you this evening?"

"Now that is a difficult choice." He again, as he had before when they met, lifted her hand to his lips to press a warm, chaste kiss to her sunwarmed skin. Familiar callouses, unfamiliar accent, and under it all the scent of elfroot and wood and things that reminded him less of Antiva, less of Fereldan- but more of the aching void where his mother's memory ought to live. He's ever held a fascination with the Dalish but Nahri in particular? Her steady serenity held it's own allure. Things were not quite so fast around her. They came as they did and he could take a moment simply to observe the world, the choice, and move forward from there at his own pace.

Perhaps it made him selfish to wish for it a little while longer; though one thing was certain: She would win one of the crowns. Find it, in fact, later that night at the foot of her bed with a note.

"I think, much as I would wish to join you and your ill friend in the garden, it is probably best I remain- else everyone will be bothering her peace. Also-" He pulled a small jar of salve from his beltpouch, pressing it into Nahri's palm. "For the ache. I am no healer but this has done me well when there were none available."

She blinks at the small jar, opening it to investigate. Brings it to her nose, smiles at the scent.

"Ma serranas, Zevran. It smells much nicer than what I would make to take on hunts, to be sure. I'll keep it with me," she said, tucking it into one of the pouches on her belt, "for when there are no healers."

There would be such a time, she was sure. After all, the world was at war. Sun-kissed carefree days didn't last... and the memory of the breeze and the sun, the kindness with which it was given, the man who'd given it with flowers twined in his hair, would make the little pot a balm for the mind as much as its contents were for the body. Dark times needed light memories.

For the first time in a long time, she remembered the plains with a smile.

"I'll come back this evening and look for the pile of gifts you'll be covered in, if you've still a mind to have a drink then." she says, bending to retrieve the sack of shavings and tuck it again into her belt. Then, with a lightness in her step that wasn't there on her approach, the hunter will turn to return again to her place at Sina's side.

Later that evening, as the last sharp light of the sun lanced across the battlements, Nahariel returned to the courtyard as she'd said. Even with her face alight with curiosity as she looked about to see if Zevran was still there, her steps have slowed since the afternoon, worry and weariness following them like faithful hounds.

With the waning of the light Zevran had set aside his lute in favor for plucking at his lute; sultry sounds of Antiva more for his own enjoyment than for coin. When he caught sight of Nahri he smiled wide, tune twisting on a whim to that same whistled melody she'd given him the night they met. He remembered it well, the lilt, the lift, adding chords under the picked tune.

The tune coming from his fingers actually made her stumble briefly and stare, the worries she carried scattering like rabbits, then laugh ruefully as she sat down, tucking one leg beneath her.

"...Did I teach you that?" Nari asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose self-consciously. The rub turned into her covering half her face as the memory surfaced. "Of course I did. Oh, and I sang it, too, in the middle of the Herald's Rest. Fen'Harel em ghilana."

She lowered her hand enough to look at him over the top of it, eyes full of comedic regret, and then sighed and leaned back on her elbows to look at the colors in the darkening sky, the first hint of faint starlight in the east.

"Ah well. You can't trap what's already past the horizon." A smile. "And you play it very well."

Edited 2016-02-04 23:31 (UTC)

"Mhmm." He snorted a soft laugh, though it was not unkind. Drunken tales and stories and songs were his favorite for the shades of self they showed of those that taught them, sang them, or spoke them. He'd learned more of her in that than he'd thought possible. "Do not worry, everyone else was far too drunk to notice. I am the only one that remembers."

And recalled how lovely her blush, how bright her eyes had been afterward- and that hesitancy that caused something in him to ache for her.

"You whistle it better." He continued to pick through the melody, eyes on the curve of her lips and the warmth of her gaze. "Truly, Morena. I have never heard the like."

"I believe you," she said, with an odd smile. "Not in that I'm so sure of my skill, but in that... I don't think you lie to people about themselves." She'll wet her lips, whistle a few bars along with him, taking low simple harmonies. It seemed more a night for that, rather than any fancy trills.

After a verse or two, she stops, picks at the sparse grass under her hands. "When I was young, I thought perhaps I could be like the plains-birds," she mused. "They were mostly little brown things, and so was I. They were so free, their songs full of joy. Even the way they spoke to each other was melody. I thought if I learned to mimic them, they would welcome me. Teach me some secret only plains-birds know."

It had been fun, the learning. And useful for signals. And she'd learned some things. Mating calls in spring, the sounds of warning. Not enough warning, of course. She twisted some of the grass into a knot.

"The forest-birds were different, they--" she trailed off, realizing she was detailing some rambling thoughts, ones that she'd never really considered speaking aloud, and was suddenly irritated at herself for doing so. "--they taught me as much as the plains-birds. How to whistle their songs, and not what the songs mean. I speak their words and say nothing." A pause, and she flicks the small grass knot into the evening. "Abelas, I speak common and say nothing too."

"Was the rest of your day entertaining?"

He would, was the thing. He would lie to flatter or lie to disarm or lie to seduce if it suited him; but with most he had met in Skyhold? It would not suit him. Perhaps this honesty thing was not so terrible if it coaxed out such lovely smiles; if being him rather than what he assumed the other person to want led to a deeper understanding.

Or perhaps it was all a pit of sentiment and vulnerability best avoided.

He was reluctant to throw himself deeper into it, to be honest, but- he did not need to think on it. Merely listen to the lilt and life of Nari's voice as she spoke of home and spoke of the plains. To learn something simply because one wished to do so; that was something he knew to be precious. Too much of what he knew was for the sake of survival.

"On occasion speaking greatly and saying nothing, but meaning everything is a valuable skill." He picked through the refrain. "I have learned to speak as a gull and as a Crow, as one of the many fine caged songbirds kept by the Ladies of Antiva. But...finding my own voice has ever been more difficult, though far more worthwhile. Even if I still borrow their music from time to time."

After a moment he shifted into a warmer, lighter tune, one he'd heard in a Dalish Camp ten years ago. The meaning was lost on him but the melody was lovely. "Quite. I've had songs and stories and a few dances, and making up my mind will be something of a challenge."

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[ OPEN ] Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

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time passes!

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