faderift | [ OPEN ] And I'm on tonight you know my hips don't lie and I'm starting to feel it's right

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[ OPEN ] And I'm on tonight you know my hips don't lie and I'm starting to feel it's right

WHO: Zevran, His Kestrels, and You
WHAT: Music, Dance, Shenanigans
WHEN: Current
WHERE: The Herald's Rest
NOTES: It's Zev and dancing. There might end up being shiftlessness, seductions, and intoxication.

[ The Learning ]

It wasn't an intentional lesson, this. There was music, there was wine, there was talk of dancing in the small cleared space between tables. Tossing about ideas of what to play, how to dance, when Zevran made mention of a method of training oneself to isolate movement that was more or less a dance and the younger Kestrels (all but Settimo) expressed their interest. He sent Vitta to gather a few coin covered scarves and belts in all manner of colors from his room and gathered the rest to walk them through it.

Anyone else that was curious might join in, Zevran was something of a hands on teacher, adjusting posture with a hand to the plane of a back, the curve of a hip, showing with his own demonstrations as much as by moving his students by feel so they knew how it was to stand, to move, to roll. Little things, hip rolls, undulating like a snake, how to pop one's hip or hold one's shoulders still while the legs and hips do their work- these he went through as best he could before Vita returned and he offered a proper demonstration.

[ The Dancing ]

After a quick duet, all rolling hips and wide, flirtatious smiles, the Kestrels took turns dancing either on their own or with someone else that had expressed interest. Zevran, likewise, was content to either offer pointers here and there or dance alongside- or against- anyone that would have him. There was wine, there was music, there was warmth in the building and he could think of no better reason than to attempt to have a good time. The show seemed more than enough for those that didn't wish to participate on their own- apparently anything was a good change of pace from Maryden's ballads now and then.

[ The Mending / The Resting ]

Learning to bend oneself in new and exciting ways, to move or not move as one willed- it could create soreness or the occasional sprain if one was not careful. Teresa took time away from the dancing and the drinking to tend to any that might have twisted something they should not, had slipped and fallen or overextended a limb in an attempt to learn this manner of dancing. Or, more often, to offer glasses of either watered down ale or water proper to those taking a break from all the dancing. Zevran himself would flop down on a chair time to time, shirtless and sweating, watching the group with a crackle of laughter. Now this? This was living.

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Leliana quirks an eyebrow, at that. She might have anticipated a backhanded comment with it, some comment about no longer being under someone else's orders, about must and duty being more pliable now that she is not an extension of another's rules and edicts. It does not come, and for a moment she is uncertain what to make of that.

Part of her that is deeply hurt and deeply angry wants to hang back, to resist. And there is another part that wants her friend back at her side, even if they are well accustomed to going years without each other's company.

"A drink," she agrees, whistling low and bring Boulette scurrying out with her final crumbs of cheese still on her little hands. At worst she is catching up with one of their contractors. At best, perhaps they are... repairing something. "What are you drinking, today?"

He waits for a quiet negation, a swift dismissal as Leliana returns to her usual spot in the rookery to pour over letters and codes and plan the future of Thedas more or less on her lonesome. It is not something he envies her. That she agrees? Surprises him, visibly- a widening of his eyes, a vulnerable sincerity to his pleased smile as he gestures for her to join him at one of the tables.

"Wine, Orlesian as there is little proper Antivan wine left." A safe enough argument, which country produces the better vintages. Something less weighty, less heated.

"Someone will have to see to that," she comments, and it's not entirely dryly. Months tick past, and soon enough the time for come for her yearly bottle of Antivan plum brandy. The good stuff, for Tug's sake, and that of her own tastebuds as well. A side note that might be worth looking into during another mission, if the necessary merchants are not contacted in the meantime.

She follows him, waits for Zevran to sit before claiming one of the chairs for herself, and marvels at how easy this seems, and how utterly alien. Boulette is content to sit at her feet, curling up in a little ball between Leliana's feet even with her armour. "What inspired the dancing?"

"I would be most grateful- but it is not vital." A far cry from his earlier begging for Antivan cooks. Then he had been a trusted friend and now...now he will make no demands of her. He forfeited that right. "The Orlesian is far superior to Fereldan wine and more than enough for me."

It does not taste of home but it is still wine compared to what Ferelden produces. Which is a sad attempt at wine though they do seem to be getting the hang of it as of late. "Mm? We were swapping stories of things we had been trained to do- sometimes the Crows try new techniques for the same result. They all had contortion impressed upon them in the interest of escaping or hiding in cramped spaces and all of them went through the same- I do not know if it translates well in the common tongue but a manner of training in which you move but one part of yourself, one muscle, one limb, and so forth, and none else. It is excellent for stillness and control but the more I can take of what was done to us-"

Here he is careful to gesture to himself and the fledglings, not including Leliana in this as he might have in the past. Something else that is forfeit. "And make it less, the more I can twist it into something that is about living instead of killing? The easier it is for them. So- dancing."

There is no breath of almost laughter that the Nightingale allows herself at times, and certainly no gentle nudge of her elbow against his ribs, which he might have enjoyed during the Blight. And yet--
"A night in a gutter is superior to Fereldan wine." Leliana has a vague recollection of Oghren being violently ill from the stuff after enduring obscene quantities of dwarven ale. Censure enough, she thinks, and perhaps a joking comment turned into something more distant will make this seem less painful, even if she is still deeply unhappy.

Rather than commenting or nodding, Leliana is content to listen, to briefly let her gaze skate over the Kestrals, how they move, and it is an effort not to let the look turn into some assessment for strengths and weaknesses and the tactical part of her brain who wonders which of them all it would be necessary to kill first.

(That he does not include her is also noted, and she does not know if that is a relief or not. She hopes that is not the same reason he taught her.)

"When I try to suggest dancing lessons to some of my agents," (Maria), "they seem to think that is more about killing than living." (Maria.)

His answer is a low crackle of laughter, somewhat softer and sadder than it normally might be- but he can be honest in such things can he not? With Leliana. She needs that honesty now even if she would be right not to trust it.

He has never been in a position to rebuild a bridge once burnt. A bridge was, he walked across, and then he set it alight on his way forward. He had never thought what they had to be something so easily damaged. Assumed she would understand and respect his reasoning. Too much time apart and too little effort on his side let things grow fragile. He ought to have known better but-

How could he know such things? This is all terribly unfamiliar. Part of him finds this unfair.

The rest is simply tired.

"Perhaps they need to find the right dance. Though it is possible to kill someone mid-waltz. I think you taught me that."

"It is possible to kill in almost any moment," Leliana offers, by way of agreement. "Whether or not you can make an escape or go unnoticed is an entirely different matter."

This is a dark brand of humour, if it can really pass for that, or if they have simply fallen into a particularly terrible topic right off the bat. "I think some dances are too sensual to be used for killing. It... diminishes them. The passion belongs to life, not death. Rage and love and so many things, but not death."

She... misses dancing, sometimes. Often, in fact, but it is not an indulgence she can much afford herself. Dancing with Morrigan at the soiree had been, in retrospect, an act of questionable judgment.

Every moment he fears that the final scraps of his friend, someone he had thought of as family, is lost in truth? Leliana says something to remind him that she is still there. Older, wiser, harder than before- but there none the less. It eases something in him to know that they might still discuss such things without judging one another. "I managed it the once with a tango- but everyone else was quite drunk at the party and did not notice."

That hardly counts.

"That sounds positively Antivan of you." He says with a smile, eyes kind. "Though giving up one's life for a cause you believe in with every fiber of your being- is that not it's own manner of passion?"

"A cover is a cover." Mildly, but there is an edge of his own thoughts in there all the same: doesn't count. Dead and drunk seemed much alike, if a party was in full swing. She had used the cover in one of her earliest missions for Marjolaine, in fact. "They probably thought your partner was passed out from too much wine."

Her gaze is cautious, the way it almost always is, these days - cautious, sharp, suspicious. Not always cold, but oftentimes there is a coolness there that is necessary for some kind of detachment, even if it does not last overlong.

"Are we talking about dying for the sake of dance? That's a bit dramatic." She'll take 'deliberately missing the point' for 500, Alex.

"Dying for a cause. Dance might be a cause, the Inquisition might be a cause, love might be a cause. Devoting oneself to such things lends it own nobility- why else do you think the Chantry sisters in Antiva are beyond reproach? They have devoted their lives to service and the Maker." And thus pure, not to be touched, not to be met by most of the lower classes to be certain. Still he says little more than draw those lines, sipping his brandy and saluting Leliana.

"Being the left hand of the Divine is cause."

"It was," she agrees, brow furrowed. "Justinia was the cause, in truth. Her rule, the peace she would orchestrate." And it was all gone. So much had been sacrificed and secured, and even with all the countermeasures in the world, it was all gone.

"But it is no longer the cause. I cannot be the Left Hand to a Divine that no longer lives." Her energies are being redirected, still gathering and escalating, but she already has a spy network larger than any that Thedas has ever seen before, and with that knowledge will become chances to help and to do better. To fight for what is right, not only to follow Justinia's plan, but form her own.

She does not volunteer that to Zevran. She is not sure if she wants to, or if it would mean anything if she did, or if she should even show him that much of herself.

"Saving the world is a worth cause, is it not?" Touching on the true matter that lay between them before Anders, before the Crows, before all else. Doing what one must- or what one thinks they must. Whether or not ends justify means and normally? In the short term he has cared little. Even in the long term he cares little. What must be done is not what he worries over.

What DOING what must be done does to Leliana? That is where his fears lie.

That is where he worries.

"It is a terrible burden, to stand at the head of the one organization attempting to set the world to rights." A beat. "It was never so difficult during the Blight. How you manage I will never know."

"That goes without saying. Saving the world, and ensuring it becomes a world we can be proud of." It certainly is not such now, she thinks, but that makes the people within it no less precious."

Not through the loyalty of friends, evidently.
Such words are petty, even for her. "I manage because I must. How is immaterial." She is immaterial, really. All that matters is that she does, that she proceeds. It is not perfect, the matter of Galadriel just one example of how she cannot be everywhere, cannot do everything or prevent every ill, but she does all she can and sometimes it is enough. "

Though in the Blight they had wondered the Deep Roads for weeks - months? she hardly cares to remember - with each day in the dark and with ever scanter provisions and water a looming reminder of her time in Harwen Raleigh's dungeon. They had seen horror upon horror, and not only within the Deep Roads, though that is always the first thing to come to her mind when she remembers the Blight. "Well, we had a larger nug to person ratio, during the Blight."

Clearly that is why it was easier, and she sips her drink, nonchalant.

"How is vital." On her own? By cutting away everything of herself that makes her devout and faithful and kind? But this-

This edges into things he is trying to avoid for they o not agree on the matter and he has lost his right to speak of it. Having never truly had regard he could lose and live with losing afterward is new. It aches like a wound seeping in his side that there is no curing. They share scars but this?

They do not share. Leliana has had friends, had some manner of family. Perhaps that is why she is colder still. She expects more. Or less. "Clearly you must adopt more. Boulette looks as though she could use a few siblings."

"Then let us say it is the nugs and be done with it."

People had described Justinia has having a sort of icy majesty. Appearing ever cool and collected, although Leliana knew better. She had seen the kindness and gentleness in her, and she knew as well how bold she was capable of being, how she had left people entirely thrown at the Winter Palace when she descended from the dais to walk amongst the nobility, amongst those who feared and despised her status above them as much as they might revere or admire her, if not moreso. Leliana had sculpted herself first based on Justinia’s need, and now on those of the Inquisition. Her tone with Zevran now is frosty rather than weary, as it might have been scant weeks ago.

(Ice cannot bring her closer to achieving what Justinia had not, this she knows, but it feels sometimes that it is overtaking her all the same.)

She forces herself to stay seated, rather than rising and leaving as part of her wants to. This is Zevran, and that makes severing the contact even after everything all the more painful - marks her as all the weaker.

“I had considered giving one to Kieran,” she finally manages. “I suspect Morrigan might voice some objection, at length.”

He goes terribly still at that- Zevran has never been one to flinch. Not at a wound, not at an insult, not at painful memory. The reflex had long since been beaten out of him for whatever reason. 'Never let them see you sweat' is less a suggestion with the Crows and more lifestyle; but to those that knew him, those that know him? The momentary stillness can be damning. The mental shifting of gears from Zevran-in-Truth to Zevran-as-Expected.

Leliana has no use for him. Keeping that in mind is necessary. She has no use of him and no want of him and this, whatever sentiment might have lingered? Is nothing she wishes to foster. Not that he can blame her; their lives are easier without.

Perhaps he ought to worry less.

Like a veil falling over his face- distance settles in his eyes, his posture shifts. Carefully calculated indolence in how he leans against the table, how he keeps his limbs loose and a careless smirk upon his face. Aside from the eye and the scars he is as he was a decade ago; though his teeth are not quite so bloody. "And since when has that stopped you? Better you give him a nug than wait for him to adopt something she finds truly unseemly, like a mabari."

Good. Better. That will make this easier. He is the shadow and she is the songbird, and they are monsters in plain sight. Zevran with all his talk of changing and living a life burdened - and yet for all that he can slip back into his assassins skin so easily. He is not one to speak of freedom, she suspects.

Or like Alistair, her mind supplies, though her tongue stays. Some wounds are not worth inflicting, whether becaues they are too petty to be truly effective, or because they might carry too great a sting, and she cannot think which camp this would settle into.

For her part she does not move a muscle, does not settle into her chair or jerk up and away.
"It stops me now because I endeavour to respect those I count as my friends." Morrigan cannot stand nugs? She will not saddle her with either the responsibility of caring for one, or Kieran's disappointment if it could not be kept. Her hand drops to pet Boulette, whose hands rest against her leg in a request for attention.

"Of course." Respectful and courteous is Leliana- is The Nightingale. How could he possibly forget? He has half a mind to ask after Morrigan and Keiran but no. That too is forfeit.

He told Morrigan he would no longer care for the child and while that is not something so easily done- he will keep his distance as requested, no, demanded of him. Perhaps she had been right in that his affection was misplaced. Perhaps he'd assumed greater familiarity with her and with Leliana. They endured something terrible with one another but that did not-

That does not mean they are family. That does not make them blood, make them close.

It makes them survivors. Nothing more.

"Allowing him to visit them, now and again, might curb his requests for one. All of the fun none of the responsibility." It comes out flatter than he'd hoped, not as light, not as teasing. Is that how she sees him? Irresponsible? Does it matter?

"I imagine that you are correct." I imagine you are quite familiar with that, and again she stops herself from speaking quite as cruelly as she could. She does not want to be cruel to Zevran, she simply--

She has no idea what she wants, truthfully. She wants the trust restored, and yet she cannot leave herself open to such an injury again. Even if she and Anders have reached something of an accord, she does not trust him, and she certainly does not trust the ones who concealed him, whether by deliberate action or by simply failing to be forthright.

Boulette makes a little squeak, gently grabbing one of Leliana's gloved fingers, and she absently takes a piece of bread from the table and pulls off the crust, handing it to the little nug. This is uncomfortable, and Leliana does not like being uncomfortable more than any other person. She is good at compartmentalising it, setting it aside, she is good at overcoming it. With Zevran, one who had been most trusted, that is not so easily done. (She would leave, but a conversation with Morrigan about fleeing still needles her when she lets it, and so she remains and simply offers up a quiet hope that a scout comes to retrieve her, and soon.)

She lapses into a stiff silence, sips her wine, and wonders if it would be worth leaving anyway, when he is acting like a Crow and she is acting the Nightingale.

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[ OPEN ] And I'm on tonight you know my hips don't lie and I'm starting to feel it's right

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