faderift | OPEN

WHO: Merrick and Y'ALL.
WHAT: Catch-all for the rest of September!
WHEN: throughout Kingsway
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: warning for drug use!!! if u wanna starter hmu

Tavern.

The whispering that follows Merrick around Skyhold is always the same-- 'Look, that Dalish there-- attacked a Templar, he did!' 'Stay away from that one, lad, you'll lose a year off your life every word you speak to him.' 'Frankly, I'm astonished the Inquisition would allow such a savage among their ranks...'-- but for someone with such a violent reputation, Merrick is remarkably mellow company. He spends many of his evenings at the Herald's Rest, either sitting alone with often-doled-out whiskey or engaging in the occasional card game.

With a few drinks in him he'll be amenable to conversation, provided you don't mind his brusque nature and his tendency to put away a truly legendary amount of alcohol. He does seem unusually mollified lately, and his hand often trails to the cord looped around his neck, on which a piece of a dragon tooth is fastened.

Rogue School.

It's become a bit of a calling for Merrick to pass on some of his fighting expertise to new recruits, and while he doesn't think he's being too hard on them, it's fairly obvious that he is. The recruits have started taking bets on who will have the cojones to take him on, and how long they'll last before they're pinned to the wall with daggers or blue in the face from being headlocked between his thighs.

He's open to sparring with anyone, always eager to shake off some of his manic energy, even though he might take the fake-fighting a little too seriously. Just bring protective headgear.

The Garden.

As a Dalish, Merrick has always enjoyed being around plants and trees, but there's a particular kind of plant that he favors most. He has his own private stash of elfroot--some local, and some varieties which he's procured from some rather shady sources--which he dries and cures himself and takes to the garden for some quality smoking. It's something he's been doing a lot more of lately in an effort to calm his fits of rage and mania, and he likes to spend his off time tucked in a little corner, pipe between his teeth as he works on his wood carvings (he has a lot of them now, all finely hewn and intricate, and he's open to selling them or even taking requests).

He'll also bring out his guitar and sing softly, or else pluck out chords as he works on a new song. He's open to sharing his pipe and exchanging music, and might pass you his flask of homemade moonshine too. It's okay; he won't bite unless you really piss him off.

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Merrick moves toward his master, sweaty and out of breath. He scoffs a bit at Zevran's words, arms folding over his chest.

"They're the ones who keep coming back," he says pointedly.

"You should not be challenging them in the first place. Even if they do not know better, you should." And if he does not? That may be a problem. "I began training you to avoid breeding malcontents and ill will against the Dalish, remember?"

Lucci burbles, fat hand grasping at the braid flipped over Zevran's shoulder to tug. Zevran? Doesn't bat a lash. It's normal, now.

Honestly, Merrick doesn't think he can take a breath sometimes without breeding malcontent and ill will against the Dalish, but he doesn't say that.

"Fine," he snaps. "I'll scale back. But I'm not going easy on anyone."

"Scaling back is going easy on them. They are beginners. They will learn nothing from you other than how swift it is they might die." Which is less helpful than one might think, that is a grim reality of living in a world at war. "If you are that restless there are postings I am certain you might take. Missions."

"Yeah?" he replies impatiently. "I haven't seen any postings or missions. It's been dry for a while." He's restless for a reason, though Zevran hasn't exactly been in the business lately while he's been child-rearing.

Still. "Have you got something?"

"There's always a need for scouting." Which is tedious at times, but invaluable. "Actually that is why I have come to speak with you. I've a contract of sorts if you are of a mind."

Not the sort Merrick might have in mind, but, a sort.

There's no verbal reply, but Merrick raises both eyebrows expectantly.

"I do not have time to mentor you further." It is best to be blunt, truly. "You are at a level that is passable, more than capable enough of managing your own way as an assassin should you so desire. But between the guild I am building and-"

One chubby hand snakes up to yank at one of the loose tendrils of hair that falls at Zevran's temples. This, too, is normal- he tilts with the gesture to limit the pain, bouncing his son lightly to keep him giggling. "And my son, I cannot continue as we are. However should you wish to join the Kestrels? You would resume training with them."

Merrick frowns. It isn't that Zevran won't teach him anymore; he knew that would happen at some point-- It's that he's arrived at a sudden crossroads and has learned quite thoroughly not to take the impulsive route.

"Join the Kestrels?" he repeats, brows knitting together.

"My Kestrels. My Guild." The former Crows that train in the Valley, that flit about Skyhold painting or singing or simply observing others, learning to be more than mere assassins. It is not the same as the education he'd had during the blight but- they are adapting. "Sign on and train as a group, learn to work with a partner or a trio as needed, enjoy the benefits of working with a team. In all my years with the crows- the groups that were able to work with one another without killing each other? Did the best."

Take away the competitive bent that the crows fostered? They do better still.

Honestly, Merrick wants the idea to be appealing. To have more training would help him reach his utmost potential, wouldn't it? But-- A team, he thinks, and his distaste for the idea must be showing on his face even if he isn't intending it to.

He's been told time and time again not to isolate himself-- and he's been doing his damnedest to try and reach out to others, to try and foster something of an identity in the Inquisition that isn't That Wild Dalish, but...

To him, being an assassin has honed him into something singular, controlled, far beyond the wild impulsiveness that punctuates his life outside his work. He's crafted himself into something unique, and he's proud of that. He's proud of how far he's come, how he's transformed himself, distanced himself from a wretched existence he never could have carried on and survived. And he doesn't want to share that with anyone.

And so he says with finality, "No."

"I thought not." But not to offer would have been impolite- or so he thinks. Mentoring people that wish to become more like him is not something he does often- Merrick is the first student he'd taken on in earnest outside of the Crows-

And the first to survive due to a distinctly different bent to the training. There is some pride to be had in that. Considering how they began? It could have gone far worse for both of them. Zevran takes a moment to cast a critical eye over Merrick's bearing as he shifts Lucci against his hip. This is not exactly how he'd seen their training come to an end (Merrick becoming frustrated and leaving, failing too many tests and quitting, dying, that he saw. Interruption by Guild and Infant? Not so much.)

"Then this is where our meetings end. I wish you well upon your path, however you choose to take it- so long as you take it away from the novices in the ring, yes?" Otherwise he is doing himself and by proxy, Zevran? No favors.

Merrick grunts his assent, and for a moment lets his eyes stray to the infant in Zevran's arms. It's...frankly bizarre, paradoxical even, to see Zevran holding a child. It seems like something in the workings of the universe is amiss-- not in a catastrophic way, but just enough to knock things off kilter.

His face doesn't show distaste, exactly, but he does sort of look at the kid as if he's never quite seen such a thing before.

Lucci is very much his father's son. The same tanned skin, the same pale hair- though his eyes are a bright blue rather than Zevran's amber. A trait of his mother's. The nose and angle of his ears likewise speak of his father. More of Serena might become apparent as the lad grows- but there is a reason she'd taken the time to drop him with Zevran rather than attempt to pass him off as the child of her husband.

He is quiet in the moment, wide eyes flicking from point to point- a butterfly, a mote of light, movement just beyond Merrick. An attentive child to be certain. "With that we shall bid you good day, won't we? Wave to Merrick, Lucci."

Agreeable (for the moment, it tends to vary depending upon how hungry or bored he is) Lucci lifts a hand from Zevran's shirt to wave as Zev shifts his grip and begins to walk away. Business concluded, he needed to get Lucci to Mia for his afternoon nap. Provided he felt like actually taking it.

The child waves at Merrick and all of a sudden he feels an odd pang, a tightness in his chest seemingly out of nowhere. Automatically he waves in return, and watches as Zevran leaves with the baby in tow.

Some things in this world will never make sense, he thinks as he makes his way back to the recruits, intending to make things a little easier on them.

A little.

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