faderift | A bottle of white, a bottle of red

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A bottle of white, a bottle of red

WHO: Open to anyone that wants wine and warmth and a little company.
WHAT: Wine and no whining.
WHEN: After the mage meeting wraps up.
WHERE: Close to the healing tents, specifically the Orlesian section.
NOTES: There will be wine, drinking, unwinding, and nibbles.

The meeting had been stressful for just about everyone involved. Tempers had flared, opinions made known, a few rounds of confetti and arguing before some manner of accord. Whether it would last or however long it might? No one could truly say. In the interest of being quite done with the stress and headaches such debate brought on the Orlesian healing tents clearing out the potions, bandages, and poultices in favor of what cushions and braziers they had on hand for light and for heat. The space was open, warm, and inviting with an odd assortment of tin mugs or clay glasses set around flat side tables propped up with stones to keep them from wobbling and tipping the whole mass onto the ground. There are some dried fruits and hard cheeses, dried meat and hard crusted bread- whatever scraps they could scavenge or spare and a few bottles of wine or brandy. Across the entrance to the tents there was a sign:

Bring a bottle or food to share for entry.

Tacked below was a list of rules:

Everyone is welcome, don't make a fuss
Don't hog the wine
Don't hog the food
Don't fight or argue
If you finish a bottle open a new one, don't recork it for someone else to find
Clean up after yourselves

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Clint wasn't originally down near the healing tents for the party. Like the insane fool that he was [or a rather terrible rogue, depending whom you speak with], Clint had taken a rather nasty tumble down by some of the lesser constructed parts around Skyhold and had gotten a rather nasty gash above his eye. It wasn't anything new, Clint's had some close scrapes in the years he's been alive. Of course, to him this isn't serious; a bloodied rag placed to his forehead and a quick jaunt to the healing tents should let him know if he'll need it stitched up or not.

But he spots the sign as well, and he's got a bottle of stuff in his pack that he's been saving, and it might as well be a good enough time to break it out. It's nothing fancy, nothing Orlesian in origin, but strong enough to put hair on your chest, or so the bartender had told him when he had bought it.

He's seen her around, and she looks like the best person - or rather, a person in charge - to point him in the right direction. "I've got alcohol and a rather nasty cut. Can I enter?"

"Mm?" Oh. Blood. That's- she should probably do something about that. Technically these were still the healing tents even if several had been linked together in the interest of saving warmth and space. She set her mug aside and waved him in, gesturing to a wobbly chair propped up to one side. She wasn't so deep into her cups she couldn't tend to an injury. "From a scale of 'an ant bit my pinky' to 'my lungs are full of bees', how much pain are you experiencing?"

He maneuvers to the chair, watching his pack as he sits. He's tried to mop up most of the blood, but there's still some left over on the side of his face from parts that he missed.

A quick shrug of his shoulders, and he flashes a quick smile. "Hard to say, really. I'd say that there was a ram butting against my temple right now. Not nearly as bad as bees yet."

There was probably- ah, there. A lingering cotton bandage soaking in grain alcohol. Terrible for drinking but fairly effective at cleaning out wounds. Adelaide takes his chin and tips his head to the side, dabbing at the blood. "Fortunately, I can work with ram. How did this happen?"

"It's a funny story, really." He even laughs, for good measure. It really was funny, depending on how you look at it. "So I'm totally minding my own business when a rock comes out of nowhere and hits me square in the head. Rude, I know. Now, rocks have their own hierarchy so I go to take it up with its boss, the head rock around here. I just want an apology, you know? I'm not looking to cause trouble. But head rock doesn't like that I'm impeding on his territory and sends his goons after me.

Needless to say, I took a rough tumble and this is what I ended up with."

The faint glowing that had begun at her fingertips to seal the cut stops abruptly- because she truly can't have just heard that. She can't. She is not so drunk as that could be said, let alone make sense. "...You got in a fight with rocks. And lost."

That second part is the most important, here.

"Pretty much." It's said with such a straight face that it's either actually true, or Clint's just a really good storyteller. He pulls back, raising an eyebrow.

"That's not a problem, is it? Rocks are pretty tough. They're like bears. Very territorial."

"...You may be the worst fighter I've ever met if you lost a fight with an inanimate object. A golem? You'd have an excuse. But rocks. Simple rocks." She presses the alcohol soaked gauze against his cut to clean it out entirely- and probably isn't as gentle about it as she could be. "How are you still alive if you lost a fight with rocks?"

"Ow!" He hisses. "Gentle, gentle, sheesh. I'm an excellent fighter. Rocks play dirty. I was tripped."

Gosh, Adelaide. He's a delicate flower. "I've gotten into plenty of worse battles and survived. This was just a misunderstanding."

"A rock tripped you. Am I hearing this properly? A rock tripped you." Bullshit. This is her, calling bullshit, turning his face back so she can look him in the eye. "I have half a mind to leave you with the cut for a story like that."

"Hey. It sounds better than saying hey, I tripped on some rubble as I was coming down from the battlements and I feel like a complete idiot." Which is what actually happened. He's usually really good about not falling. Anymore, at least.

"Most of the stairs from the battlements are complete enough that tripping on rubble isn't an issue. Unless you weren't using the stairs. In which case you've earned this but I must heal you all the same." Compassion bids it to be so, it must be so. The glow returns, Compassion's power a cool balm as a distinct counterpoint to the alcohol's burn.

He'd normally say that stairs were for normal people, and he's just too awesome to be normal, but he really did deserve what he got. "I took a shortcut. And by shortcut I mean rocksliding down one of the broken walls."

Yep. That happened. He doesn't make the best decisions. "Won't let it happen again."

"You had best not." He'd give people all sorts of ideas if he keeps this up and the last thing they needed were rogues leaping about the battlements like it was their personal playground. Little by little the skin seals, Adelaide's focus on the cut. "Do you want a scar?"

"I've got enough of them. You don't have to expend too much energy on me." Scars were just reminders of times past, nothing to be ashamed or to worry about.

"Save your energy for someone who isn't as dumb as I am."

"...I'm half tempted to not leave one, now." Never let it be said she's incapable of spite in her own way.

He might just glare if he wasn't being worked on. One thing he's learned is to never upset the healer who's working on you. "Whatever you want to do, it's your call. I either get a story to tell or my face stays just as pretty."

"I would not call your face 'pretty', but as you will." A little extra focus and the skin smooths over, nary a scar to show Clint's foolishness.

"Hey, it's how I used to make my money, so I'll call myself pretty if I want to." When the magic fades, Clint reaches up to wipe at his brow. Smooth as silk.

"And how should I show my thanks? Other than cheap liquor."

"I can see why it is a former occupation rather than present." She sits back, hands dropping away as she considers him. "A solemn vow not to fight rocks or other such foolishness."

He takes a moment to laugh, but it's all in good nature. He wasn't too big on being a performer anyway, it was just something he happened to be good at that made a decent amount of gold to put in his purse. He makes a motion of crossing his heart with his fingers.

"I solemnly vow that I will never fight rocks or other inanimate objects again, my lady healer. On my honor."

"...I almost believe you." She pats his cheek and sits back, content that her work is done. "LeBlanc. Lady LeBlanc if you must. Now go, drink, and try not to find more trouble."

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A bottle of white, a bottle of red

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