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We've come a long way from where we began
WHO: Zevran Arainai, Alistair, & Open
WHAT: Zevran is not dealing with sentiment well
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The tavern, the stables, his quarters, the healing tents, the courtyard
NOTES: Drinking, swearing, emotional vomiting.
WHAT: Zevran is not dealing with sentiment well
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The tavern, the stables, his quarters, the healing tents, the courtyard
NOTES: Drinking, swearing, emotional vomiting.
It took a day or two to thaw out properly from the mire. To sleep, to scrub the muck from his skin, to feel alive again. Of course with the break from the mission and a quiet space to sleep it only served to remind him of how difficult it had been on the road. Of the sounds he had heard of the wardens tents. Of what their troubled sleep meant for one Warden in particular.
[ Tavern - OPEN ]
Zevran attempted to spend his days as he would before the arrival of the Grey Wardens. Some time working on his poisons and traps, some time in the tavern listening to gossip and spinning tales, playing joyful, soothing music for the weary souls within. But for tonight there was no music, there was no smiling. Zevran kept his back to the wall, his hand on a glass of wine or ale, bottle waiting for the next poor on the table beside him, eyes on something small and glinting he rolled between his fingertips. Sentiment. What good had that ever done him? What benefit did it ever hold? It was a weakness. It was an illness. And yet here he sat, sick with it. Normally the approach of company would earn a smile, a flirtatious remark- but for one night? He had no desire for masks.
[ Stables - CLOSED to Alistair ]
"As promised." The words were loose in a way only drink made them. Lulling and swooping rather than the clipped roll of his usual pattern of speech, but Zevran was at least a little drunk and looking to become a good deal more drunk before the night was through. Trouble was he trusted very few people enough to indulge as much as he desired in all of Thedas, fewer still in Skyhold. But here, staring at this ridiculous Warden in the hay with at least one dog? A warm twist of fondness bid him offer a very special bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed. As he had said before, Alistair could not start his whiskey without something particularly exquisite. Between that, the carved rune stones still in his pouch, and a wrapped wheel of small cheese in addition to a bottle of his own brandy for the night? He would forgive being forced to drink in a stable. So long as it was in Alistair's company.
[ Zevran's Quarters - OPEN ]
Well this was mortifying. He had somehow misplaced his key- his spare key, and his spare, spare key in the course of the night- or he had locked all of them inside save for the one he'd slipped into Isabella's boot earlier in the day and now? Now he was crouched, fumbling with his lockpicks in a way he hadn't since his earliest years as a Crow. The lock was simple, he knew it was simple- he also knew himself to be terribly, terribly drunk. Enough so that he was not kneeling before the door in any attempt of stealthy entry and instead sitting before it, working with his picks while swearing a blue streak under his breath in Antivan, Common, with a spattering of Orlesian and even some Tevene. Until he sobered up? He would be at it for awhile. Brasca.
[ Healing tents / Courtyard the following morning - OPEN ]
Another reason why he rarely drank. The migraine. The cotton in the mouth feeling. The twist of wire that strung his guts together. Food was probably not a bad idea bu the smell of- well- anything made it twist sharper, tighter, like a dagger to his very middle. Not productive for eating anything that will settle his stomach. Water helps but it does not do much other than remind him that he should eat, but he cannot eat, and light and sound are an aching mass of unpleasantness he did not wish to linger on. Bundled tight in a cloak that was far softer on the lining than on the exterior, he stumbled his way across the courtyard to the healing tents. Perhaps one of them would give him something if he looked sad enough.
Zev's Room~ I mean, he gave her a key and all.
"And here I thought it was a gift. Sort of a permanent invitation, if you will. I do hope I'm not mistaken."
That he did
And she's gonna use it!
Reaching over his head, she fitted the key into the lock and it opened with a soft clank.
"There now, all better. Now you won't have to sit out in the cold."
Bless
"I am not so certain about the cold. It would be so much warmer with some company..." He was far too deep into his cups to rise to the occasion, but his hands were skilled enough, as was his mouth, and he had missed Isabella terribly.
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"And, let me guess, not nearly enough blankets to go around in this frozen castle, are there?" she cooed, bending down to help him to his feet.
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What it was, he could not remember, but that wasn't important. Burying his face in the crook of her shoulder- well. Her bosom. He face planted in her bosom. "Keep me warm?"
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"Oh, I suppose, just this once. Because it's bloody cold here and Fereldens and Orlesians don't know well enough to fix it. But you'll owe me. Admiral's orders," she informed him, unable to entire keep a fond note out of her tone.
"Pity it doesn't come with a hearth. Shall we get you into bed?"
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Under the brazier. Ah- but wait.
"Wait- wait. Trap. Traps. Two traps. The powder ones." He knew if he pointed at roughly where the mechanisms were along the door, Isabella could find them and disarm them. "With the dye and the itching powder. Those. You are beautiful in blue, Admiral, but not quite like that."
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She had to push him off her breasts, sort of propping him up on the door jamb, and hoping he wouldn't fall over and set off his own traps. Talk about awkward. Still, she bent down and soon found the trips for the traps, disabling them carefully. She knew how Zevran's artistry tended to run.
"There now, perfectly safe. For the time being."
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He leaned in the doorframe, keeping a careful eye on the wire. Were he to fall? Better to fall backward into the hallway and not into the room. Soon enough she, with her hands so deft, managed exactly as he knew she would. "Why did we never get married?"
The joke had come up now and then- neither of them were suited to it but if there were ever a woman he might consider binding himself to- it would be Isabella.
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"Truly, Zev, the great merchant prince Luis found killed by the very organization with which he did the most business? His bride stealing his ships and slipping off like a thief in the night? I don't think Antiva could have handled any more scandal in one day."
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Adventure and gold and warmth, none of this. Caring business.
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She laughed and nudged him toward his bed.
"I don't know how well you'd agree with life at sea, though, Zev."
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"I could enjoy it if given cause. Then again I am terribly fond of warm beds that do not roll with the ocean and not being soaked by storms."
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She moved his boots aside.
"And trust me, Luis didn't deserve half of what he had."
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"And, you very much earned your reward for that, as I recall," she purred, pressing up against him.
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She laughed.
"Oh, but look at you. Trying to get me all nostalgic. You're too far gone for it to be like old times."
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"You'll be all right. How long do you want me to stay?" she whispered, knowing too damned well she was skirting that unspoken line between them.
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"You'll owe me down the line."
Damn, she'd almost forgotten how well they fit together.
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A sigh that was almost contentment.
"All right. You sleep it off. I make sure you don't die before morning. Things wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you."
Was that a kiss against his head? Surely not. He's just imagining things.
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