faderift | We've come a long way from where we began

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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.

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.

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"Coin it is." He was over the wishing to die portion of the morning quickly enough. Tea and fine company- or at least unfamiliar company- would offer a distraction from what caused the problem in the first place.

"After you, Bella."

"I'll warn you now, I'm worth very little. Unless a certain Lieutenant and Templar are looking to buy their honor back -- and that will cost them." She walked ...slowly, for the man's sake.

However, "Katniss. I don't know who this Bella is but - I'm Katniss."

"And I am worth all of three sovereigns, or so much was paid for me, and yet the Crows continue to hurl their assassins upon me. Worth is not always determined in coin, Katniss, but rather in how much someone else wishes you dead." He followed along easily enough- well. Not so easily, so the slow pace was greatly appreciated.

"And Bella is Antivan for 'pretty woman', but your name suits just as well."

Katniss paused for a moment, frowning, because ... why did that sound familiar? She gave him an odd look, before she stated simply. "Well, I am fairly certain the only person who wants me dead is me. I'm not entirely sure how much worth that is to anyone ..."

Now she pauses, before she lets out a snort. "Ah huh. Country bumpkin with messy hair who smells like leather and sweat. I'm charming." Curiosity grabbed her again, "What's your name?"

"...Why would a lovely girl such as yourself wish to die?" THat made very little sense, even to his fogged brain. Oh he knew the world was harsh and awful but- if she had wanted death? Jumping from the battlements would have managed it well enough.

"Zevran Arainai, formerly of the Antivan Crows. Currently in the service of the Inquisition, much like yourself."

"Because there isn't much left for me." She sighed, rubbing her forehead a little, "Except the damned cat. And the horse. And now Bruce. Maker knows Airy probably needs a damned keeper - and if I die I never get to meet Varric Tethras... how did this get so complicated so quickly?"

No really, she came here to throw her life away to the cause and -- her mind skidded sideways, before she turned and gave him a startled look, "The - you're the - you ... The Zevran Arainai? The one who was with the Hero of Fereldan?"

Edited 2015-11-21 08:09 (UTC)

"Life tends to do that, become complicated." Nothing else left. He knew that feeling quite well- more than enough to stop and look at her properly. She was young- how was it that she came to feel thus? What happened?

Why did he wish to know?

Were he feeling better he would sweep into a bow. As it was he shrugged under his cloak and waved a hand. "I am, indeed, that Zevran."

"I suppose that is just what life does." Katniss sighed again, before her grey eyes sharpened on the man before him as intently as he was now looking at her.

Then she stuck out her hand, and said curtly, "Thank you."

"For what, the blight?" Ah, well. He would not ignore her gratitude if it was honestly offered. He took her hand and shook it rather than kiss it- dipping low to do so was n't something he thought he could do with grace at the moment. "You are welcome."

"Well ... that, and for Redcliffe. That is where I am from, where my entire family was from. I was in the Chantry during the battle against the undead, and then again with the darkspawn. Both times -- you all came, and you saved us. You didn't need to stop through to take the time, but you did." She is quiet for a moment, "I wish there were more people like you and your group. And I wanted you to know ... we remembered. We will always remember."

Redcliffe. For a moment he tilts his head to the side and his eyes narrow faintly, details and faces pale with fear in the dark flicking through his memory. Younger than this but no less determined- one does not simply go out and buy eyes like that and-

"Ah- yes. I think, perhaps, I remember you. The shots you made should have been reminder enough." He had not truly had the time to wonder, then, at the safty of Redcliffe's people. IF they would mind being saved by a foreigner, and an elf besides. "Alistair and Leliana are here as well- well. Alistair is here, the large goofy blond that attempted to joke with you and other children to make the night seem less terrible. Leliana, I think, may be on a mission but she does work for the Inquisition. They would like to hear this as well."

At this, Katniss's eyes filled with wonder. She hardly remembered - she had been focused on what the Mayor had been talking about with defenses. But she remembered the graceful smiles and ways of a red-headed woman who handed out food while they waited for darkness to fall, telling them that the Maker would protect them. She remembered a tall, goofy blonde man, who made Prim laugh for the first time in days.

"I would be glad to tell them ... if they have time for some hero worship." Her mouth twists again, "If nothing else, I would like to tell your goofy blonde friend that the joke about the mabari was really, really horrible."

"As long as it has been, as dire as our straights are now? It may do them some good to remember a time when the battles were far more simple and the stakes just as high." A chapel full of people, a country full of lives that needed saving. A reminder of a win? Will lift their spirits.

"That, I think, may have been the point. Sometimes humor is humorous because it is not."

"Maybe. Maybe it would be a good time for everyone to remember that even where the Herald fell ... there are still heroes in the world. So if reminding two of them will help -- then I'll do it. Gladly." Katniss said simply, as she opened the door for Zevran, and gestured him to a bench.

Her mouth curved up into a faint smile, "Then it was hilarious. Here ..." She broke off a leaf of embrium. "Breath that in. That will help. I'll get what I need for tea."

"We were fortunate to have gone through the whole Blight without losing anyone. The Hero always dies in the tales." And yet somehow? They survived.

Mostly.

He settled on the bench rather than think too hard on what caused him to drink in the first place, settling down and breathing in the herb as he was given. "Thank you."

"No ... a lot of other little heroes died, though." She said softly, closing her eyes.

It's face was like a desiccated skull, eyes maddened with murder and ghoulish rage as it stabbed him through with its giant sword, and she screamed and screamed even as her hand closed around the bow --

She sucked in a sharp breath, before she nodded, replying shortly. "I'll be right back."

A short jog to the kitchens, where she found a kettle and got some water out of a barrel, along with grabbing a tin cup. When she returned to the garden, she started picking various herbs, putting them into the cup, and then broke off some branches.

Once she was done, she went up where she had left him on the bench, and arranged the sticks just so, so she could start a fire. Then she put the kettle down atop the flame, and made sure to trim the leaves off the herbs.

"Is the world starting to feel upright?"

"That is true. Redcliffe more than most." Denerim saw it's share of horrors, as did the ruin of Lothering. But Redcliffe had been attacked twice over- once from within and once from without. The people there had endured more than enough.

Defending them had been no burden.

While she wandered so too did his mind, back to that battle, to all that came before, all that came after. Assassins were not often used in war. He had attempted to take it one fight at a time, to break it down into something he could bear. Even for him climbing over piles of bodies just to strike at the next had been disconcerting. More than enough that he simply put it from his mind as long as possible. Recalling that did no one any good.

He did feel more himself when she returned, smile crooked but present. "Less wobbly, to be certain."

She made sure the water was starting to settle and get hot, before she went to gather the last of the herbs. Then she put them all into the now boiling pot, moving them around to make sure they were all getting properly boiled, before taking the pot off the flame and leaving it on the stone, while she gathered some dirt to put out the fire.

She was... fairly certain you weren't supposed to set fires in the gardens, even on the hard stone floors, but if Zevran didn't tell, neither would she. She poured the tea into the tin cup, holding it out by the handle. "Give it a few minutes to cool -- and I will warn you, it is going to taste awful going down."

Nothing important was going to burn, there's no reason Zevran to mention it to anyone. There was a fire and now there was not, picking nits over it wasn't going to change that nothing important burned. "Most cures for a night of drinking tend to. Usually the worst the taste? The more effective the brew."

She snorted softly at that response, as she sniffed the tea herself. "Well, then get ready for a belly filled with effectiveness then. Just don't swallow too fast."

"I will try." He toasted her with the mug and drank. It was vile. It was bitter. He had drunk poisons more pleasant on the tongue- but it is precisely what she said it would be. Awful but potent. When he was finished he shudders, ears drooping with revulsion. "That...may be the third worst thing I have ever had in my mouth."

"You know ... I am certain I don't want to know what the other two were." Was her dry reply, as she leaned in to look him right in the eye, her own grey eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I'd give it another twenty minutes - then we'll try to get some broth in you."

Yes, she said 'we'. You need help and she's not going to abandon you until she's sure you're going to be all right.

"You don't. I don't, and I am the one it happened to." Oghren had been the cause of one- never again would he touch Dwarven ale. The last? Not worth mentioning. At all. Though dry and bleary and bloodshot Zevran's eyes remained steady on her's, the copper burnished almost bronze in the dim light. "Who are you now, my mother?"

Still, it was said with a smile. Having someone fuss over him was- novel. At least he knew the why of it in her case.

"Yes, and you can only blame yourself. How is that for a sobering brew?" She could see the steady way his copper eyes stayed on hers - and she had to admire them. The man was altogether pretty, even when he looked like Hell.

She snorted while she straightened, "If you let yourself get this drunk all the time - you don't need a mother. You need a keeper. Or at least someone willing to dump a bucket of water over your head in the morning."

Still, her smirk was gentle. "You might want to try walking around first before we go hunting for something light in the kitchen."

"I do not. It was a moment of weakness, never to be repeated." But a bucket of water does not sound like so terrible a thing. At least warm one. A cold one? That would make the pounding in his skull worse.

"...I resent the implication that I am not capable of walking."

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