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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Merrick was miserable. He itched all over and it was horrible, even worse than that time he and Cyril had accidentally touched a poisonous vine and had itchy welts for weeks. He followed Zevran and when the other elf paused, he opened his mouth to snap at him.

Then the look in Zevran's face startled him, sent him careening into a memory. Every child had a moment where they realize their idol is human, and his was when he'd found Paros--stoic, upright Paros--crouched alone at the riverside one evening. He'd become quite good at sneaking at that point, and had meant to sneak up behind Paros and spook him when he saw the tears on the older elf's face. He'd watched, then, as Paros dropped a single flower into the river and let it be carried away.

Merrick had no idea what that had been about. He'd never asked.

Now, he pressed his lips together instead, almost biting them. The itch was getting unbearable, but he'd endured worse.

Edited 2015-11-21 08:18 (UTC)

He needed to rally. He needed to say something, do something other than wallow and of course, drunk as he was, the first thing that came to mind was what came out. "Be glad I am not training you as the Crows would. This powder, minus the dye, was often dusted upon us as children to test our resolve and endurance. If you scratched? You were beaten."

Which was probably the only reason why he wasn't itching at himself at all. To him? This was nothing. It wasn't pleasant but-

No. Not thinking about it. He pushed off the wall and closed the door behind them, locked it, and began stumbling in the direction of-

The.

What was it they needed?

"Hot springs." Right. "We need to get to the hot springs."

Zevran was a fucking mess, so Merrick knew better than to reply. He was nothing if not a survivor, and pissing a drunk Zevran off was not conducive to any such thing.

So he followed, occasionally catching Zevran as he stumbled, until eventually he just decided to support him the rest of the way. He had longer legs, anyway; the better to get them there faster.

"Don't pass out," he stated, voice impassive, masking his concern.

"Be nice." He muttered, though he did lean into Merrick when he stepped to his side. It did not matter if it got them both more covered with the dye and the powder- he had what they needed to remove both from themselves and their clothing. And hair. He would have blue hair if the did not rid themselves of the dye soon.

He had been stuck like that once for a month- never again.

For a moment, and it was a brief one, between the height difference, the alcohol, and the itching he flickered between now and then, murmuring-

"I am not going to pass out, Taliesin. Stop worrying." It was not as though the man worried for Zevran's sake at all, rather his own.

...Er, what?

It was really best not to ask. Merrick followed Zevran's directions as best as he could, trying to ignore his drunken ramblings. It was hard not to be at least a little curious, though. Who was Taliesin, exactly, and why was Zevran calling him that?

"Are we almost there? Assuming your directions aren't shit."

"You've never been? That explains so much." Not even referring to the smell, here, but rather the temperment. Of.

Merrick! Right. He was with Merrick. The next turn saw them where they needed to be, the stones and rocks that led to the hot springs themselves. Here it was warmer, almost humid, almost like home and Zevran could weep for missing it were he not coated with that damnable powder. "Strip. If we do not get the dye off ourselves first it will stain for a week at the least."

He attempted to step away but- well. Heeled boots and slick stone do not a good combination make even when sober. Zevran stumbled a bit before bracing himself on a rock. Fine. The boots would come off first.

After he pulled at least three knives out of the left one.

The clan had never wandered near a hot spring, so Merrick was used to simply bathing with cold water. This was certainly something new, and he loved exploring new things. That didn't quite extend to being naked in front of Zevran, but he couldn't be arsed to stand around waffling about it.

His clothes were off in an instant and he immediately got into the water to start washing off. The heat was startling, but a much welcome reprieve from the cold, and it felt nice enough that Merrick couldn't be too self-conscious. He wasn't exactly modest, but there was a reason he wore long sleeves all the time. Thankfully, Zevran was far too drunk to notice anything.

After struggling off his boots Zevran pulled a bottle of some sort of scented oil from his pack and called for Merrick's attention. "Use this- it will remove the dye and stop the itching."

Once he was certain Merrick was watching? He tossed the bottle in his direction- thankfully he was not quite so out of it as to fuck that up. Removing the rest of his leathers, baring the entirety of his subtly scarred and tattooed skin to- well- anyone he wasn't sleeping with? Not a problem. At this time it was old hat, more or less.

With his own bottle in hand Zevran unwound his hair, stepping into the water to soak, groaning with relief. Stupid trap. Stupid paranoia. Stupid Crows.

Stupid Calling.

Merrick's body was extremely tight, rigid with muscle that corded all over his lean form, and he had several additional tattoos decorating his flesh. He couldn't help but look over Zevran's body, too, before the other elf slipped into the water as well.

He caught the bottle and applied some of its contents, then corked it tightly before completely submerging himself in the water. When he came back up he shook out his hair like a dog. While wet, his hair began to show its natural curl, but he didn't seem to mind as he swam to Zevran's side.

"Here." He handed the bottle back. "It smells really nice."

Edited 2015-11-21 09:23 (UTC)

Aside from the ink and the blue that was slowly being scrubbed away- there was not much to see. Taliesin was ever the strength of their trio- Zevran was built more for speed, flexibility, precision than he was brute strength. But there was a breadth to his shoulders and thickness to his torso that did not come from soft living. Habit more than anything else kept him tending to his appearance; some thought it vain, for him? it was practical.

"Essential oils break down the dye, smooth the skin, and remove the powder. I- cannot recall exactly what scent I chose for this one." Ah, wait. "Andraste's Grace. Leliana's idea."

For a moment some of the grim weight to his lips left as they curled in something small and soft and terribly fond. "It is her favorite flower, you know. I wonder if any are growing in the garden..."

The itching was definitely starting to fade, and Merrick could see blue in the water around him, so technically he was done here. The water just felt so good, though. It made the tension that always filled his body, the kind that made those ropey muscles go rigid like a cat's at a moment's notice, started to gently release.

He leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute. Just a minute, though.

"You're not sounding any less crazy, you know," he said, but it wasn't malicious, just his own brand of humor.

"Yes, having friends and recalling what they enjoy is absolute madness." Friends?

Friends.

That was part of the problem, wasn't it. Having them. Caring about them. He wasn't supposed to and for the better part of a decade with nothing more than a few letters exchanged here and there- he was able to ignore it. Pretend he didn't. Even the odd visit did nothing to change what he thought to be the status quo. Suddenly Alistair arrives and hears that song and it had all gone to shit.

Perhaps he needed more brandy- no. He needed to rest.

Lips pressed thin he resumed scrubbing the dye and powder from his skin and hair, unbinding it from it's long braid to wash it properly.

Zevran had a lot of hair, Merrick noticed, and briefly wondered how it didn't end up getting in the way of things when he fought. Then he realized that Zevran looked kind of nice, standing waist-deep in the water, slender fingers combing through it. Sure, he didn't ogle people like his brother did, but he wasn't blind.

He figured he'd ought to say something comforting or even ask what was wrong, but he never was any good with words. He'd later say that hauling Zevran's drunk ass around had been good enough, but he'd still feel as inadequate as he did now.

Edited 2015-11-21 10:14 (UTC)

It looked shorter in it's braid- and even then the braid was not so small a thing. Sodden and loose about his shoulders it draped over his chest and back in wet strands, obscuring the tanned skin and tattoos that covered him. A little more scrubbing, a backwards arch to rinse and then? He was overdue a warmed oil treatment for his hair. After the dye he was certainly due one. Wading up back to where he'd left his pack exposes him quite a bit but-

They were not in a lesson, Merrick would not attempt to kill him. He's. Pretty sure they weren't covering anything that involved drowning for awhile. "If you want something that smells better still-"

This bottle- more of a vial- was smaller. Lighter. Filled with the scent of a wildflower known better to the Dalish than most in Antiva City. Something of his mother. "Smooth a small amount of this in your hair, let it soak for awhile, and then rinse."

Merrick took the bottle and frowned. Cyril was the one who liked all this fancy shit, not him. Merrick just made sure he was clean and pushed his hair back to get it out of his face every morning, and that was that.

"What's the point of it?" He inquired. "My hair's clean now."

"The point is to soften your hair after washing it leaves it dry." Zevran shrugged and poured out a measure in his own palm, working it through his hair. The scent was soothing if nothing else. For him it was as much a habit as it was a treat- his hair one of the few true vanities he had left, one that could not be taken away in the Crows. Well. It could but only if he gave them cause. "If you do not wish to use it, do not use it."

While he isn't about to put it in his hair, Merrick uncorks the bottle and gives it a sniff. It's--really nice, actually. It reminds him of the woods after a rainstorm, when the air is thick with the smell of trees and flowers.

"So what's this made from?"

Edited 2015-11-24 04:38 (UTC)

"Wild flowers that grow far outside of Antiva City- where the Dalish make their home. I do not know the common name but in Antivan it is called orchidea cuore." He takes the bottle back once Merrick has had his fill and pours out a small measure, massaging it into his hair.

Edited 2015-11-24 04:40 (UTC)

Merrick is clean, powder and dye-free, so there's really no point in hanging around. Still-- He doesn't want to leave Zevran like this. Seeing Zev's corpse floating face down with his ass pointing up to the moon sounds hilarious in theory, but Merrick doesn't actually want that to happen.

So he finds a nice nook to lean back in and watch as Zevran does--whatever it is he's doing. Someone needs to keep an eye on this man.

Aware that the drink is still heavy in his blood, Zevran wades his way to shallower waters. Nevermind that it will reveal him to the hip. Nevermind that between the heat and the drink his skin is flush enough for what scars he has that aren't covered by the swirling lines of his tattoo pale in comparison and stand out all the more, flecked all over, nevermind that Merrick is right there. He needs to be able to work his hair into a braid to hold the oil until so comes a time to rinse it. Normally his method of doing so is to braid it wet but-

After a few aborted attempts at parting and plaiting he sighs, scowls, and unknots his fingers from the mess of his hair, combing it out once again. "Do you know how to braid?"

Really, the best thing about all of this is how many things he has to needle Zevran about later. Well... It would be like that, if his teacher didn't seem quite so pitiful tonight. Something seriously bad must have happen for him to just crumble like this.

"Yeah," he replies, moving away from his nook to wade over to the other elf. "I've braided my sister's hair before."

Pel's hair had never been quite this soft, though. Zevran's is like silk spilling through his fingers, and he grimaces a bit as he tries to get a good enough hold on it to start braiding. Honestly.

"Beleth, Stella, or Ellana?" Those are the three he knew of from the Ashara clan that could possibly be related to him in some way- the Dalish handle families in a peculiar fashion. Even if he understood normal family dynamics it would be equally baffling. Still. He tips his head back to make it easier on Merrick, eyes half closed as he holds himself upright.

"I don't know who you're calling 'Stella'," Merrick replied as he continues to braid. "If it's Pel, then yeah. She's my sister."

It wasn't right to refer to Ellana or Beleth that way, not when...

A blush spreads over his cheeks, and he bites in his tongue in concentration as he keeps braiding.

"Mhmm. Mia Stella. Her hair is like starlight and her eyes so terribly sad." He knows now why that is- but it doesn't help to know when there is little that can be done. It is what it is. She will move forward in her own time- and if using him a little is what helps? It is what he shall do.

"She's not your anything," Merrick says stubbornly. He can construe what the word means in context and through whatever sprinkles of Antivan he's picked up during the course of his life.

But that's it. He knows why Pel is sad too. The evidence is in the bruise he surely left on Gavin's jaw. Pel needs whatever support she is given, no matter what kind.

"Tilt your head a little."

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Merrick Slightly Disapproves

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