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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"Oh, but would you have known where to look? Well, you do seem clever enough." The smile remains, quite knowing the implications therein. No, certainly not in the tavern for that. "Orlesians are good with fabric and clothes, not for tricks. But I'm glad you found it so entertaining."

In return, the swindler raises his own glass. "I go by Twisted Fate, but you can keep with Bello if you think it suits me."

"Really now? That sounds like it has a story or two behind it." Rare is it that any would claim to call themselves after the fates- though that this is twisted has a perverse sort of humor to it. "Until something more striking and suitable comes along, I think it shall do."

At the suggestion of stories, Twisted Fate smiles and takes a generous drink from the contents of his glass. "More than a few, really. Not all of them very exciting, but if you're so curious, I can talk."

He gestures towards the other elf. "And you're Zevran. Difficult to not know who you are; Skyhold festers with talk and rumors, and I can't help but listen."

"I need, as you said, a distraction. Hearing of someone else's tales would be a welcome change of pace from sharing my own." Which, clearly, he does not need to do as Fate seems to know who he is. "Well I do have something of a reputation, what can I say?"

"Fortunately, it's a fascinating reputation so far."

The glass is finished and set back onto the table. He combs his fingers through his hair absently as he speaks, "When I was a child, I accidentally got separated from my clan. Ended up wandering through the forest for awhile until I couldn't find my way back. Fortunately, a pack of nugs found me and took me in. Couldn't tell you what my real name is, though, so I figured coming up with Twisted Fate was a nice way to explain my situation."

"Mmm, I would certainly hope so. Failing to live up to it would be devastating." and slightly impossible, but he would say nothing of that for the time being. For the moment he was content to lean forward and watch Fate speak, sipping his brandy. "Ah, that's a new one. I have heard wild dogs and even witches of the wild- but nugs? You get points for originality, my friend."

"Nugs are much friendlier than either, and much more cuddly, in my defense." There's a pause as he refills his cup. The truth is a lot less entertaining in his opinion, anyway, so he doesn't have any interest in sharing.

No point, anyway.

"Naturally, I did find civilization eventually. By that time, I found myself without pants and a deck of cards in Kirkwall. I wasn't sure what to do, so I started playing cards for a living -- but someone had to teach me how to play first. This might surprise you, but it turns out nugs don't play cards much. Lost the rest of my clothes to a dwarf missing his left arm, but at least I learned how to play, on the bright side. And I eventually cheated him out of a barrel of oranges, anyway. Life's a bit strange, I suppose."

He holds his cup to his lips. "Unless there was a particular kind of story you want me to weave for you, Zevran."

Stranger and stranger still, but he found he did not mind the strangeness. Meet a rhyming, talking oak and suddenly your tolerance for weird became wide and varied. Doubtless this is bullshit but it is entertaining bullshit- and for that Fate has his gratitude. He could use a little more of that in the moment. Something to settle his mind.

"A barrel of oranges. Now that is a fine prize in the Marches if you know where to sell them." And know how to keep them from going hard and dried as they were wont to do. "Ah, do not let me direct your tales. I am simply pleased to listen to your lovely voice."

Telling a whole truth is rarely rewarding, and far less entertaining in any case. Twisted Fate grins before he's finally sipping his mead, letting out a low, amused sound at Zevran's response.

"Not as nice as the sound of your laugh, trust me."

The mage scratches his chin for a moment. "Where was I? Right, the barrel of oranges, I didn't have clothes. Heh. Fortunately, I was in the Marches at the time, and I didn't know it right off but the one-armed dwarf was apparently captain of a crew from Rivain. A rivaling captain -- beautiful woman, fiery red hair and a fiery personality -- actually offered me quite a bit for the barrel. Helpful, seeing as how I needed at least some breeches finally. Unfortunately, when I was going to make the trade off, he caught wind and there ended up being a fight. Over a barrel of oranges. That seemed a little over the top, even to me. Ended up working out, though; they sunk each other's ships, I got paid, and finally got myself some clothes. Suppose you just don't mess with someone's fruit, especially if they travel on the sea frequently."

"If your stories and tricks are all this good? You shall hear more of it." Considering he began this bottle certain he would not have any manner of good humor for the rest of the night this is a most pleasant change of pace. To be, for once, the entertained rather than the entertainer? Is novel enough to string the night along for awhile longer.

"Scurvy is a terrible thing- I have seen captains come to blows over a bag of limes. For a barrel of oranges I am surprise someone was not quite killed."

"Fortunately, I never quite run out of either." If somehow his smile hadn't suggested his confidence before, the words surely do now.

He chuckles quietly. "Well, I wasn't killed, and that was the important part." Fate has a drink from his refilled glass. "In any case, is now perhaps a good time to have another trick?"

And what a fine smile it is. "Consider me curious. What other marvels might you pull from your very fine trousers?"

That makes him laugh, this time a sound that's almost more honest sounding than his more arrogant chuckles. "Those kinds of marvels might be a little too exciting for the tavern. But if you empty your cup, I'll show you another trick, hm?"

"If you insist." He downs the rest of his brandy easily and offers over the cup, brow quirked. "What is it you are playing at now, mm?"

"Zevran, I'm always playing a game."

The cup is taken, and he reaches into his coat, gently tugging out yet another handkerchief. It's difficult to say how many he has, but this one seems a bit more personalized, the initials T.F. sewn into a corner in delicate cursive.

"I don't suppose you have a trinket that I could use? If not, I'm sure I have something."

"I might, but would a coin not work just as well?" What bits and baubles he carried for sentiment aren't something he would be parted with easily- even for a trick. Especially for a trick. As such it's far simpler to flick out a coin of silver than it is to produce the ring he had been spinning earlier.

For a moment, he seems to consider. With his cons, he could speak sweetly, charm the trinkets away for a trick, pocketing them away to keep. In this case, though, it isn't a con. It isn't a swindle.

Right now, he's simply an entertainer.

"A coin's just as fine. If you have one to spare," he concedes with a small smile. "I just need to have something with a bit of energy to it. Yours, in particular."

"This coin ought to have enough." He'd carried it for the better part of six moths, rolling his fingers along the edge as he considered this purchase or that. In the end he used gold or happened upon a better deal. If Fate needed something more personal- well.

He had little that he would be willing to offer.

"Then we can use it."

The coin is accepted with a pleased smile. He gives it a look, twirling it between his fingers, undoubtedly similar to how Zevran has in the past. It seems satisfactory enough, and he slides the coin under the cup.

"Now then." The handkerchief is draped over the cup, effectively covering any sight of the coin. As his hand slides off, his fingers dragging down the side. "Place your hand over the top."

Well that gesture isn't suggestive at all. Drinks, flirtations, and handsome company- what more can an elf ask for? Precious little. Zevran rests his hand on top of the cup as he is bid, eyes flicking down to Fate's fingers before dragging up to the other elf's. "What now?"

When their eyes meet, there's amusement and curiosity in Fate's as he watches Zevran. He nods to the glass and says, "Lift it."

Presumably, Zevran does, and should he, he will discover that the coin is missing.

Shocking, no?

"Your things seem to have a habit of going missing." A brow lifts. "Should I go looking again, or you?"

"That depends." He smirks, considering what he knew of the trick (or at least the Antivan variation), how he would often use it as an excuse to get to a mark (usually ended in death), and how many liberties he might wish to take (all of them). "How familiar are you willing to be with my hands?"

"Maybe I want to be become very familiar with them." The statement isn't meant to be construed as a challenge. It wouldn't be much of one for Zevran, if the rumors are indeed true and based on what he can surmise from the other elf.

Fate grins nonetheless, not put out by the idea.

"If this is the kind of distraction you're looking for."

"Hmmm..." It is tempting. Quite tempting. But as preoccupied as he finds his mind, he would not be able to give Fate his due diligence as a lover and that? Will not do. Still he does lean across the table to drag his fingers along Fate's palm to his wrist, searching for the coin. "Another night, perhaps. You deserve the full of my attention."

It's an understandable response. Whatever weighs on Zevran's mind is probably enough to distract him from that brand of intimacy right now, and he can respect that. So, instead, he smiles patiently, letting Zevran check his sleeve as he cares to.

"I get that," he complies, leaning back in his chair. "I'll look forward to the next opportunity, then. For now, you got a coin to find, eh? Let me know if you need me to reveal it."

We've come a long way from where we began

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