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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.
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He mutters before pocketing the ring. Normally it is a word that shouldn't sound quite so much like a curse, but it does. It haunts him. Weighs upon him. "I do not care for it. But- I do care for your good humor and your skill."
It is easier not to speak of himself. "You were marvelous in the mire, if I may say so."
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Respecting that need to deflect, at least for now, Korrin's lips curve in a small smile as she accepts that compliment. "Thank you. It helped that I had a wonderful marksman on my shoulders. We should try that more often, you know, festering mire or not."
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But a lovely distraction? That he can enjoy over his guilt and melancholy. If only for awhile. "A fine sight we would make, yes? You with your lightening and I with my arrows. We could cut bloody swaths through the field in half the time!"
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Besides, I wouldn't deny you the chance to try and beat me in another contest. I'm not an ungracious winner, after all." Just a smug one, because she warned him fairly. But perhaps with a few more grenades, Zevran would have a kill count to rival or overshadow hers.
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Honestly that he does not jump to do so probably means he's matured somewhat. That is a distressing bit of self reflection right there.
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Silly as that sounds, she's sincere about wanting to give him the chance to deal with whatever's on his mind first. Having his full attention later would be worth the wait, she's sure.
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He will offer no less than his best when the time comes.
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