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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He honestly had not thought for more than an arm about the shoulders or waist to see him back to his chambers- but to actually be carried? On the one hand it would look strange for him to be carted about. On the other? He was tired, he was sore, and this man was quite handsome. He was not above using his current discomfort as an excuse to be close to someone he found so attractive. Beyond words- more for the ache in his head and the brightness of the day, he nodded.

Worst came to worse he would twist away and run for it. Humans of noble bearing rarely had truly noble intent in his experience, but for the sake of not having to walk for a short while? He would take the risk. "Please."

Unbeknownst to anybody, this Chevalier in particular did not come from noble stock, he was a commoner at his core who was given another life and he was not prepared to talk about it. His was allegedly a dying line of nobility anyway and that made keeping his secret easier, it was hard to follow the truth that far back unless one was devoted. Perhaps his only tell was that he seemed to be a bit out of character when it came to nobility, but then again he'd devoted his life to overseeing the lives of others, particularly his Empress, so perhaps it was not too out of character.

"Michel de Chevin, at your service," he carefully scooped the pleading elf up effortlessly, he had carried the weight of his own armor, effects, and the weight of his Empress while charging through a forest filled with trees that wanted to kill him. Zevran was weightless by comparison, "I'll need you to lead the way forward, monsieur."

"Zevran Arainai." He mumbled, tucking himself close and small against the Chevalier's chest. The name seemed a touch familiar- but he could not hope to place it now. Later after he had slept off the worst of this, he might recall where he had heard it. For now it was a handsome name for a handsome man. That...needed direction. At least the press of his breastplate was cool against his aching forehead.

"The hold, take the first left as soon as you enter and wander that hall for some time. It is a ways." Wanting security and privacy- that had come first.

"Well met..." as with Michel, Zevran's name did tickle a spark of recognition somewhere in the back of his mind though it felt as, though the memory was years old. What did it matter at this point, Michel was a man who could only move forward and whatever was in the past was simply that, in the past. At the moment, however, he had a gentlemanly deed that couldn't go ignored and having been in enough holds, fortresses, and palaces to know his way around with some cursory guidance he carted Zevran off in the direction of the hold.

"It will seem like a brief sojourn compared to some of my travels, just tell me when to stop," though it was probably odd that he was carrying someone he'd only just met around and it no doubt garnered one or two glances, perhaps more, Michel paid no mind and kept his expression passive as if this was completely normal.

There might be questions of him later, of both of them- but for the moment? Zevran did not care. He did not have to stumble his way aching and tired back to his room and he actually had a key. The traps remained, of course, but once deposited outside his room he could handle them well enough.

In theory.

No, no, he would be able to. It was not so bright or so loud as it was in the courtyard and the twist in his stomach and ache in his head would not be quite so dire a thing. His hands were steady, even as they clutched his cloak about him for warmth. "It will be a while. We elves like our privacy when we can manage it. And a door with a lock? Worth it's weight in gold."

One of Michel's questions would have to be why in Thedas do you have your room adorned with traps? Of course that question would only occur to him after he deposited Zevran at his door. He had no intention of putting him down any time before then as now that he decided to carry the elf to his destination it was a commitment that he should see him there safely.

"I think I can manage the walk, monsieur...though privacy I can completely understand. In Val Royeaux it is something that is well guarded, part of the reason masks are more than an accessory in the Game, but an extension. Of course there is more to it, but," oddly enough he was not wearing one, even Chevaliers wore masks, simple ones, with one yellow feather on the top. He found the feathers an unnecessary attachment, but it was what it was, and instead of thinking about it, he curled the elf a little closer to his chest bracing himself for the walk, seeming almost like a machine in how he moved without tiring.

"I once knew of a noblewoman that wore three, one on top of the other. If that does not speak to some admirable paranoia, I do not know what does." They had all be quite lovely, enlaid with precious gems or worked in silver and enamel. She had been a truly gorgeous woman- a pity the contract required her dead. That part of the story did not come up all that often, but the curiosity of three masks worn out every time she left her bedchamber-

Well.

That was worth telling.

"I suspect it must be a representation of how layered her lies and secrets really were...or perhaps she was just that bad at the Game," though to be perfectly honest, Michel's interest in the Game was very limited and most of the time he simply found it distasteful. He hadn't the head for intrigue and sneaking around behind the backs of others, the roundabout way of attacking. He was more straightforward, more face to face in combat.

"A little of both, I should think." Aside from being quite profitable, Zevran did not think too much of The Game. It made for good work and normally? Every player had a something in their past or their present or, perhaps, even in their future that left Zevran feeling no guilt in the slightest for ending their turn permanently.

"But you are from Antiva, are you not? It is quite a distance from Orlais...particularly the captial of which few nobles are loathe to leave. I cannot imagine that it was pleasure that brought you," as Michel was well aware of the status of city elves within the country, particularly in the slums of Halamshiral where, incidentally, the Chevalier had spent much of his childhood. He wasn't about to admit this out loud, but still, Zevran being in Orlais did give Michel a bit of a pause, before he shook his head and added, "forgive me, that was shockingly rude, I was merely...passingly curious, it was not my place, I apologize."

After all he had just met this man and asking him personal question at this juncture was not his place.

"A little business, a little pleasure. Mostly business when it comes to Orlesian nobility; apparently when bards fail to satisfy they attempt a bird of an entirely different color." True, he wasn't a Crow any longer but that he had been was well known, that he evaded them? Known all the more. It made him better to some and a nuisance to others; either way it made for a profitable business venture should he travel through Orlais. "Think nothing of it, I do not blame you for being curious. It is uncommon for an elf to travel so freely but I am something of an exception."

"A Crow?" Well that wasn't at all difficult to figure out to be honest and he doubted Zevran was making it difficult to figure out either. Bards were known for their gifts for assassination spying and sabotage among their various other skills. Then, of course, the use of the word bird, and there was only one bird in Antiva that had such a resounding reputation that came anywhere close to what the bards did. The Antivan Crows were an entirely different breed all on their own, "I suspect assassins are extremely exceptional, monsieur Arainai? But what brings you to the Inquisition?"

The revelation didn't change his unfailing mannerisms, he didn't drop Zevran, he didn't speak harshly either. Additionally he didn't seem at all threatened by the notion that he was carting an assassin around in his arms...though it seemed even more of an oddity now that he was faced with it.

"Well. Former Crow, but it is enough to see me hired and paid regularly. I must admit I do find it terribly amusing when they learn they must bargain with me directly for the contract rather than some human handler. Such surprise. Such scandal." Even for him it was difficult to stand some of the ceremony and prejudices of the Orlesian nobility- and he has endured most every indignity possible for an elf. "I may or may not charge them extra if I find them particularly offensive."

It felt only just to do so.

"Well. I have done this before, the saving the world business. An experienced hand would be of use, would it not?" Someone that took his occupation in stride- now that was worth remarking. Most Chevaliers either employed his sort or deplored them.

"The stratification of Orlesian society is rather unfortunate, Empress Celene strives in her own way to raise the status of the city elves. Halamshiral set her back 100 years it is sad to sa," it was a very odd sentiment for a Chevalier to have, of course anyone who knew anything about the civil war in Orlais knew that an uprising of elves in Halamshiral led Celene and an army of Chevalier to march to the city and squash the rebellion. Michel was not there, he was too busy making sure the Queen's elven beloved was arrested as gently as possible...the situation had been a very messy set back all around. Damn Gaspard and the Game...damn the play that started the mess in the first place. There was a subtle change in his expression at the memory of the events: pain, regret, anger, a loss of sorts. He smoothed it out before it could be recognized as any or all of those emotions, but he was never really good at hiding them...a change of subject, "I've nothing against assassins, not a method that I would use given my belief in settling grievances face to face as a courtesy and matter of honor. Assassins train and perform a service, I suspect you have your own codes...aside from being an outlier you're no different from most any other order...Templars and Chevaliers, not from my perspective anyway."

What an odd thing to say and he knew it, but Michel had known enough bards in his time to start judging assassins. He also seemed fearless.

"If you are the old hand and I the neophyte, then by your leave I hope to be guided by you in the future, but not until I've completed my own mission I am afraid," he could not even begin to focus on the Inquisition until he had cleaned up his own messes.

Well that was terribly informative- not only of the status of Orlais and it's nobility in the current strangeness; but of his borrowed Chevalier. Something to make note of and tuck away for future use- as it was odd to hear of an elven sympathizer, let alone a knight of any sort that wasn't at all put off by assassins or assassination. This man either held no ideals whatsoever or held terribly specific ones that left him quite fluid due to circumstance. Considering how easy it was that he's helped Zevran this day? He was willing to bet it the latter rather than the former.

"Perhaps you might beg assistance of the Inquisition for your quest- ah. Here. Take a left and a little further."

Michel had some particularly strong ideals, but they were specific to his code of honor and the things that he thought of as noble and righteous. He'd also grown in his definition of what that meant after leaving court, doubtlessly unwelcome as Celene's champion after failing her. That's how powerful his attachment to his honor was and perhaps that was the part of him that was most stubborn, but he had very little else if he didn't have his word. That Zevran was an assassin was irrelevant until or unless they fought one another then as a Chevalier his expectation would be that of an honorable fight. He did not see that on the horizon. As for being an elf sympathizer, most would not say that of Chevaliers or nobles, but he had his own very specific reasons for wanting society to change.

"I could not ask that of the Inquisition, it is a mess of my own making...I should be the one to clean it up and make it right," even though he had inadvertantly released a demon, it was all the same to him.

"Is it not their task to aid those in the righting of the world?" He thought that was what they were to be doing- but such debates were not to be had while being hoisted about like a distressed maiden.

"To help those righting the world...I wronged it with my mistake, but there is something that I came here to inform the inquisition of. Something that might help," no amount of debating would cause Michel to simply drop Zevran right here, he'd brought him all this way after all. Instead he continued following the direction.

"Everyone is fallible. Even Chevaliers." A beat. "Especially Chevaliers, in my experience. I am certain tey aren't averse to assisting you."

"You are not wrong there, monsieur, many Chevaliers have made mistakes. There are even practices that are a mistake," which is why Michel distanced himself from them as much as he could, but he would not deny that he did them as it would be a dishonorable lie, "the matter is more complicated than that, there is some division amongst the Chevalier at the moment and I am not welcome in Val Royeaux presently."

Which is all he says about it for the moment.

"Where in the country is there not some manner of division? Where in the continent? If you wait for all to be settled you will die for want of a solution first." Politics. Why did no one take the direct route? Ever?

He comes from Orlais, is there such a thing as direct in politics?.

"In Orlais you have the Chevalier who are loyal to an serve the Empress Celene and you have those wo are loyal to and serve Gaspard de Chalons. I am not just loyal to Empress Celene, I was her Champion...that would not only make me unwelcome with the Chevalier that serve Gaspard, but it would sully my pride to serve him. Though he has made his interests clear," Michel only sighed and shook his head, "I have since fallen out of favor with Her Radiance between the Battle of Halamshiral and her reemergence in Val Royeaux. This would make me unwelcome, not only in court as I have said, but with Chevalier loyal to Her Radiance. If things were that simple I have no doubt that you would not be so far away from Antiva, as I understand one does not simply walk away from your line of work, yes?"

"Aaaah. That is where I know your name from." A beat. "I will say the rumors do not do your appearance justice. 'Pretty' is too weak a description."

If he is feeling well enough for an overture perhaps he was well enough to walk- but this was fine. There were worse places to be than in the arms of a handsome knight that probably won't kill him for insinuating that he was handsome. "I am a crow no longer, to be certain, but I am still an assassin. One that is allied with the Inquisition for they likely have need of my skills, but one none the less."

"Is that the description going around of me?" Not that he was one to easily embarrass, but if one were to pay attention his face seemed to take on a more noticeable shade of color, especially given that he possessed that fair skinned Orlesian countenance, "I suspect they must be referring to the mask, monsieur."

Though it was uncommon for Chevalier's to wear masks as one could disguise themselves and walk around, fully armed, and assassinate the Empress. No one would be the wiser...and the masks were a bit ridiculous anyway crowned with a single yellow feather. Fortunately Michel was humble and not at all offended, "I'm certain the Inquisition will find themselves in good fortune having acquired an assassin of such skill."

He gave Zevran an ironic little smile that had something to do with the fact that he was carrying about such a skilled assassin.

"Unless your mask has a 'jawline chiseled by the maker himself' and is made of 'the purest alabaster' and 'lips made for kissing' among other things, I think not." Now this was far more familiar ground, the teasing, the flirting. He must say that Michel was all the more lovely when flustered. Perhaps he had a thing for pale men- so much easier to ruin in so many lovely ways.

In fact he could think of a few of them right now, all alone in the stone halls, half dressed and desperate- mmm.

It made for a wonderful thought.

"Well I have heard no complaints of my skills. It pays to have someone with deft hands and talented fingers in an organization such as this."

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