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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"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."

"Well, good. I'm not sure I am always going to be here, to dump water on your head." Katniss stated simply, her grey eyes flashing before she jerked her chin. "Hey, ten minutes ago you were basically limping and doubling over on yourself. You threatened to assassinate me for stairs."

She folded her arms over her chest, "So come along, oh fearsome one."

"I have threatened to assassinate people for lest. If I am threatening to do so and you can see and hear me? I am not going to make the attempt." If he means it? They he was neither seen nor heard, he merely did so. But the point was a valid enough one. So he stood, wavered a moment, but he stood. Stretched and felt better for it. "They used to post warnings of me on the Antivan Border- I am fearsome enough, little one."

"You know, it's strangely comforting for me to know where you are right now, then." She arches an eyebrow at him, "I hope this doesn't mean we're back in kissing territory."

Her grey eyes track him carefully as he stands, ready to move if he so much as stumbles. She relaxes when he scoffs at her, "Oh, I have no doubt of that. A hang-over this bad in the morning and you're already coming back?" She smirked over her shoulder, "Why do you think I'm bribing you with medical aid?"

No stumbling, no. Standing and preening despite the aching of his head and the sour twist of his stomach that were both getting less and less as they speak. "I think perhaps not, Katniss, I remember you as you were a hild and that, now, makes it seem...strange to me for the flirting. You shall have to settle with light teasing and none of the kissing."

"I am sure I will learn to survive with my disappointment." Is Katniss's very straight-faced reply. "However, teasing is acceptable as long as ... ah. Just not in front of certain people."

"Oh ho, which people would this be?" Curious Zevran is curious, and just nosy enough to ignore the way moving makes him feel queasy.

Oh shit. Well, she had walked right into that one. Ah ... think fast. "Varric. Tethras. He's ... my literary hero and I don't want to look like an idiot it in front of him."

Well, thank the Maker that Zevran was walking behind her.

"Mhmm...." This was the sound of a man believed her entirely. "And who else?"

Damn the man, and may the Dread Wolf take him ... she huffed out a breath. "I might not want to look embarrassed in front of my possible future commanding officer. Officers."

"Aaaah, Cullen." He snorts a soft laugh. "He is quite forgiving of most foolishness, but I will try not to tease you around him."

At that, Katniss stops in her tracks and turns to face him, grey eyes searching his copper ones, "... Are you serious? Are you on a first name basis with him too?"

She rubbed her forehead, "Of course you are. Pel knows my favorite writer, and you probably have pulled pranks on the man I have a ridiculous infatuation with. Everyone walks with legends around here and thinks nothing of it - or are legends."

"The thing about legends is that they too are mortal. They weep, they bleed, they die just like anyone else; romanticizing them from afar is well and good but when you have an opportunity to walk among them? They likely do not wish to be seen as legends. Merely themselves. Those that revel in the admiration usually are not worth admiring." At least in his experience. "He is quite handsome, is he not? Chantry boys are always quite pretty but he certainly grew into his shoulders and cheekbones."

She gave him a thoughtful look at that, before she smiled a little. "Well, I will always remember that you nearly threw up and ruined my shot ...and then flirted with me blatantly, so if that doesn't put you as just yourself, I don't know what will. I just hope one day, we can be ... " And she pauses, because there she added that word 'some day' and she knew what she was about to add.

Then ... she adds it, anyways. "Friends."

Which is then paused by the sudden flush to her cheeks, and her eyes to brighten, before she says without thinking, "Oh, yes."

A wince, "I mean. I." Sigh, as she rubs at her face, "... we need to feed you."

"There is nothing as disillusioning as a hangover." Or at least for him. Seeing one's heroes brought low by drink and the aftermath certainly removes the shine. But that wish, it makes him smile just a bit past the ache in his head. "Then you should call me Zev, as ll my friends do."

Zevran is so formal among contemporaries.

"And I am happy to be fed. And to promise there is no shame in finding him very handsome."

"Hmmm. At least you didn't actually vomit. Not sure you could have twisted that one to your favor." She nods, once, before she smiles in turn. This one is not anything short of real. "All right, Zev. Call me Katniss or ... whatever you like there."

She sighs, with a hint of self-amusement, "It's not shame -- it's just ... ugh. I act like such an idiot about it. He just ... flusters me."

"Give me time and I shall think of an appropriate nickname, Katniss." It will come in time. Time and exposure, honestly, the better he knew her the more apt it would be. He certainly can't go with 'bella' now that he remembers her as a child.

It'd be odd.

"Mmm, but is he not worth being flustered over? The shoulders, the jaw, the hair- how sincere he is, how devout. I never did sort out if he was on the fun side of the border, or if he straddles it as I do."

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