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 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."

"I wonder if I should be afraid now.." She murmured, as she went to open the door to the main hall.

Remembering her as a child, and seeing her as a woman? Probably would throw most.

She exhaled at that description, because Maker, Zevran painted the exact picture in her head, "... Yes, all of that. The scar on his lip, his eyes, and how tall he is and yes those shoulders-- well. I'm not even sure he straddles my side of the fence." A wistful look, "Bruce keeps telling me to be myself around him but - well."

She gestured to herself, as she went to open the door leading to the kitchen.

"The way his ears go red when he is flustered- a man that pale? Tends to go pink in all the right places when he is roused to the occasion. And most tend to flush from forehead to thigh." Mmmm. Hot. He takes a moment to admire the mental image, more than able to undress Cullen with his mind.

Respectfully, of course.

"Straddling the border means one cares for both men and women, Katniss. I think he does enjoy women, for they make him blush quite often." He reached out to pat her on the shoulder. "Give it time."

Katniss's eyes go wide at the very thought of that, before she ... chokes. On air. Everyone is going to now watch her flush bright pink. In fact her hand just stops on the door as she tries to get that image of ... and it is not happening.

Just not happening in the slightest.

".... Oh. Uhm. That is good. I am glad he likes. Women." Katniss did not squeak. She was not a squeaker. She was, however, able to blush like any twenty year old woman with an infatuation and an imagination.

"And Fereldan men in particular, mmm. They tend to be quite large- broad and muscular and...well." He grins, slow and wicked. "Endowed. I have no doubt that he is much the same. Something about the water I suppose, for I have never seen quite so many quite so handsome men come from the same place without sharing bloodlines."

He walks past and nudges her with his shoulder, pushing the door open all on his own.

"He is very broad ... and ... very muscular ... " Katniss half muttered to herself, before she shook her head. Hard. She was not going to think about the endowed part. She was not.

She was. Right now. Oh damn the man.

A clearing of her throat, before she gave him a baleful look. "You did that on purpose."

"Mhmmm..." Ah, there it was. A point to Zevran. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. You may never know."

She narrowed her grey eyes at him, growling softly before she swatted him on the arm. "You're a brat, Zev."

"Perhaps!" He crackled a laugh, nudging her with his shoulder. "It is no fault of mine you have such an easily goaded imagination."

"...Only for certain people. Right now I'm imagining dumping you in a snow drift." Is her flat reply, but yes, she might be smiling. A Little.

"Would you not rather tumble into one with your very fine commander?" He was still laughing.

Katniss rolled her eyes as she eyed the under-chef, produced a silver - and started to grab a loaf of bread and some broth from the fireplace.

"... He's not mine." Is her muttered answer, as she grabs a spoon for him. "Here, eat."

"He is your commander in that he is your superior." Smirking, he sat back and took the broth he was offered. Any food was better than no food.

"He's not even that yet." She sniffed, "Not until Lead Scout Harding has cleared me to be one of her scouts. Even then, I'm going to be plainsclothes."

She dropped down in the seat next to him, stretching out her long legs, looking at the fire, "... But he is my superior, no doubt of that."

"Militantly, yes. Overall? I would not think so. He may be very pretty but I doubt he can shoot with near as much accuracy as you, nor wrangle wayward assassins quite so well." He nudged her with his boot, sopping up broth with his bread.

"Well no, no one can shoot with the kind of accuracy I have." That's said with a completely calm tone. She's been here for a bit, and she hasn't seen a single archer of her caliber. She's heard the Nightengale is something to see, and there's some fellow named Barton around who is supposedly amazing -- the one called Red Jenny is off on a mission and she's heard tale that Varric's crossbow 'Bianca' doesn't 'count. So ... she'll count herself in at least the top five.

She shake her head a little, to pull herself out of her musing, "And I'll just bet you'd like to have him wrangle you more than me ... but thank you." A nudge back.

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