We've come a long way from where we began

[ombranera]

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.

Comments

[noleechesneeded]

"Two and--Maker, it's a wonder you're not dead," Simon sputtered, giving up on prodding Zevran into some professional distance, too stunned for a moment to do anything but stare. It passed as he realized that there was nothing really, terribly wrong...and part of him wanted to be cross with Zevran for making him worry over nothing.

Instead he sighed, resigned, and dragged his fingers through his hair.

"All right...I'll get you some water and a compress for your head," he said. "And you can sleep it off in here. But if anyone spurting blood comes in I'm going to have to toss you out."

[ombranera]

"Former crow." He mumbled in response, blinking bleary eyes at Simon, ears drooping and voice ragged. This was the abject image of an ill elf. One that begged for comfort, for soothing affection. One that got- well. An exasperated healer instead.

Ah, well. Such was the way of the world.

"So cruel to me, bello, in my hour of need."

[noleechesneeded]

Crow? As in the...? Simon blinked and shook his head slightly as he rose from the cot, moving into the back of the tent to rummage for what he'd promised. He was learned enough to have heard of the Crows, but he didn't know all that much. Now wasn't the time for questions. Maybe when Zevran wasn't hurting so much...as exasperated as Simon was, he wasn't wholly without sympathy.

"This is nothing," Simon quipped, plucking up a waterskin and a cloth and basin...and after a moment of thought, a dark glass vial from his table. "You should see me when they come in with stubbed toes..."

Simon returned, holding up the glass vial first and tugging the cork open. Immediately a strong, minty smell started to fill the air between them. "This is for your stomach, just take a mouthful."

[ombranera]

Even hungover he did not take what is in the vial immediately, tipping the opening to his nose to sniff the contents. Mint, extracts, something to soothe the stomach. Nothing that would kill him. With a sigh and a nod he took a mouthful before offering the vial back to Simon. Ugh. Morning mouth and mint.

It could be worse.

He could have vomited, now that was hardly charming or seductive.

"Perhaps they only wish a footrub from your lovely hands. I must say the idea does have it's own manner of appeal."

[noleechesneeded]

The vial was taken back, the stopper secured again before it was slipped into a pocket. Hopefully that would start to help...Simon liked to huff and seem as put out as possible, but the truth was that if he could help, he would. Still the comment about footrubs was met with a light snort and grin...and then a faint red tint to his cheeks. He was getting better at not blushing whenever Zevran said something particularly friendly, but he wasn't perfect yet.

"Was that a hint?" he asked, taking the compress next and cooling it with water from the leather skin.

[ombranera]

"I would not say no to a neck massage if you are of a mind. I think I slept on it improperly." He winced as he tilted his head, feeling out the extent of the tension. He could rub it out himself but the angle was awkward. Having someone else do so would save him some time and pain.

[noleechesneeded]

"You're lucky I was half considering something like that anyway," Simon murmured, starting to think he was playing into something but not feeling wary enough to put a stop to it. At least not yet. Kneading the elf's temples rather than his neck and shoulders could have done more for the headache...but if he said his neck was hurting too Simon was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Here, hold this to your brow in the meanwhile," he said as he offered the compress first before shifting to sit behind him. Maker help him if anyone walked in to see this...

Simon began at the nape of his neck, thumbs finding the ridge of his spine and pressing down into the skin and drawing out from there. It was tense, Simon could feel it already, meaning that Zevran hadn't been exaggerating.