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.

Threaded | Flat

He wasn't in Skyhold for long - just a couple of days picking up supplies before heading back out to the mire - but he couldn't help himself from wandering the halls, fingertips brushing the stone as he passed. It was just to get a sense of the place again, to be able to understand the odd longing feeling he had coming back.

It wasn't meant to be a trip to find a swearing, drunk Zevran sitting on the floor of the hall, trying to break into someone's room.

"Please tell me that's your room," he said by way of greeting, a grin slipping to his lips.

This was--unusual. Merrick had only seen Zevran quite controlled up until that point, and to see him fumbling around and cursing was definitely a first. His immediate reaction was to point and laugh, but something about the way Zevran was acting gave him pause.

He reached for his own lockpick set and moved to his teacher's side.

"Let me do it."

"Heeey," Alistair says.

It isn't a whine this time. Heeey, it's you. Heeey, that looks interesting. Heeey, he's going to stop his drowsy blinking--he hadn't been asleep, only drifting, maybe following the beckoning melody a little too deeply into his own head--and sit up in just a second. Two seconds. Three--

He snaps all at once into sitting, as if to wake himself up, and gives his head a quick, hard little shake to rattle the sleepiness out. The dog beside him sits up too, nose curiously following his hand to snuffle at the bottle when he takes it from Zevran for inspection. He doesn't turn down gifts.

"Got started without me," he observes. He does do that sometimes--observe things. He doesn't look up from the bottle while he scoots sideways on his pile of bales and loose hay to make space for Zevran to sit. "That's not fair. You're already smaller. I won't catch up."

"Zevran Arainai. Feeling a bit out of sorts? Or just looking for this?" purred a familiar Rivaini voice. The key dangled jauntily from her finger.

"And here I thought it was a gift. Sort of a permanent invitation, if you will. I do hope I'm not mistaken."

As Zevran stumbled toward the tents, a girl, seated at a small table, lifted her head to watch him approach with wide-eyed concern. She was clearly Dalish, and had donned a cloak herself while she worked on portioning out the right herbs for poultices, which was what she'd been doing before she was distracted.
She stood to take a few timid steps toward him, her smile pleasant but shy. "Andaran atish'an," she said, "what is it that ails you?"

[The previous night hadn't exactly been the best for Bruce. More nightmares, more thoughts he'd rather not entertain, more of everything bad, really. It was just one of those times where Bruce knew he wasn't going to be able to get much sleep.

Of course, he never let that stop his work. When the day came he acted like everything else was the same, despite the exhaustion he could feel all the way to his bones. It didn't matter what he felt; there were still people that needed to be treated, injuries to patch up, things to fix.

Since he couldn't sleep he started out with an early round for the people who needed it, and by the time he returned to his tent it was mid-morning. He wasn't planning to step in for long, really - just a quick break and restocking of the supplies in his bag and he'd be back out until lunch. Well, unless something happened.]

"You look like someone who needs a distraction."

Usually, he approaches most people with an arrogant swagger and his perpetual, knowing smile, especially if they look like they're in a poor mood to begin with. It usually makes for the more interesting encounters, and a curious perspective to see how it'll turn out.

He'd taken a look at Zevran, and determined perhaps it best to reel it back just so.

There is no swagger, or smug smirk. Instead, he keeps his eyes friendly and a hint of a smile as he pulls up a chair. The hat comes off, leaving him looking only slightly less mysterious than usual.

"I'm a conversationalist, if it suits you. Or I can perform parlor tricks. Terrible, terrible parlor tricks."

Katniss wouldn't have really cared what another drunk person did around here - Maker, everyone and their mother seemed to make time at the tavern - but she did care when she was in the middle of a rather tricky practice run and there was a cloaked, drunk person basically .... brooding his way right in front of the target.

So she sighed, let out a heaving breath and then called out, lowering her bow so she didn't take off the damned fool's nose. "Pardon me, but if you're going to vomit, could you at least put your head down? You're blocking my shot."

(Know what's great for hung over people with light sensitivity? Glowing women who wear blinding white fabrics and are, Maker help us, morning people.)

Galadriel was glad to be back in the fortress. Skyhold was far less distressing than the Fallow Mire, and was far, far drier. It was an easier place to exist, that was certain, but Skyhold was ultimately no less unsettling than the bog had been. The Mire was a sorrowful place, but it was its own, and bore only mild resemblance to anything in Arda. Skyhold was less sickly, but what it lacked in death it compensated for with truly ancient memories. She was weary, and her strength was slow to recover in Thedas, but she had yet to miss dawn, no matter what disquiet she was suffering.

The fortress woke slowly after sunrise and, as dawn passed and morning came upon Skyhold, there was a flurry of activity. She found, all too quickly, that such haste and noise was too much for her to tolerate, but before she retired to somewhere more quiet, more peaceful, a strange sight caught her eye. It took a moment for her to recognize him as he darted through the morning light, wrapped up tightly in a mass of cloak or blanket, but she knew that face. He darted into a healing tent and, after a time, strayed back out, almost glowering into the clear light of day. She came alongside him then, clad in gossamer white, and nearly apologized in place of a greeting.

"Do you feel unwell, mellon nin?" He certainly looked as though he did.

Korrin fully expects to return to the mire after her reprieve, but in the mean time, of course she has to take advantage of everything Skyhold has to offer. The fortress (now slightly less crumbling than when she left it) never looked so good, nor its amenities appreciated. After what felt like the world's longest soak and scrub, she heads down to the Herald's Rest, a tavern actually worthy of the name. Before leaving again, the Vashoth will have to snag as many casks and bottles as she can get away with but for now, all she wants is to find a nice spot to rest, drink, and listen to music. And if decent company can be found, all the better.

Spotting Zevran isn't difficult; the Antivan elf always stands out to her eyes, whatever he's doing. Which...at the moment, is admittedly not much. She frowns upon noting the shift in his demeanor, the lack of smiles or flirtations or music. Despite earlier plans to take advantage of the return to Skyhold with him, it's actual concern that has her heading over to his area. Flirtations and more can wait.

"Mind if I sit here?" Yes, his body language hardly screams 'social' but she'll still offer. If he truly doesn't want the attention, Korrin won't take offense.

Having quarters next door to Zevran was interesting, that much was for sure. Especially when the elf was trying to open the door to Fenris' own quarters instead of his own.

Of course, Fenris didn't realise this until he had yanked his door open, lyrium brands flaring, disturbed by the scrabbling at it, and just managed to stop short of shoving his hand into Zevran's chest. "Festis bei umo canavarum," he muttered, catching Zevran before he could fall to the ground.

(Because we both know that this has to happen.)

Michel could think of a thousand reasons not to drink, particularly to the point of drunkeness, as a man who was once a pawn in the Game and ever present in the royal court of Orlais. Fortunately he could recognize a hangover when he saw it and he wasn't entirely unsympathetic, wine hangovers were simply the worst, regardless he wasn't about to put himself in Zevran's path. Perhaps to the side and slightly downwind? He wasn't entirely certain the elf would reach his destination in the state he was in and he felt like he might very well be correct in his assumption.

The first time Zevran stumbled, Michel held his arm out to catch him, stabilizing the man on his uncooperative legs before asking in his Orlesian accent, "are you going to make it monsieur, to wherever it is you are going?"

Michel arrived at the Inquisition simply as an envoy to deliver a message, it had taken him away from his current mission, but that mission was turning out to be an exercise in futility with all of the obstacles in his way. He could not do what he needed to do on his own, so here he was and here he'd been standing in the courtyard for quite some time, in the well practiced way of a soldier until Zevran's arrival.

There was a shambling corpse outside of the tent where he worked. Simon pulled the flap back cautiously, relaxing to see that it wasn't a corpse--they didn't bother with cloaks in his understanding--but a familiar blonde elf. Who happened to look a lot like walking death at the moment.

The mage hadn't seen where he came from, but the bleary look of pain in Zevran's eyes was enough for him to step back and hold the tent open for him. Hopefully he'd be too out of sorts to be up for much flirting...Simon didn't want to be distracted while he was working.

"Come on," he commanded gently.

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Zev's Room~ I mean, he gave her a key and all.