(closed) the coldest story ever told

[byblow]

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Maxwell Trevean, Pel Ashara, Salem Ghilan, Alistair
WHAT: A Dalish mage Ron Swanson, a Dalish warrior who throws eggs, an Antivan assassin and his many knives, a Warden who's probably technically exiled, and one single actual human nobleman on whom we are hanging all of our hopes and dreams try to make a dude stop being a big meanie.
WHEN: Haring 5-?
WHERE: Northern Ferelden
NOTES: Plotting post!

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ON THE ROAD

[byblow]

[ombranera]

Well this was familiar enough. Zevran fell into step behind Alistair as easily as he had ten years ago- a little older, a little wiser- and with far more filthy jokes at his disposal. Whether or not he'd run through a filthy limerick or twelve or simply play 'I Spy' for the entire trip remained to be seen.

[mythalenaste]

"I know you're not an entertainer."

It's not an accusation, just updating Zevran on her information. She plops down to sit beside him while they take a midday meal break.

[ombranera]

"Oh?" He quirks a brow, hands busy sharpening one of his multitude of daggers. "What am I, then?"

[mythalenaste]

"A former Antivan crow who helped save the world. It's what stories say. Which. Stories say a lot of things."

[ombranera]

"And a former Antivan Crow cannot be an entertainer as well?"

... sorry, please make this happier.

[byblow]

It hasn't snowed this far north yet, but the nights are still cold enough that Alistair sets aside his usual display of native-Ferelden masculinity and winds up sitting close to the fire, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A blanket. He's getting weak in his old age.

He's also staring into the flame with a hollow, empty-eyed gaze that goes beyond being simply tired. The others' quiet murmurs elsewhere in the camp aren't distracting enough to keep him from listening to the song instead, feeling watched from the inside and not fighting it for a moment, before movement at the edge of his vision snaps his attention away from the fire.

He has to blink twice before he looks fully present again, but then he smiles.

Challenge Accepted!

[ombranera]

If one from this wonderful, muddy country was wrapped up against the cold- the resident Antivan was positively frigid. Layers upon layers of leathers and wool and cotton he wears and it is still blowing right through him. At this rate he is going to lose the tips of his ears and his fingertips. Ten years ago it was not this bad, was it? Perhaps he had put the memory from his mind.

Zevran trudges to the fire in hopes that it, at least, will do as it should when he sees Alistair.

Sitting. Staring. That same strange, wavering look he would get during the Blight when precious little could draw him back to the present. The song.

An answer to both of their problems presents himself when he walks around not to sit next to Alistair, but to nudge his arms and the blanket out of the way enough to drop into his lap and tuck his head under the warden's chin. There. Much better. "I am going to lose my toes to this cold before we reach our destination, just you wait."

thank you ;-;

[byblow]

Alistair pliantly lets his arms be nudged and his lap sat on with a smile that's a little bit you're ridiculous but mostly just fond, and just as easily rearranges when Zevran after Zevran has settled to stretch the blanket around him as well.

"Not your toes," he says. "Not on my watch."

After a moment of thought, he turns his head down to press his mouth to the top of Zevran's head and blow a large noisy lungful of hot air into his hair. He's helping.

thank you ;-;

[ombranera]

Little brothers get to be little shits- even if he is the older one here he is, of the two of them, smaller. Even for an elf. But it simply makes settling back into the warmth that is Alistair easier, soothing-

At least until the sudden blast of air from above startles him- ears flicking back sharply- "What are you doing?"

[mythalenaste]

1

During downtime, Pel is reading. Also, writing. She brought a travelling desk with her, and for once, she's not working on history. She's working on politics.

She stops you as you pass.

"Can you listen to this proposal and tell me if it sounds right?"

2

When it's too dark to work, Pel is by one of the fires, wrapped up in a houndstooth shawl and smiling contentedly at the fire as banter happens around her.

Wildcard

REFUGEE SETTLEMENT

[byblow]

[mythalenaste]

It's like being a Keeper's First again. Doing the things other people can't do, even when nobody wants to do them. That's how she finds herself trimming an old man's toenails and helping a heavily pregnant widow wash herself where she can't reach.

Eventually she gets roped into playing a game of ball with some kids. The darlings don't even seem to notice she's an elf. In fact, there are a number of elven children among them, and in their innocence none of them think this is strange. Pel looks happier playing ball with kids than she's been since leaving her clan.

If you don't run into her any of these times, she'll come to you. She'll have a bowl of groats with a hunk of roast venison on top and a spoon in her other hand.

"Here. One of the refugees wanted me to make sure everyone's eating and offered this."

[dreadinquisitor]

A harried looking mother had pressed an infant on Maxwell - "--just a moment," she said - and since he'd been circling nearby, swaying the babe gently in his arms as he hummed something low and soft. At the sound of Pel's voice he turned, eyebrows raising even as he continued to hum.

His stomach rumbled at the sight of the bowl, but he could only smile sheepishly, shifting the baby slightly in a 'hands full' gesture.

[mythalenaste]

"Oh. Here." She sets the bowl aside and reaches for the baby. "I've already eaten."

[dreadinquisitor]

"Thank you," he whispered with relief and a grin, gently passing the babe over to her. "His mother's here--"

He turned to look even as he was reaching for the bowl.

"Somewhere. She was off after another one."

[mythalenaste]

"That's all right, isn't it, sweet thing?" Pel seems to light up with the baby in her arms, gently bouncing it while supporting its bottom like she's done it a thousand times. "Mamae will be back any moment, won't she? What a lucky baby. What a lucky baby."

She tickles the baby's tummy. The baby's eyes widen till they almost bug out, a smile stretching over its small, drooling face. This only goads Pel on, so she repeats the action, punctuating it with a playful touch to a tiny nose.

KILDARN'S HOUSE (DEBATE/NEGOTIATION)

[byblow]

[byblow]

One day in Kildarn's territory is enough for them to have the shape of things: the people causing him grief are only displaced families with hungry children and ears of various shapes, or the kinds of harmless, hapless mages who were ill-suited for rebellion when the Circles fell. But polite attempts to point this out to Lord Kildarn are met only with spitting and seething about heathens and thieves.

It makes dinner awkward, to say the least, but also blessedly short. The stress gets to him and he retires early, leaving them with their half-finished plates and a servant--human, but looking harangued enough that Alistair doesn't worry she'll tattle--who occasionally sticks her head through the door to check that they're all right.

"Sooo," Alistair says, swirling what's left of his wine in his glass. "We'll probably be in trouble if we kill him."

[ombranera]

"Only if it doesn't look like natural causes or an accident." Both things he can manage quite well, even if the timing would be somewhat suspicious. "There is also blackmail or political leverage. I have been poking about, somewhat."

Someone had to know something.

[dreadinquisitor]

"And on who inherits," Maxwell added wryly from his seat a chair down, leaning back and folding his arms. "His brother, son, nephew..." he waved a hand, "...might not be any more forthcoming than he is."

[byblow]

"Brother," Alistair supplies, not very helpfully. That's all he's got. He can't say how helpful said brother may or may not be. He's sad that he even knows that much.

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell nods at the clarification, a small movement of acceptance and thanks. Then he glanced at Zevran.

"I'm not certain threats and blackmail are the best way to go either. If we push on him that way, it encourages him to do the same. To spend his free time thinking of ways to get back at us, or the Inquisition - or, most likely, the people we're trying to help here."

KILDARN'S HOUSE (SHENANIGANS)

[byblow]

[ombranera]

A

A fine house with a real bed and decent meals. Even if there is some leering at his being an elf and an Antiva, Zevran is pleased to take the room offered and spoil himself with a proper mattress. Or hiding in the kitchen to listen to some gossip. Or checking the locks of the remainder of the doors of the rooms offered the members of the Inquisition- going so far as to offer to string up some manner of alarm for the occupants along the windows and doors and showing how to disable them if they so wish. These are to be his people for the time being, and showing them any less consideration would be unworthy of him.

Or at the very least would earn scowling from Alistair.

B

Where there are nobles and their houses- there are secrets or trinkets to be found. Considering how strongly Kildarn feels about these refugees and how disconcerted he seemed about the guests the Inquisition sent to handle the situation- Zevran was not at all adverse to poking around to find said trinkets and secrets. There is no reason for him to not, truly, as the man has not endeared himself to Zevran in the slightest. Then again there may be personal bias at work- who knows.

It starts innocently enough- him pacing the areas they are allowed, complimenting the art, the decor, the rugs- for a Fereldan noble he certainly seemed to have a taste for the finer things. Later when most would be asleep, or when most are out of the house he finds the doors that were locked and makes his attempts to pick them.

C

WILDCARD.