II. OPEN.

[glandival]

WHO: Sabine and potential best friends. (No.)
WHAT: Having arrived at Skyhold a couple weeks back, Sabine continues to settle in.
WHEN: The end of Haring, the beginning of Wintermarch.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: A couple of prompts below, but let me know if you'd like to do something specific or wish to hash out ideas in plurk or PM.

(BELOW) THE COURTYARD;

[ Busy work cures Sabine of idle hands, sitting nearer the stock of weapons than the actual sparring grounds, although she has a good vantage of the latter. She sits unceremoniously on the ground, her legs clad in simple leggings and in a comfortable configuration of half crossed, one knee up and bent. Work, today, constitutes of the crafting of arrows. A bundle of sticks -- straightened from their natural bend, already stripped of its bark -- is gathered to her left, and she uses a knife to work one end. Feather halves, to line against it, and fibrous string to bind it in place.

It's fiddly, but in this setting, not unnecessary. Conversations drift over her head, and she goes mainly ignored. Her ears mark her as one of the people, especially prominent with her wild hair kept barely tame in a thick braid down her back. Her hands are practiced enough that she doesn't need to watch all the time what she's doing; her eyes dart to the people coming and going around her, the training of recruits across the courtyard, and anything else of interest. ]

(ABOVE) THE BATTLEMENTS;

[ She isn't much of a drinker, but she is Orlesian, and when one wishes to climb the battlements and then climb even more up onto the slanting, frankly dangerous rooftops of Skyhold just to watch the sun go down, you should take some wine.

Somehow, Sabine's managed to get to her perch despite the thick woollen skirt that now drapes about her, and a cutting, cold wind tugs at her hair let free. She has a wineskin in hand, and she takes a generous mouthful of it, which has her jerk back, turn her head, and spit it out again in a steady, mouth-warmed stream down onto the battlements to her side. Ergh. She never thought she'd be picky about her wine, until she drank Fereldan.

Oh well.

Bracing herself, her second swig is just as deep, but gets swallowed this time. Above her, the sky fades from deeper blue, to truer black. ]

(AMONGST) THE MERCHANTS;

[ The market trade growing within the Inquisition is just that -- growing. A sampling of Orlesian and Fereldan wares, from gathered herbs to colourful blankets, to old swords with the dents carelessly banged out of them to a fine old antique shield that still has some sturdy left to it. Practical things, but not always.

All of Sabine's arrows go to the Inquisition, but she has other services she might provide. She doesn't have her own cart, but she does have a blanket, spread out in front of her while she works, displaying little wooden trinkets -- as simple as loose, colourful beads with tiny carvings through to complex designs, such as bracelets carved to spiral thrice around the wrist, or smooth polished wooden earrings that hook into place and nestle behind the ear. Anklets, bracelets, rings of any imagining, all made of wood, of different tones and colours. Most are unpainted, but some have a touch of colour.

Her bare feet are flat against the packed earth as she works on whatever will go on sale next, little carving knife in hand, wood bits to her other side. She doesn't spruik her wares, remaining silent instead, but is quick to make eye contact whenever someone wanderers nearer, as frankly appraising of them as they may be of her work. ]

Comments

Battlements.

[ombranera]

Let me guess: Fereldan?

[ One does not often spit out wine unless it is well and truly awful- and while there are some wonders of Thedas to be found in the country of mud and dogs and bizarre honor rituals; wine? Is not one of them. The low, sensuous rumble of Zevran's voice comes from above and slightly to the left. He does not often have cause to come up quite so high and take the world's measure- but now and again he needs a little clarity.

A little peace.

Or he's keeping an eye out for wandering Crows. Rumors abound of their presence in the surrounding area. He'd rather see them coming. ]

[glandival]

[ Sabine startles just enough to twist around in the direction of a voice, her free hand pressing knuckles to her mouth in what is only a vaguely guilty gesture. No apology, though, in appraising stare up towards the figure the other elf makes on the rooftop.

When her hand drops, her smile is crooked and lacking in sweetness (much like the wine). ]

They exaggerate about it tasting distilled of dog piss, [ she says, her accent marking her as more western reaching than the country of mud and dogs. ] A little.

[ She raises the wineskin, and takes another pull. ]

[ombranera]

[ Oh, how her hair catches the light from the torches littered about. He'd thought her auburn at first blush but that glint of copper, the twist of gold threaded through? Fair and fine and twisting in painful memory. His eyes flicker for a moment but at this distance the glint is much the same for any elf peering out through the darkness. He could lounge and let her be. Save himself some pain.

But he has ever retained an edge of masochism and swings down to land next to her on silent feet.

She is not who he misses, but she is quite lovely and bearing wine. That is enough. ]

Allow me to save you from yourself, mia Fiamma, and offer you something sweeter.

[glandival]

[ She's a perceptive creature, but it's dim, she's caught off-guard, and more inclined to watch for signs of threat (of which there are none) than for subtle details of hidden thought, fleeting behind a stranger's face. Her hands stay clutched around the wineskin even as she thinks about the small knives stowed away in fabric folds.

But she's been in Skyhold a while, now, and no one's tried to kill her yet.

He lands, and her crooked smile becomes close-lipped, but still present. Her dark eyebrows lift, tilting the wineskin in offer. ]

Perhaps if you fed the dogs nothing but honey.

[ Perceptive, but maybe too much for her own good, and terrible at hiding it; her gaze lands immediately on his tattoos, at once curious and guarded, although the wine isn't retracted. ]

[ombranera]

The few mabari I have known never cared for honey, strangely enough.

[ He slings himself into position next to her- a respectable distance between them for the moment. That may yet change. ]

But no, aside from my company I meant this. [ A wineskin of his own, smaller, made of hard, boiled leather, stamped with the vineyard's brand. ] Antivan. Far, far better than what it is you are attempting to force on yourself.

[glandival]

[ Well. Sabine closes her own wineskin, carefully setting it aside so it doesn't go slipping down the rooftop and trapped in guttering. ]

You know, when people sit on a roof, it is usually to be alone, away from companies. Even sweet.

[ Which does not stop her from reaching over to take the flask, whether or not physically offered. Yoink. ]

[ombranera]

You seem like a woman that would tell someone as such if she wished to be left alone. Do so and I shall depart- though I will take my brandy with me.

[ Echos and ghosts and wounds yet healing- the accent helps. The accent helps a great deal- Rinna had been as Antivan as he and her voice rich with the language of their homeland. It isn't kind to compare the two but he is, at the moment, a little surprised.

There aren't many with hair quite this shade, after all.

He gives the flask easily enough, grinning. ]

But I think, perhaps, you might enjoy our mutual company awhile longer. If only to sooth the sting of that wine.

[glandival]

[ The first part only gets the reply of her lifting the flask to her mouth and taking a pull from it, eyeing him sidealong with a hint of mischief. Her mm is judgementally affirmative of the quality of brandy within, and she sniffs it after the fact as she lets the liquid simmer on her tongue before swallowing. ]

Perhaps, [ she agrees, passing back to the wineskin with a companionable enough air that implies she'll be taking it back once he has his helping. A thick braid run through her hair tames it at one side, allowing her narrow elven ear to peek through, while the other is lost in voluminous, wiry curls. ]

But also, perhaps I'm the intruder, or are there many maidens to be found wandering the Skyhold rooftops to share your Antivan brandy?

[ombranera]

[ Drinking from an assassin's flask, now that is brave. Or foolish. Or perhaps she simply does not know him for what he is; that is likely possible as well. He makes no mention other than to take it back and have a slow, warming sip all his own. Whether the sweetness is of the brandy or of her lips? he can't say. ]

In the courtyard? Aplenty. But the battlements and ramparts are somewhere I do not often find such lovely company- nor will I say that I mind it.

[glandival]

[ He drinks too, and maybe it's then that she considers if he ought to have done so first before she chanced it -- but it's just as likely that she does not, and never did, despite having internally coiled in expectation of some physical attack.

She isn't all the way relaxed now, either, but then again, she hardly ever is. ]

It is not where I go to find good brandy, but I have no complaints. You may stay too.

[ombranera]

With so gracious an invitation, how can I say no?

[ Smooth and biting- much like his brandy. He can appreciate that much in an elf- though he does wonder at her being here. Not many city elves have a mind to climb near so high without some sort of training. ]

Where is it you go for brandy, mm? I have not found anywhere in Orlais that quite measures up to my Antivan preferences.

[glandival]

No? [ Immediately skeptical. Defensive on behalf of the Empire, without a lot of conviction behind it considering she is reaching for said Antivan brandy, but you know. ] Have you been all over Orlais? It's very big. And it is known that Val Royeux has the best of everything.

[ Now that's definitely sarcastic. ]

There is a fruit liquor I liked in one house I served. It tastes like a garden, on fire. And when you replace what you take with rose tea, they never noticed.

[ombranera]

I have indeed- it is a marvelous country with lovely women, handsome men, and passable wine. [ but only that, passable. The soil did not quite match what they hoped to make; and the gaudy bottles were all wrong for what they hoped to sell. Alas. ] Val Royeux especially has women, men, and wine I've enjoyed- but Brandy? It is all too sweet, too light. They cannot quite manage to get the proper amount of heat to it.

[ He takes another sip after she passes it back. ]

Mmm, now that sounds fine indeed.

[glandival]

[ She does. Pass it back. After a slight pull away as if she's thinking of keeping it, but isn't slow to shove it into his grasp before the game can turn properly coy. She loops her arms around her knees, not quite relaxed enough in this man's presence to rest her chin on her arms as she might have done on her own. ]

You've travelled a lot, then. But perhaps not so far, to be here. You are Zevran, who fought in Ferelden's Blight?

[ She queries his name and reputation, rather than introducing herself. ]

[ombranera]

And you think I spent the whole of the past decade in Ferelden?

[ He crackles a low laugh, offering the skin back once he has had his share. Oh, that would have been truly awful- a whole decade at Cousland's beck and call should he see fit. Not that he would mind it, Jonas surprised them all at the end but he had ever been a pragmatic and politically driven individual. He could see the reasoning and even respect it- for all that Alistair could not. ]

Ah, no. But that is I, and you are the mysterious and lovely Orlesian elf, injuring herself with Fereldan wine by the name of...?

[glandival]

[ His low laughter gets a slight, prideful headtoss from Sabine, her tolerance for feeling foolish low, but somewhat familiar, and now sweetened with the passing back of the liquor. She presses her mouth into a line and takes it, raising it to drink. Touche, then.

Brandy is sterner stuff than wine, warmer in her blood. She snorts indelicately at mysterious and lovely, taking a second swig before passing it back. ]

Sabine. And your ~Antivan preferences~ appear to be slipping, monsieur, or are they upheld for wine only?

[ombranera]

[ Oh and she has a tongue on her too. Be still, knife that digs into the place where his heart once had been. Seriously, be still, he cannot take the vicious twisting the cut of her smile, the snort of her laugh causes him.

Another lifetime, another lovely elven lass, but he will not linger on the thought. Comparisons are unworthy of him and of her company. ]

My preferences are for those I find lovely and exciting. Orlesian wine is lovely- but not terribly exciting. Orlesian woman however...

[glandival]

--are most valued for being boring. By Orlais, perhaps not Antiva.

[ Sabine hands wander out, long fingers gesticulating. Her nails are cut short. ]

Pretty ornaments in identical masks, always dancing. When they talk, it's dancing, when they eat, it's a dance. Perhaps also when they take a shit, they do so with elegance.

Them, and then there are the women helping those ones into their corsetry.

[ombranera]

Those are Orlesian ladies.

[ An important distinction, one that has Zevran sighing. ]

Common is so imprecise. I am speaking of the women. The women with callouses, that bake the bread, that stoke the fires, that till the land- the women that work and trade and live with what they have built in their own hands, rather than by having it handed to them. Those women.

They are a marvel.

[glandival]

[ Her smile is closed lipped, as if stopping herself from laughing. Maybe it wouldn't come out scornful enough for her liking, but the eye crinkles already give her away, even as she rolls her eyes. No argument, though. ]

I would like to meet those women, [ is as close as she comes. ] My hands did much corset-tying. But, ah.

[ She can't help opportunity to show off, straightening her back as she tips her head to the side, hands going up to fidget with her ear and extract the piece of jewellery she has hooked through. She shows him the spiraling curl of finely carved wood. ]

And now I make arrows every day. These scouts are always losing and breaking them.

[ombranera]

I could say something about the quality of your arrows being the problem- but I have seen the scouts shoot. Past full draw at impossible angles to make an arrow fit for retrieving.

[ He snorts a faint laugh himself, amused by her repressed smile as much as he is interested in the carving. With a deft and careful hand, as one never simply reached out to touch an elf without cause or permission, let alone an Orlesian one, he traced the fine curves of the carving. ]

Marvelous. Perhaps when they learn to loose arrows less you might find time to carve again.

[glandival]

[ Sabine rolls her eyes at Zevran's assessment of the scouts, because, exactly. No one's ever been so out of turn as to blame her, though, which is something she can say for the Inquisition -- it's much easier to be an elf in Skyhold than it is literally anywhere else she's been.

She closes her hand back around the earring after he has had a look, slipping it back into her ear. ]

Perhaps if I make less arrows, they will learn quicker.

[ombranera]

Or perhaps if you charged them a copper a head, they'd take more care. Money makes a scout learn to be less foolish.

[ He takes another sip before offering it back, smirking wickedly. ]

Then you start making less and charge more.