faderift | and there's a glass on the table, they say it's gonna ease all my pain

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and there's a glass on the table, they say it's gonna ease all my pain

WHO: Mia Rutherford and OPEN
WHAT: She spends a lot of time taking care of everyone else. She needs a drink or five to unwind before getting back to it.
WHEN: Current
WHERE: Herald's Rest
NOTES: Alcohol? Bad decisions?

She's not proud of herself for this. But there are breaking points, and she's nearing one, and it's better to deal with them pre-emptively than not, and have a fuss be made later. There are things that are completely out of her control, Maker knows, and she needs to make her peace with them.

Wine helps. So does the ambiance of the tavern, even if she sits alone. There's a homesickness that claws at her, though she refuses to let it take root too deeply. There's work to be done here, after all--

No. No work tonight. Just...relax. Listen to the music and the noise and the banter and try to let it go.

Easier said than done, but she'll muddle through it. Stubbornness is a Rutherford family trait, apparently.

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"I live to serve, bella. Perhaps a song might help you smile? Something of home- I know quite a few Fereldan tunes." That can do wonders for someone that is homesick- and everyone is at least a little homesick. Skyhold is far from home for most, even those that are not from other worlds. Compared to the mountain and the chill Antiva feels so terribly distant. Fereldan weather this may be; but it lacks the charm of the lowlands.

The weather is not so different from that of Honnleath, it's true, but she is not keen for the reminder. It's too difficult to recall the simpler times without recalling too how it all ended. The years have changed them all, and too many memories have turned bittersweet with the passing.

Some of the edge leaves her voice with a sigh. "That's kind of you, but no. Perhaps there are others here who would appreciate being serenaded, but I fear you would find a poor audience in me."

"There must be something I might do- a lovely woman such as yourself should not look so stern and somber. You should be well pleased at all hours. I must wonder if someone or something has failed you in some way to see you quite so weary." He taps the bar and two glasses are slid his way- empty.

"A drink, then? Fine Antivan brandy. If nothing else this will warm you somewhat; make the world seem less dim."

"I have a drink."

Though it is woefully close to empty, she's not about to admit as much. The empty glasses are given a look of suspicion, and little of it leaves her gaze when she glances back up at Zevran.

"You're persistent. Some might find that charming. But as I have already told you, I'm hardly in need of rescuing."

"And it is almost finished, Trust me, this is far better and will soothe your ire well enough. Or at least make whatever vexes you aside from my very fine self more bearable." He sets the teardrop shaped bottle on the counter, the golden liquid within glimmering in the light.

"How fortunate that I am making no attempt to rescue you."

At least he knows he's being vexing. Likely doing so on purpose, in an effort to wear her down. Has that ever worked, she wonders? Women must find it completely insufferable. She certainly does.

"I know what you're doing," she replies tartly, though her gaze flickers briefly to the bottle. She knows what he's about. Surely that makes it safer than it would otherwise. Her lips thin briefly.

"One drink. And the understanding that it goes no further than that."

"Offering a drink?" The most innocent expression in all of Thedas is turned upon her. "I would not dare presume tread where I am unwanted. All I wish is to bring some small joy to a woman that seems in need of it and in high command of herself and those around her."

He pours a measure into each glass, pocketing it afterward.

"One drink. That is all I ask."

And it would be unreasonable to send him away, wouldn't it? That's what's so infuriating about the entire situation, and for a moment her hand lifts, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. The kicked puppy look isn't helping matters.

"...very well. One drink," she utters, in a tone of resignation.

"Just the one." He lifts his to her in a warm salute. "This is sipping Brandy as well, I would recommend you take it slow."

One drink will be all he needs to have her name, and perhaps some shred of her regard. Or a stolen kiss. Or a thoroughly vexed woman.

It's distilled from wine, she knows to be careful with it, and the warning gets him a hard-eyed look before she too raises her glass. It's only polite. He did provide it, after all.

There's a small, measured sip, and she knows one glass is likely all she'll need. Maker, what was the intent of this in the first place? She hadn't meant to cause a scene. Word getting back to Cullen was the last thing she needed.

The glass lowered, her expression slowly falling with it.

Now that isn't the point of the drink at all- but he does not wish to trouble her by being quite so forward after her first sip. It's taken enough badgering to have her attempt and accept it after all. He remains quiet a moment, a warm companion at her elbow, offering nothing.

After a sip of his own, he murmurs with rather surprising seriousness: "You remind me a bit of an old friend who also cared a great deal for good wine and more...proper company."

It's enough to drag her back from the edge of melancholy, thankfully. Her nose wrinkles faintly as she looks at Zevran, unsure how to take this sudden sincerity from him.

"Do I now?" But it's not accusatory. There is some curiosity there. "How patient they must have been with you."

"Oh, she was not patient at all; more spurred by the hope that I may learn remorse and guilt and become a better person for it." He sighs softly, sipping his brandy. "How I do miss her lecturing."

"Not enough to heed her, I'd gather," Mia replies dryly, taking another small sip of the brandy and eyeing him over the edge of the glass. "Or perhaps you simply need someone else to take you by the ear when you've taken things a step too far."

"Goodness, no. But she did try and for that I must admire her." He props an elbow on the bar, rests his chin against his fist and smiles at her- a softer, kinder thing than his earlier swaggering gestures. "I am certain you would be more than able to do so were you of a mind."

"I'm quite practiced at it. It comes as habit by now."

Though perhaps that wouldn't be necessary after all. The swagger must have been an act, though Maker knew what he hoped to achieve from it. Puzzling it over did give her something of a reprieve from her sour mood, however. "How did you meet her?" she prompted after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Well...I failed to kill her and the group she was traveling with. The took mercy on me and granted me freedom of a sort. Ah, the oldest story in the book, yes?" He smiles so fondly to think on it; how Wynne had stunned him with her magic before he'd been knocked out entirely.

For a moment, she's not sure if he's been serious or having her on. It's so hard to tell, and the drink isn't helping. "You were trying to kill her," she reiterates, both brows raised.

"I think you might have to elaborate on this story. In detail."

"I was commissioned by Lord Howe and Loghain to kill the remaining Grey Wardens in Fereldan and as she was a member of their traveling party, her as well. Alas, I did not manage to do so- but I earned my freedom by assisting them." It had made for an interesting conversation, staring up from the mud to them.

It made for an interesting conversation now, Mia's eyes growing quietly rounder. "Teyrn Loghain...hired you to kill the Hero of Ferelden?" She sounded as though she didn't quite know whether to believe it or not. And yet Zevran spoke of it so causally. The man was likely a skilled liar, but...

"And they simply let you accompany them as one of their companions after that? Quite the vote of compassion."

"Well he is Warden Logain now; but yes." He shrugs. It is what it is. "At the behest of Howe to better secure his position or something to that extent. Civil wars are such complicated messes. Jonas chose to make use of me rather than kill me or leave me for the Crows to kill themselves. I cannot say that I am disappointed."

"No, I don't suppose you would be. It all turned out very well for you, considering."

But something else there had caught her attention. 'Crows', he said. Suddenly she sat a little straighter, though not out of fear so much as sudden realization striking down hard. "Maker's breath. You're one of them. The Antivan Crows."

Though apparently no longer, and happy to work with the Inquisition.

With a deep breath, Mia took another, deeper drink of her brandy.

"Was a Crow, a decade ago. Now I am my own elf, as it were." He smiled, all warmth and exuberant innocence. "I helped them in their quest to save Fereldan and made my way back to Antiva to earn my place. I have been traveling Thedas in the interim but often I would write my marvelous, sensible lady."

"I didn't realize that was a vocation one could retire from, at least not from the stories one hears."

It felt too fantastic not to be true, but there was something too romantic about the tale for her to fully trust. That skepticism and caution was slow to leave, particularly in the mood she was in, but she was at least listening. With interest, even.

"Though that would be a rather large step towards respectability. I suspect she's pleased with that, at least?"

"Well- I am no longer a Crow, but I am still an assassin. I simply choose my targets and contracts on my own rather than at their behest. Of Course the Crows wish me dead but that is another story entirely." Shrugging, he returns to his brandy with a light sip, some of the earlier joy dimming a bit. "She was, while she yet remained- though she never tired of attempting to corral me to a nobler cause. Here I am now putting my skills to the Inquisition's use. I wonder sometimes if that would not have been enough."

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