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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"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."

Was. Ah. The somewhat diminished spirit is telling enough, even without that careful selection of words. Mia's mouth opens a moment and then closes, expression drawn. For a moment she says nothing at all, uncertain what can be said.

Then her lips twist together. "Well. Should you fall out of line while you remain in service here, you can trust you'll have a swift reminder. I'll see to that." One eyebrow crooked higher, and another drink of brandy was had.

"And I shall be grateful for your thoughtful minding, Bella." It is easier to trickle back to the flirting with such a lovely expression of arch sarcasm turned upon him- Zevran grins and leans an elbow onto the bar, smirking at Mia. "Tell me- are you wed?"

Well, the smarmy looks are a vast improvement to that threat of melancholy. Imagine that. He'd found a reason for her endure. Clever boy, after all.

There's a short scoffing noise at the query. "I am not. Certainly that must diminish your notion of a challenge," she counters dryly.

"Not in the slightest. It simply means you have exacting standards." And those are more often than not a greater challenge than a husband.

"Is that what it means? And I had imagined it was lack of desire for a husband or unsuitability that rendered me a spinster." Her tongue clucks faintly. But it's clear she's less annoyed than amused with this line of questioning.

"I have yet to find anything unsuitable in you, bella. Whoever says such things is either blind or mistaken." He lifts her glass to her in a lazy salute.

"Flatterer."

Mia scoffs lightly. "I know my vices as well as I know my virtues, and I'd be ill-suited to married life. Romantic affairs in general, if we're being completely frank here. Which we may as well be," she adds, with a glance at her brandy. "Damn waste, if not."

"Affairs of passion, then? If not affairs of romance. Surely a woman such as yourself has found herself no lack of admirers and suitors." Common, yes, but kind. Striking. Stern. Compassionate. Things one did not often find in free women- let alone those quite so well settled in their own skin.

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