faderift | But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more!

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But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more!

WHO: Zevran and any on the road!
WHAT: Walking, drinking, dancing, dirty songs and poetry while hiking to Skyhold. Perhaps a stop in a tavern or two along the way.
WHEN: The course of several days on the road.
WHERE: The Road to Skyhold, Skyhold itself
NOTES: ~~Zev is a walking content warning~~ coarse language, innuendo, drinking

Strange how after a solid year of hiking over hill and dale, through Imperial Highways and muddy side tracks he'd sworn to never do so again no matter the company or the cause. And yet here was Zevran yet again on foot (an elf with a horse attracted too much attention in the area) walking the long way to Skyhold with the odd thumb out for any passing caravan- provided they were not bandits. Company he did not mind. Burglary? Less so. From what little he'd heard of the events at Haven and his concern for a country that had been, for all to brief a time, a home of sorts, Zevran made his merry way along the road to this fortress rumored to be the best option for a strategic regroup. Perhaps he would meet someone familiar, perhaps he might offer his services.

The options were many. As were the songs that he would use to amuse himself, strumming a worn, well sanded lute while he walked. Now and then snatches of Antivan would curl through the air, lilting and easy and- to anyone that understood? Absolutely filthy.

"Le mie gambe sono avvolte intorno a voi collo,
Il tuo cazzo nella mia strada, spinte e agitare!
Ero a letto , ma ora sono in questo petto .
Cosa stai mi dà grande piacere!"

So on and so forth from one tavern to the next on the long trek, if coaxed and if it would see him fed or paid, he would play a few of the softer, more romantic tunes he knew. But for the most part? Smut. Quite a bit of smut. It wasn't as though anyone truly understood him all that often.

His actual arrival was a little less Merry, he had to give one thing to wandering bandits. When they coordinate well enough for a solid ambush and attack en masse? It wasn't the simplest fight to handle alone. Escaping unscathed wasn't entirely possible but he had managed to find a group of either merchants or refugees or a mix of both, he wasn't all that certain, to walk with for the last streatch. One even deigned to allow him to ride the last leg in- provided he rode on the back of the cart and entertained them. As such Zevran's arrival was marked with his voice crackling out past laughter.

"'But yes, she asks, what is the difference?' and I tell her-

'The difference is in where you put the cucumber.'"

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Maxwell thought it was a cute touch, surprise turning into a bright grin.

"I don't believe it," he replied, shaking his head. How often had he heard the tales? The people in them built into legend... and then to meet one, in the flesh, in a run down tavern in the middle of nowhere. "How did you end up here?"

"I have been told I'm unbelievable, yes." Often with exasperation but- semantics. "Well...after the Blight ended and all the revelry had come and gone I returned to my native Antiva- tell me, how much do you know of my particular predicament? I am never sure what the stories get right."

Maxwell folded his arms, head kicking back slightly as he looked at Zevran and tried to recall up what he'd heard.

"You... were an assassin, yes? And the Warden was your target? ...But you ended up joining him instead and helping him save the world."

It sounded ridiculous to say it aloud. It had happened, he knew it had, but to say it the man who had done it... Mind boggling. He didn't know whether to laugh or blush.

"Ah, that is the truth. I was hired to kill the remaining Grey Wardens and failed to do so. They showed me mercy and I joined their merry band; but unfortunately to fail the Crows is to die. They do not have much of a retirement package. And while we bought time with the Blight- they knew I yet lived and were none too pleased." Dramatic chord! "In order to keep myself alive and well I did a little preemptive murdering of my own- namely the Masters of House Arainai, the branch of the Crows that I was a part of. With them less worried about my wandering around unkilled, I was able to continue to ply my trade where I saw fit. Then...word got around I was still alive, I had to go find who was stirring up trouble, rinse, repeat."

"Sounds exhausting," Maxwell replied, mouth twitching lightly. The words every bit the understatement they sounded like. "And now? The Inquisition is... a large group, growing in power. Easy to hide in and behind-- not to mention the one's trying to save the world this time."

"It can be; but they keep me on my toes. Besides. They should be thanking me- if they were worth their reputation? I'd be dead already." Terribly bad for business, was Zevran. So sad. "They want to set this right. I happen to like the world without demons and war and strange tears in the sky. It's where I live and keep my things after all. Besides. There is no danger of my dying for I am not to be the hero of this story. More the secretive and seductive consort to said heroes."

He did laugh then, a low pleasant rumbling, arms shaking slightly against his chest.

"A role I'm certain you'll full admirably. If your performance earlier was anything to by."

"Performance? My friend I assure you all sultry gazes were meant in all seriousness." Well not at first but- it is important to make his new acquaintance/target/comrade feel special. "You are a handsome man with a romantic soul. That is incredibly alluring."

And there was the blush again, a handsome darkening along the collar of his coat. Even he was sure that was at least part performance too.

Earnest performance, but performance never the less.

(He remembered those parts of the story too.)

"Alas," he said slowly, clearing his throat gently. "I'm not the hero either. I'll be a number in a history book if I'm anything."

That was a good look for him. As carefully as he tended to tread around Humans he had to admit- there was this allure. Perhaps it is the coy, romantic soul that calls to him. Perhaps the very fine jawline. Or the skin that flushed so prettily.

Perhaps all.

"It is not so terrible a thing to be a footnote in history. You get the perks with less of the risks, providing you with the opportunity to pick and choose which risks you find are worth taking."

A breath pushed through his nose: not quite a snort, not exactly a sigh. He understood risk. The bag beside him, the bow and quiver resting on top, were all he had left in the world, because he'd decided to come here.

He understood risk very well.

"Making it this far, being here, is already a fair reward," he replied.

His parents certainly wouldn't have expected him to make it... and part of him had wondered too.

"I just want to help."

"I feel there is a story here. You know mine- permit me to know yours in turn?" So dour an expression did not belong on so handsome a face. Speaking of it, well, it may not bring back the smile or the blush but it might offer some catharsis. Such was how these things went to Zevrans knowledge.

"Or, perhaps, I might continue to flirt with you outrageously in hopes of earning your favor, and your name?"

"It's nothing nearly as exciting, I'm afraid," he said with a small shake of his head. "My family and I are-- divided over the Inquisition and the merit of is actions. They didn't wish me to leave. I did."

He toyed with his mug for moment, turning it around by the handle, then caught himself and stopped.

"The Treveans, of Ostwick. My name is Maxwell."

"My, my, we are far from home, aren't we?" A human noble, he suspected as much. Fine breeding was obvious in Max's face and bearing- but of that particular household? He would not have guessed. Aside from a mental note to tread lightly as he ever did when faced with men of certain societal circles, Zevran's demeanor did not change.

They were but two fools on the road to danger. Nothing more.

In an effort to lighten the mood he turned the tune to something that may be more familiar for Max, music of his homeland. Perhaps. He never could quite tell what was popular in what area.

It wasn't a tune he'd heard in some time, not since he was much younger, but he did recognize it. And he did relax some, some of the tension easing from his broad shoulders.

"The Inquisition seems worth the effort," he replied. "They sealed the Breach, no one else was even trying. And they lost so much, just for trying to save us all. Any small help I can offer, I'm happy to."

"...Are you absolutely certain you do not have a little hero in you, Max?" It sounded much like he did- of course his brain slipped from point A to point B in short order, combined with a desire to hear that laugh and that smile, an innate habit to please humans so they would not turn their tempers upon him? It was too much for him to resist.

"If not- would you like to?" Combined with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows- all teasing.

Zevran got his wish, another laugh rumbling up, another handsome smile flashing.

"Incorrigible, aren't you?" he teased.

Not that he couldn't deny considering it. It was a long trip, and a lonely one - in fact, he'd never been more aware of alone he was. ...But that perhaps was the more reason to politely decline.

"Maybe another time," he said as pleasantly as he could, hoping not to offend. "I don't think I'd be of much use to anyone just now, as wearying as this journey as been."

"So I have been told." By more than one. But the laugh was worth playing the fool and, perhaps, it would pay to continue to play the part. It was not at all connected to a bone deep need to make certain he is either of use and pleasing while doing so or completely invisible. As it was, being invisible wouldn't be an option.

Pleasing and useful would have to do.

"Oh? If you are aching from your travels, perhaps an Antivan massage might be in order?" Strum strum, finger pick, strum. "Only a massage, you have my word."

It was tempting. And something told him he could take Zevran at his word, once it was given, but sadly, he wasn't sure his own would hold.

And he wanted like to Zevran. Could already see himself doing so. He didn't want to get the man tangled in the disquiet he'd feel after. It would taint everything after.

And he always preferred friends, to short-lived pleasure.

"Thank you for the offer, but I feel it wise to decline. A good night's rest will likely do." He smiled crookedly, hoping Zevran wouldn't take it personally. "Besides, I wouldn't want to pull you away from your adoring audience."

"Once again I am rejected." He winced, all comic exaggeration, the tune of his lute turned to the most soulful, sorrowful chords he knew. "However shall I find it in me to play with this broken heart? All my dreams lay as shards among..."

Strum strum, if he was given a moment he would find the right word.

Brasca.
"Among..." Well this was embarrassing wasn't it?

"...Hm. What rhymes with heart and sounds appropriately shattered and maudlin?"

Maxwell's smile relaxed, pleased that it could be laughed off.

"Hart with heart seems a bit unfair..." he offered with a small shrug of his shoulders. "Depart?"

So he wasn't a world class poet, but he tried.

"All my dreams lay in shards as you depart, ah there we are." The appropriate chords were strummed to round off the phrase neatly. "Poetry seems so much more harsh in the trade tongue. Then again I tend to find Orelsian too...stuffy? No, that is not the word. I feel as though when attempting to speak it I am being strangled by a very fine scarf whilst attempting to swallow an overripe cheese. Does that make sense?"

"Vividly. I've never been myself, but I have an aunt--" He broke off with a soft laugh. "Well, let's just say it's familiar."

His meal finished and his mug of ale empty, he settled back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table. Getting comfortable. Sleep would come before long, but a little company yet would be nice.

"You could have carried on in Antivan, I wouldn't have known any better." And it was quite lovely to listen to.

"I suppose I might have, but switching languages in the middle of a song always seems a bit unfair to me." Beginning a whole new song? Now that he could and would do quite happily.

Away from sad, maudlin, melodramatic chords and back to the softer, sweeter ones. Max had expressed an appreciation for the more romantic ones he knew and Zevran was happy to oblige. "Your second lesson in Antivan, then. 'Amo', it means love. Like before, the rest I shall lave to your imagination.-

'Ti amo uomo,
Mi piace la tua storia ,
Amo la vita ,
La vostra pace e di amore ,
Mi piace vederti sorridere ,
La vostra abitudine di toccare i tuoi capelli ,
il vostro nervosismo quando io bacio il collo .
ti amo uomo
Mi piace la tua anima
Amo i tuoi occhi,
La vostra gioia e calore
Mi piace vedere ridere ,
La vostra abitudine di arrossire così dolcemente ,
il tuo sorriso timido quando sto flirtando."

And he could imagine. The words warm and sweet, painting gentle imagines in his head even if he didn't know what they meant.

Love and affection and true feeling -- all those things he'd learned to stop expecting, but still yearned for.

Someday. Maybe.

Leaning back, settling down, he could listen for hours more.

[OOC: Wrapping up?]

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But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more!

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