faderift | 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.'"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Or perhaps she is caught up elsewhere- I could not say. Assumptions are that, assumptions. No one I know has seen or heard anything just yet." Normally not one to stumble over himself- the way Merril's face fell? Had him rushing to say something, anything, to bring that light back.

Why he felt compelled to do so he couldn't quite say. Something about disappointment not settling well in his stomach.

"Until we know more- here is likely the place to be. And with the world as it is? I am certain she would find her way here in time." Hope was not something he put stock in. Not at all. But- perhaps there are those that needed it.

"I- me- that is not ME I was in a cart with turnips! You are smelling the turnips."

"Oho, I know what I'm smelling, don't argue with the nose of a Dalish. Plenty of time spent in the outdoors and that's travel stink. C'mon, then. Follow me, I'll show you." Even if she had arrived with some Dalish who she knew, she had felt more isolated from them than close. Mainly on account of what had happened with her clan. Never again, she thought-- so she'd avoid them on principle.

Even if it was silly. Sort of.

She turned toward the kitchens, also a good place to know where it was. She might even be able to give him a guided tour of the place.

After a bath, of course.

"...There weren't any taverns with baths for elves the last leg of the trip." Humans and their stupid prejudices. At least he hadn't had to sleep in the stables.

When a pretty Dalish asked you to follow? You followed. He needed to oil his hair and check the ink in the skin around his wounds anyway. Better to get that done quickly.

"Lead away, Merrill."

The pause that followed his initial statement was poignant. She should have known better-- Zevran did seem like the sort to look after his looks. And she had probably offended him. She bit her lip and tapped her fingers against the linens in a nervous gesture while she thought.

"Sorry, that makes sense. But at least the humans here, they've been alright. Shouldn't bother you, and if they do, the ones in charge tend to set things right."

She offered a smile, then realized she'd forgotten about leading him to the baths. "Ah! This way."

"They have seemed quite pleasant enough." No one has troubled him overmuch about- well. Being an elf just yet. And if Merrill considers them polite? They are probably at the very least tolerable.

To the baths, then.

"I shall have to oil my hair. It's been too long since I last did that treatment and I am going to need to do it more often in this mountain air."

"I'm surprised, to be perfectly honest," she spoke over her shoulder toward him. "There are a lot of humans in charge but they take great efforts to carry on the Inquisitor's work." Sad she never met the Inquisitor, but it sounded like their legacy would carry on. She slowed a little and offered Zevran one of the smaller rags she carried. "You'll need this."

Up the stairs to the side and through the kitchens, they had every luxury of a city in this fortress in the mountains. Even if the mountain air brought back some sad memories, she had to agree it was more pleasant than the dank wet chill of Ferelden itself. The waterfalls nearby offered enough water to be collected and heated near the burners, and she led him there.

"Oil your hair?" she tilted her head and gave him a quizzical expression. "But isn't that-- I mean, if it's oily it looks limp, doesn't it? I thought you were more..." she looked for the right words but couldn't find them. "Y'know, more aware of your prettiness?"

"Mm? Thank you." Ah, the abrasive cloths. He would rather the abrasive soaps and stones of Antiva but alas, it was not to be. This would have to do. More often than not such things are used for cleaning blades of gore rather than skin.

There might be a perverse poetry in him using it on himself. If he had much a mind for poetry of that sort.

"Conceited? Narcissistic? Vain?" Not said unkindly- being accused of vanity- well. He was vain. Why lie? "You rinse the oil out afterward, Merrill. First you heat it, then you massage it along your scalp and hair and let it sit for a quarter of an hour, then you rinse it. Behold. Hair softer than the finest orelsian silks."

"Y'might also want to wash off your clothes while you're at it. No sense in putting back on filth." She hadn't even thought to inspect if he had a pack or clean clothes for that matter. She'll have to fetch him some loose clothes in the meantime. She was also shirking her duties for the moment but Hawke had helped this man in the past-- she couldn't be inhospitable. It wouldn't be right.

"No, I don't mean it to be a negative sort of... the meaning is a bit-- you care about how you look because it makes you more presentable." She set down her sheets and turned to him with her hands moving in an attempt to explain. She stopped short after a moment and tilted her head a little, curiosity piqued.

"Like how Isabela's hair is so nice all the time? Well, most of the time."

"I have spares in my pack, thank the Maker." While it had been some time since he'd last been able to bathe properly, there had been streams enough on the road north to wash out bloodstains and the grime of travel.

"You mean I know I am pretty and wish to remain as pretty as possible so everyone else might have something lovely to look at?" He crackles a laugh. "Ah, well. Next to you, dear Merrill, I am not the prettiest party to be admired."

All in good humor, all good things. "Well where is it you think I learned such a trick?"

"Flatterer," she grinned and rolled her eyes, but it was a very Zevran type of thing to do. She'd only met him very briefly, but he was a difficult personality to forget. Turning toward the supplies pantry, she sorted through all the various bottles and medicines that were stored there. Spices to keep the linens smelling nice, some wooden blocks to keep them dry in the damp, and there was the cleaning soaps placed in a glass container. She stood on tiptoe to reach and held it out for Zevran to take before tidying the space somewhat and looking back to him.

"So tell me," she hesitated a moment and there was definitely something on her mind. She tapped her lower lip with her index finger, lips pressed together before she asked. "What's so important about the placement of cucumbers? Is it an Antivan custom? And why's it funny?"

Ah, lye soap with animal fat. The stinging tingle of Fereldan made goods. He would sigh but it was better than nothing. This close to actually being clean and not at all above showing off he began unbuckling his armor and removing his boots, walking to the hot water. Of course, then, she asked that and-

"My dear Merrill- A joke is no longer funny if I have to explain it. Also when you are hungry you put the cucumber in your mouth. When you are...hungry in another way, you put it somewhere else entirely."

"But if I don't understand it, isn't it still not funny?" her head tipped slightly, brows knitting together to think. Briefly averting her eyes she considered the source.

Her eyes widened and she shot Zevran a look-- dawning realization in her eyes before her cheeks tinged a little. Maybe she was understanding or maybe she thought she was, but she puffed out her cheeks and sighed through her nose.

"Fenedhis lasa, I'll never be able to look at one the same again." she muttered as she dashed off.

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

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