faderift | [ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

Entry tags:

[ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Zevran Aranai's School for Rogues Who Can't Sneak Good and Want to Do Other Stuff Good Too.
WHEN: Wintermarch, all month
WHERE: Skyhold: Courtyard, Stables, Rookery, Battlements, etc
NOTES: Sass, Stealth, and Violence

He had mulled over the notion for a few weeks now; watching the soldiers take themselves to task, the warriors practicing as best they could; the mages training in their spells and thought- aside from combat (and even then there were tricks soldiers did not always think to teach) how was a rascal, a scoundrel, a rogue to learn more tricks? A well trained operation of any sort had well trained members of all sorts; the bruisers, the wizards, the rogues. Perhaps it was high time someone did something for the sneakier sorts.

[ Courtyard ]

Every lesson starts the same- a quick lap around the courtyard as fast as possible, vaulting over people and structures, running along the wall, making use of all the same skills that kept him alive all those years in Antiva City. For those that did not know them? The tricks came as a brief primer after the lap was finished- even a brief demonstration is offered. Afterward he runs them through a few training locks set into empty chests, some of the them wound with ringing alarms for the sake of practice. Trip the wrong tumbler? Off goes the alarm. After that it's stealth and pickpocketing. Sneaking about through a field of tripwires connected to more ringing bells and powder packets, a veritable labyrinth. Any bells go off, any powder on your person? You go through again. One of the training dummies has been re-purposed with bells and pouches on it- each pouch has a bell attached. They're timed and told to get as many as possible without ringing any bells. Ring a bell? Run a lap.

[ Stables ]

Here there is room enough for him to demonstrate proper trap production and dismantling. Every wound spring, every steel mechanism. They start with the basic bladed traps- though none of the blades are sharpened and none of the powder explosions hold more than dye. Once they've made traps that are...decent or satisfactory, Zevran walks them through detection and dismantling. Some of the practice traps have trick springs and triggers- if set off they'll be dusted with powder instead of losing their fingers. Later he goes through a list of common poisons and venoms to create and how to build up a tolerance for them. He does not provide them with samples this early on.

[ Battlements ]

Rappelling and dueling and improvisational combat and you! Here Zevran shows them how to climb, how to fall, how to make their own ropes when they've none of their own, how to throw a rappel to make it stay, how to haul it down, and how to dual wield on uneven ground. Demonstrations with Isabela and sparring with whoever wishes to take their turn happens throughout the day as requested; Zevran also covers grappling, breaking holds, and how to fight dirty. An honorable rogue is a dead rogue after all.

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"I've thought of better than telling people I'm royalty." His voice is tense, posture tense as well. Zevran's hands are empty and he's not attacking, not calling for attention, but that doesn't exactly mean anything yet.

"And it's a common name in the Anderfels. I look like I'm from there, never mind the fact that I actually am. It was meant to be... common." Anders crosses his arms a little defensively. Zevran's the second to call the name into question, and when the other was Varric Anders has to worry about maybe having chosen very poorly. It's too late to change it now.

"People know me as Detlef now. I can't simply go with another." He pauses, then, really looking at the elf. That had been helpful advice. You don't give helpful advice to someone you want to bring in. "But I could stand to learn a few things. You offered lessons, on a note. Would you teach anyone?"

Would he teach Anders?

"Yes, but you sound Fereldan." But if that is how he has been calling himself there is no recourse. An Ander with a Fereldan Accent named Detlef.

He has worked with worse. Not all that often, but. He has. They can likely make it work.

"You haven't changed your mode of dress all that much either, nor have you attempted to color your hair. How hard are you truly trying to be someone else, my friend?" Still he can't change that now. He's been seen, been known, and likely made a few associates in the mean time. It'll simply make moving forward more difficult. "Come here, let me see your hands."

He does sound Fereldan and it bothers him sometimes, but it's one of the smaller things that bother him, all told. What matters far more is that Zevran has just called him friend and is seemingly trying to help. It could be a trick, but frankly, he knows just enough about the Crow to figure he doesn't need tricks.

Anders holds out his hands.

"I've never been good at disguises." He'd escaped the Circle so many times, been recaptured every single one of those. Only a Darkspawn attack and conscription had saved him. "A mage wearing robes isn't unusual, at least, and I'm not pulling my hair back anymore." He misses the ponytail. It's another remnant of who he is that's had to be discarded, like the feathered capelet he'd adored and fancy staves.

"I never would have guessed." Zevran's voice could not be more dry, but he will work with what he has available- which with Anders? Is not much. Mages do not make good rogues for a reason. "Remind me to give you oil for your hair before you leave. Seriously, conditioning, has no one in the south heard of it? It pains me to look at your ends."

A deep, horrible aesthetic pain. Eyes faintly narrowed Zevran takes Anders' hands by the wrists (gently) and turns them over to examine his palms and the pads of his fingers. Soft like most healers, no scarring from blood magic. (yes that is what he is checking for, no he is not going to make a thing of it). "I cannot make a duelist of you, nor an assassin. But I can show you how to move without being seen, how to pick locks, and how to lie convincingly. You call yourself Detlef and your thumbs twitch, as though you expect some sort of lashing. Say it. Mean it. You are Detlef, a simple Spirit Healer from..."

Oil for his hair. Maker, he'd like to look good again, but the time it takes to shave precisely, and trim and oil his hair, and shine boots, and so on and so forth, is all time Justice feels misspent. When there are so many things the spirit doesn't approve of, Anders has to concede some battles for the sake of a little breathing room.

Instead of focusing on that, Anders watches Zevran look his hands over. The words get a frown. Yes, those are the lessons he wants, but the fact that he flinches as if still expecting to be hurt is something he doesn't like. He takes a breath.

"I am Detlef, a simple Spirit Healer from Laysh." He'd been telling people he was called Detlef since he got here, a simple misdirection. Saying that's who he is happens to be far more of a lie, but he wants to survive. He wants to see a future where people like him won't need to become him simply to see one more day, and so he tries to put conviction into his words. "I'm Detlef, from Laysh."

It's the safest location to lie about. His village had been small, but Laysh was large and he'd been there, twice, to assist with selling some of the better stock their farm had produced. No doubt many mages had been taken from Laysh, while the last one taken from his village had been at least a decade previous.

"In fact...when we are done here? I am taking you down to the hotsprings to shave. A haggard man is a suspicious man. You are somewhere relatively safe; for all that you have much to hide? You need to act as though you do not. Shave, trim, oil." A beat as he sits back to give Anders clothes a good, long, mournful look. "...and I will see what I can do about the rest. You are making a new life for yourself, you ought to be hopeful, optimistic. Attempting to put down roots."

For all they both know neither of them will remain for terribly long- Anders with more reason than Zevran, it is worth making the attempt to appear as though they mean to stay. That they are making this place their home.

"...Finding you someone to feed you properly will be your task; I only cook for one other person unless I am in the middle of a seduction and as much as you need a thorough ravishing you seem a little unsettled- with good cause." He squeezes Anders' hands gently before dropping his own away. "The best lies are the ones you do not need to tell yourself. You give details enough in how yous stand, how you speak and act for those around you to draw their own conclusions. 'Ah, he is an Ander but he speaks like he is Fereldan, he must have been taken to Kinoch Hold, that is why he twitches around the templars so', and so on. It is in the details."

He can't argue that reasoning. Rather, he has no desire to, and Justice can't. They need to strengthen their cover and Anders wants an excuse to pamper himself for once. A shave, a trim, and oil for his hair are all small things in the grand scale of matters. They can afford the time.

The look on his face turns a little grateful and less tense, and the ravishing comment gets a tiny upward quirk of his lips. It's been so long... but he needs to not get distracted. And who could he even truly saddle with himself, anyway? The greatest reason for working harder at fitting in is how many people actually care about him and his desire to not bring them down.

"There's someone who is likely to be willing to feed me, so long as I don't forget to eat." Adelaide is kind, and he hates that he'll end up hurting her. He'll end up hurting so many, but there aren't any options. Not with Justice being as intent as he is. Which is part of the reason he's not likely to be ravished anytime soon.

"Though if you ever find me looking unsettled enough..." Zevran won't, and that's fine. He's used to it. "I suppose I'll have to stop twitching to look more settled. But the truth of things is close enough to what I want to convey. We cannot go back to the system of mages being under Templar boots. And I cannot go back to being locked up. If that's what they read, good. ...But I could use the lessons, particularly in lockpicking, to be sure."

"Well...let me shave you and trim you and see what is under that scruff, mm? Then we can consider the ravishing. It'll do you some good." And as much as Zevran can make a diversion of himself- he is no great distraction in the longterm. A night or so whenever Anders has a need is nothing among friends. It is a comfort he might find with himself- or with Isabela easily enough. "Though- we will have to find somewhere else for it. Fenris rooms just across the hall from me and I do not think you wish to run into him. There will be glowing and swearing and blood and I just got the tiles of the hall cleaned. It would be exhausting to have to do so again."

For that and for that alone- or so shall go his story. His own vested interest in not being strangled or stabbed for keeping this quiet, well. Fenris' trust in him will take a hit. But the Inquisition cannot afford the spilled blood that such a truth will cost them.

Much as he has wished to see anything come to fruition- the Inquisition is important; if not to him personally but to those that would help him save those he cares for.

"Yes, yes, it is all very sad and everyone is working very hard in their respective corners to self govern. If you truly wish to have an ear on what is happening to that effect- find the members of the Mage Council. Though- not Vivienne. She's a loyalist. I do not imagine that conversation would go well. She is observant and wily and while I am uncertain as to whether or not she might know you for looking at you? She plays the game well. Keep your distance."

"Which part will do the most good?" It's more a light tease than anything. Anders expects nothing more than what Zevran is openly offering. He's a wanted fugitive with more baggage than the elf even knows - a one night stand might be more trouble than it's worth to Zevran. Or anyone else, really. "And I'll be kind and not ask what you cleaned up from the hall."

Knowing where Fenris' room helps Anders a great deal, though. He's done his best to avoid the guy since arriving. Having a clue as to where he spends time helps prolong the inevitable run-in.

"Funny. A man who was insistent that mages don't suffer much at all suggested I go talk with her." He's heard enough to know that he's safer avoiding her as well. One good argument with a loyalist and he could very well start glowing. That's not something he wants to do, especially when with an observant mage. "Loyalists and the ignorant are the stupid leading the blind, and it makes all of them happy."

He takes a breath. Better to focus on moving forward rather than people who would send them backward. "Shall we start? From what I've seen, you stick something in a lock and wiggle it around until suddenly it's open, and I doubt it's that simple."

"The ravishing." He replies without missing a beat. "If ever there was a man in Thedas in need of a good fellating, it is you."

Anders- for all that he is attempting to hide and Zevran is attempting to help him, cannot exactly join the usual crowds that he has been tending to. The opportunity to be seen, to be questioned? To be noticed? Not all that helpful. Private lessons will have to be the way.

Not that he minds it. Anders is not the worst company he's kept- and that is saying something.

"There is more to it than that, much like there is more to lovemaking than sticking your dick in someone and wiggling it about in hopes of pleasuring your partner. It takes patience, finesse, and a bit of feeling around to make sure you are hitting all the right spots." He pulls a practice lock from behind him.

Anders blinks, a little surprised by the answer, but maybe he shouldn't have been. Isabela is fond of Zevran, after all. Briefly he wishes he'd met the man in his younger years, but Anders isn't dead yet. He can perhaps still enjoy himself, depending on Justice.

"I have absolutely no desire to argue that." Though suddenly he's struck by a thought that has his smile growing a little more. "You and Oghren must have been quite the pair. The poor Warden-Commander." Somehow, he doesn't sound like he really feels bad for the Warden-commander at all. After all, he'd had fun harassing everyone with Oghren.

But for now, there's a slightly more important matter at hand, something that could come in very hand if he's ever in shackles or a cell again. Anders holds out a hand for the practice lock. "I've some experience with refining my technique. And finding all the right spots. I wonder if magic can help with these ones too?" Force, or arcane, perhaps. Definitely not anything elemental.

"No magic." He sets the lock on the desk and slips out of his chair, motioning for Anders to settle there in his stead. "You need to be able to do this blindfolded and bound- not that I propose practicing as such straight away. But this is something you must learn by feel and dexterity- using magic will only call attention to yourself."

Even if templars cannot feel the pull of a spell- other mages might. And other mages are not always on Anders' side.

With a flourish he pulls two picks from somewhere on his person, offering these over for Anders to take. "This is a basic lock- when you can do this with your eyes closed without setting off the bells? We might attempt something more difficult."

Anders takes the picks and the seat, frowning down at the lock. Right. So there's spots to find and poke? He's good at prodding, at least.

"How will I know when I'm hitting the right spot?" He's left a wide opening for a joke, but it's a question he has to ask. Carefully, with his eyes still open for now, he slides both pieces of metal in. The frown grows as he attempts to remember how he's seen people hold these before. Honestly, most of the time Isabela or Nathaniel had been opening locks he'd not been watching their hands. Varric and Sigrun, though... One tended to be held steady as the other probed. He prods and feels a couple of things move, looking up at Zevran in hopes of getting something further.

"I push them?" Probably not, because doing so isn't opening the lock.

"There will be a catch- or a moan, depending on what you are doing." Zevran snorts a soft laugh and sets himself against Anders' back, reaching out to rest his hands on top of the mage's. It is not entirely how he'd learned but- it is the best way to show him how to seek out and test resistance. Chin hooked over Anders' shoulder, he murmurs as he moves their joined hands, one pick sliding into the lock and turning until there is that subtle catch. "This you move until you feel- ah, there it is. That faint spot where there is less resistance? Then you press inward with your second pick to find the tumblers."

There's a flash of a smile at the joke, but before he can even think about a comeback the man is moving against him, warm and close. He stiffens despite himself, trying to hold back a little but it's been a long time since he's had this much physical contact and a few moments later Anders is relaxing for the most part, hoping he's not leaning too much into the elf. Zevran's a flirt. That's all. It takes one to know one, and Anders had once been exactly this flirty. He doesn't need to go weak and pathetic at what's simply a flirty method of teaching.

"Right." He felt it, and it shows in his voice... but so does a little hoarseness that Anders chastises himself for. One deep breath later and he's feeling for the spot again, finding it and pressing, while adding a little pressure with his other hand the way he's seen Varric do. Is that right? He's not sure, but he's here to learn and try things.

"Do I..." Another spot is now giving him less resistance, and he turns his head slightly in a glance back at Zevran. "This?"

To be on the run is to be paranoid- to be starved of affection and contact. Zevran had but the crows to mind and while they are not an inconsiderable force- they are not near the number that would turn on Anders for what he had done. It leaves him few places to find his comfort, fewer still to fill the very human need for contact. Zevran takes the weight Anders rests against him- even goes so far as to slip an arm around his waist for a moment simply to hold him.

To ground him. It is a casual flirtation, yes but- it is a need that he knows well. A familiar ache he knows how to tend.

Not offering his aid would be impolite.

"Very good." Voice a low, warm burr Zevran murmurs, guiding that second hook in and bringing it up in little catches. This close Zevran feels as though he can see past Anders' eyes- see whatever he carries inside. For the moment? Those concerns are irrelevant. "Just like this. You are trying to press the latches back into place so you can open the lock."

He inhales when the arm goes around him, closing his eyes for just a moment. In the last month he's gotten more kindness than he had in years, but this? Touch from someone who knows who he is and what he's done? There's nothing like being held. He takes another breath before refocusing, directing his thoughts away from the physical and toward the lesson. Though the elf smells fantastic, Anders' traitor nose informs him, leather and metal and clean.

"Latches," he echoes, bringing that mental picture into focus. Push the latches, so that they'd... well, latches catch. So there's something they catch on, and that train of thought explains what Zevran had just helped him do. "So now the next."

More tension is leaving his body as he urges the third into place and leans more against the Crow. There's no speed there yet, the motions aren't smooth, but he's starting to get a feel for how it should work, he thinks. Hopes, even. If it's this simple, as long as he makes sure he has picks, he could potentially escape whenever they catch on to who he is. It's nice to have even a tiny bit of hope for the future.

"There's... two more?" He feels two, but he's not sure he's got that right.

"Mmhmm." Latches. This lock had simple ones with automatic catches, the mechanism not quite as tricky as the rest. Perfect for beginners. A mage's deft hands lend themselves well but most of it is experience- the rest? Knowing how it ought to feel.

Again, much like love making.

Zevran tips his cheek to rest against Anders' still holding the one hand still while he lets Anders feel out the remaining two catches. "You must be careful- if you jar the lock too much? The first three will come down and jar your picks loose at the best- or snap it at worst. Speed and smoothness will come with time. Right now you merely need to know how it feels. Memorize that? And even should you find an unfamiliar lock you may be able to work your way through it. Unless it is trapped, but we shall worry about that another day."

With that Zevran removes his hands from Anders', dropping them down to once again curl around his waist. He can watch his progress from here well enough- the mage knowing how to find the latches and press them into place on his own for the last two is the important lesson here. And, perhaps, he simply wishes to warm himself on the back of a man he knows isn't too terrible.

Edited (typo) 2016-01-13 10:09 (UTC)

"And I'd have to redo the work when I could be pressed for time." Zevran's voice is low and warm and it has to be deliberate. Anders came here to learn something he sorely needs knowledge of, but all he really wants to do is encourage more touch and personal attention.

He shakes his head to try to clear it a little and pull his mind from the arms around him. It doesn't completely work. He's far too weak to temptation, in Justice's opinion. Anders thinks he's exactly as weak as he should be, considering how rarely he's given the opportunity to even feel tempted.

Unfortunately, he really is a little distractable, because exactly what Zevran's warned about happens. He slips, the three come back down, and the picks are knocked loose. Anders sighs and restarts. Practice makes perfect, and all that, and it's better that he has issues now rather than later. His life doesn't depend on this right now. Slowly he prods them back into place and gets the fourth up... then the fifth, and the lock clicks open with a very, very satisfying sound.

"Don't tell me, that was the easiest one of them all." But that's all right and it shows in his voice. You start small and build. Even as he speaks he's leaning his head back to rest on Zevran's shoulder, getting perhaps a little more comfortable than he should. The man's gorgeous and seems to be feeling accommodating, though. Why wouldn't Anders get comfy?

Of course it is deliberate- how can it be anything but? Zevran is keyed to find a need in whomever he is with and fill it if only to keep himself useful. Keep himself indispensable. It is not so great a compulsion as it once was but- it lingers enough for him to turn the hair it takes to press his lips against the side of Anders' throat.

Not kissing, simply pressing. Resting there while he watches his hand. The real contact comes when he opens the lock and, perhaps, it is framed as it's own sensual reward. The slow pass of his mouth up Anders' jaw, nipping at the skin under his ear. Isabela had such lovely things to say of the man and it is difficult not to be at least a little curious. And-

As a friend? This is something Anders needs. The contact, the teasing, the grounding. It is easy to lose oneself in the desire for survival. He knows that well enough.

One hand slips up from Anders' waist to rest against his sternum, encouraging him to lean more. "It is a fine beginning, yes."

Despite himself, Anders makes a quiet noise when the lips press against his neck, but that has nothing on the little nips that send a shiver through him. It's been... He doesn't even want to think about that. Nor does he want to think about how completely leaning back and enjoying the hand sliding up his body means he isn't learning, as Justice is focusing on.

"An excellent one, if I dare say so myself." He drops a hand back and down to slide up Zevran's thigh slowly, giving the elf all the opportunity to stop him. When that doesn't happen, he turns his head to brush a feather-soft kiss to the corner of Zevran's lips.

How badly he wants this is a somewhat scary realization. Even more frightening is that he thinks he might need it. Anders has always been tactile, always craved signs of affection and now it's being offered with the awareness of who he is. It leaves him breathless.

"May I kiss you? Fully, I mean."

Zevran makes no attempt to stop Anders' hand- he enjoys a good stroke through his leathers as much as any other Antivan, all the more so if it is from someone he considers someting of a friend. He hadn't been entirely certain how his overtures might be taken- but it seems like all is as it ought to be. Mutual desire, genuine attraction.

"Of course." He meant it, earlier, that Anders needs this. That he needs the contact, the grounding- needs to feel whole and human for a short while. There's no teasing- no games. Just the slow slide of his hand up to cradle Anders' cheek in his hand and let him feel that for a moment- it is also as good a way as any to get an idea of how much stubble he'll be wrangling later. But it is for Anders as well.

There's a fair bit of stubble rasping against Zevran's palm, more than Anders likes to have on his face. But it's one of the many things that have gotten away from him, like this. Like the feeling that he's more than the Chantry's destruction.

He leans into the touch, twisting around so he can meet Zevran's lips with his own. The first contact is a tentative, gentle touch of their lips together, but a moment later he kisses in truth, yearning, hungry, pressing his lips to Zevran's and opening his own.

Anders turns the rest of the way and presses the whole of himself against the Elf, drinking in the warmth and closeness he's had so little of for so long. He doesn't know how Zevran knew he'd needed this, and he's not going to bother asking.

They hadn't had the time, when he'd last been in Kirkwall. There had been crows and mercenaries, slavers and templars and...Marion. A fine woman that had a man's eye and Zevran knew when to roll dice and when to not. Tumbling into bed with the Champion and Isabela had been more than enough for him; though he would be lying to say Anders hadn't caught his eye at the time.

But he knows better than to be greedy. Knows what it is to deny himself something for the sake of sanity or safety. Anders? Has been aching quietly on his own for too long.

He pulls Anders in slowly, sweetly, inviting every slow twist and press of his mouth- every inch of him on offer without reservation.

A part of him wonders what the catch is. Where this stops, when something goes wrong. He doesn't want it to, but he knows his luck. Another part, the part with a different name, believes this to be an utter waste of time.

Anders' yearning for something overrides both his reservations and Justice's as he crowds the man and soaks up what's offered like a sandy shore soaks up sunlight. And that's what this is - warm, restorative, everything he wants and needs right now.

Despite himself he makes a quiet noise, hands clenching in Zevran's clothing as he opens his mouth to the kiss. There are so many things he's gone without because of Justice, because of the cause, and he'd forgotten how good they could be. How good they could feel.

It takes all of his strength to break the kiss for a moment. "Is this all right? With... Who I am, taken into account?" A no would be devastating, but he'd recover. He's not so sure he could if this goes any further and then Zevran shoves him away.

[ OPEN ] Heart's on fire

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