faderift | Skyhold

Skyhold

WHO: Anyone & everyone
WHAT: Open post for business as usual around Skyhold
WHEN: The first couple weeks of Harvestmere, 9:41 (aka October)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Please mark any necessary content warnings in thread subject lines. Also, make sure to check out the other log posts already made!

Far from the glamorous adventurous world-saving people signed up for, most of the hustle and bustle in Skyhold at present is cleaning. The Great Hall is a disaster, and crews are assigned to haul out the cracked and rotting planks fallen from the wide-open roof, and tear down the vines covering the walls. Ivy encrusts the main staircase outside and many of the fortress walls and is cleared in section while other groups assess or begin shoring up the stonework as it's revealed. There are scaffolding to build, materials to sort, crates to unload, tents to stitch together or set-up, and on and on and on, endless mundane chores vital to the survival of the organization.

When not hard at work, people cluster around fires across the courtyards. Many mingle freely, going about their business, running errands and messages, planning scouting missions, tallying up supplies, distributing or playing with the sending crystals that were found in a basement vault and which a group of mages have just today finished preparing for use. Once a good number have been passed around and the first Inquisition-wide transmission made messages start being broadcast; maybe you can help someone out.

The rebel mages and renegade templars mainly keep to themselves at opposite sides of the complex given the choice. Mages assist with healing and research and bicker amongst themselves about their options and their fate. Templars help train recruits in swordforms and basic combat techniques or spar with the more advanced and bicker amongst themselves about their options and their fate. Despite having all pledged themselves to the Inquisition, they still feel like separate factions and tension between them is palpable wherever they cross paths.

Like at meals, or the communal message board in the courtyard, or at the Herald's Rest. The mess hall/tavern is so new it still smells of sawdust, and its stock has been limited to one type of strong ale until today, when a shipment of West Hill brandy has finally arrived. The mood in the place is convivial in celebration of that, but there's still plenty of muttering, especially as the night drags on and the discontented get further into their cups.

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Well that- that rudeness had the flat of his palm stilling the strings of his lute entirely- and some small manner of silence, stillness, expectation of what might follow to drop in it's stead. The casual smile Zevran's had painted on drops all pretense of friendliness and settles into something sharper. Predatory. "What would I do?"

The nights he has spent here his name and face have been bandied about for those closest to know, at least in vague terms, who and more importantly what he is. Perhaps that is why those that shuffled so closely before now seem to be easing away. Giving Zevran room to retaliate if he so chose.

"Drag you out by the ear myself and give you the fight you are so obviously spoiling for." Not the wisest thing to promise when he has a stiff shoulder and healing ribs- but he has done more dangerous things in worse condition. Not for some time, but it would not be anything new. Better that it is a one on one incident far from the remaining patrons that can be settled quickly and cleanly before anyone gets any ideas.

Even if Merrick knew that it was Zevran Aranai he was talking to, he still wouldn't have hesitated for an instant. He's much too stubborn, prideful and self-destructive for that. So he finishes his drink, drops coin on the table and stands, showing no semblance of fear or regret.

"No need to drag me," is his affirmative reply.

Edited 2015-10-19 08:25 (UTC)

"Keep this behind the bar, if you would." Zevran sets his lute down and, as requested, the barkeep tucks it behind for safe keeping. While he had his daggers he tends to not wear his swords around the keep- there was no need and it makes some of the people uncomfortable. Uncomfortable people do foolish, fearful things that Zevran is all too happy to avoid.

He stands silently, fingers flicking in the open space provided by the other guests to the door. There is a clear path. "After you."

If Zevran expects any sort of etiquette in this duel he has proposed, he is in for a rude awakening. Merrick doesn't have any frame of reference for this sort of thing, and all he's thinking is that there's no way he's going to turn his back on an enemy. So he thinks this through rapidly--he's not going to get me from behind while we're still in the bar--counting his steps to the door, and as soon as his toe passes through it he turns rapidly and seizes Zevran by the shirt collar.

He drags him the rest of the way through and throws him roughly to the muddy ground outside, and is on him in a second. His knees plant on either side of Zevran's body and he pulls back a fist, ready to strike.

Get him from behind, no. Admire said behind? Yes. He can give someone a solid thrashing and still objectify the fuck out of them and fully means to do so. From experience he understands precisely how demeaning it can be- how frustrating. How it makes you lose your temper and slip up in the middle of a fight. In fact he's something of a veteran of both sides of the equation.

The mud's something he's willing to work with and confident he can handle- his footing should be fine-

But it's a moot point since he doesn't GET to have any footing and looking at said behind kept him from noticing that front, that fist, and then he's on the ground. Fighting dirty- he can appreciate that. Almost as much as having a raging asshole straddle him in such a manly fashion. Hitting the ground jars his shoulder, jars his ribs- and he laughs. Cackles. Because nothing is more infuriating when you are not taken seriously- this too he knows well. "Ah, you wish to wrestle? Why didn't you say so?"

It's not the grapple he goes for first. His hands snap up to catch either side of Merrick's face, pulling him down as he slams his head up. However dazed or not Merrick is afterward Zevran uses the moment to thrust his hips up and shove them both over, rolling. He weighs less than Alistair ever did and they'd passed some time on the road, rolling about, trying to get a pin.

At least until Zev slotted a leg between Alistair's thighs, much like he does now, and leans in just a little too close. 'Making it weird Zev', he'd call it.

The blow to the head throws off Merrick's balance and makes the world spin, and he's barely aware of what happens next until he finds himself pinned to the ground with-- What?

He hadn't expected anything like that, but it does nothing to calm his anger. If anything, he feels even more rage build up inside him, hot in his throat, and he lets out a frustrated yell as he struggles beneath the other elf.

People had gathered around to watch, but Merrick doesn't see any of them, only red. As soon as Zevran leans down he darts up like a snake, biting down on the other elf's cheek hard.

Edited 2015-10-20 08:36 (UTC)

The face. Why the face? This is what he gets for leaning in- of course this one's a biter. He can't jerk back because he might lose face- literally, leaning in only makes it worse, hitting him wouldn't help- so Zevran grinds his thigh up between Merrick's legs in something of an obscene tactic. But fine. if the Dalish wishes to fight dirty? Zevran will fight dirtier, all while swearing under his breath in Antivan.

The fuck? Merrick freezes up for a second, startled, then struggles anew--only to find that moving around just makes it worse. The contact makes his face heat up and he curses, then spits in Zevran's face.

"Get off!" he snarls.

Well it got the teeth out of his face. Hurrah. He leans back just in time to get spit in his eye, between that, the mud, the struggling and the ache building up unpleasantly in his shoulder Zevran finds his grip slipping from where he has the elf pinned. Brasca.

"If you cannot tell, I am trying to get you off. Perhaps then you would calm yourself and stop raving like a beast!"

There. Merrick pinpoints the exact moment to strike, then throws Zevran off him and back down into the mud. He gets to his feet then, sharp-eyed and full of fury, and aims a kick to the other elf's head. Blood is pounding in his ears; would that this were a real fight, one where he could grab this bastard by the hair and yank his head back, slit his throat...

'Beast', he'd said. 'He's an animal. He shouldn't be allowed to live among us, we should exile him.'

Just as Merrick knows when to strike- Zevran knows the moment the strike is coming and knows in his current state he cannot do anything but roll with the blow. The Dalish has skill, he will give him that. A vicious intent, a speed, and a precision that would serve him well so long as he could mind his temper.

He'd have made a half decent Crow.

Zevran, however, has been ridding the world of half decent crows and their betters for the past decade. When the kick comes- and usually it's a knife or a kick, the kick was crueler and speaks much of Merrick's temperament even if Zev hadn't gotten a veritable mouthful by now. Zevran catches Merrick's ankle and tugs, snapping his own leg out in an arc to sweep the remaining one out from under the Dalish simultaneously. Slippery with mud, cold, aching, and rather pissed off in general, Zevran makes the pin. Legs thrown over Merrick's, hands twisted up behind his back, face down in the mud. "Are you quite finished?"

'No Ser-' and up again only to be slapped down. 'No Ser' till he's raw and bleeding. 'No Ser' even when he cannot rise from the beatings.

Maker, let the boy be wise enough to say yes.

Merrick does no such thing. Even if he's beaten, he's going to make things as hard as he possibly can for Zevran--so he struggles, hard, jostling the elf on top of him and showing no sign of relenting.

"Fuck you," he spits. Since his head is twisted to the side and halfway in mud he gets a mouthful of it, but it doesn't even register.

The sounds of a fight are not lost to Beleth as she wanders near the tavern. Knowing who is fighting, who is going to have bad blood with who, and the people to avoid--That's valuable knowledge. So Beleth makes her way to the fight--Only to recognize not one, but both of the participants. One is Merrick, of course it's Merrick, how could it not be him? The second isn't a human, at least, but he's the elf with no little skill at daggers, and apparently more skill at wrestling in the mood, to boot.

Merrick's going to die. Merrick is going to die and I am going to have to explain to the Keeper that I couldn't keep him alive for a week.

There was no small amount of temptation to whip her bow out, and point it at Zevran's head. At this range, with Merrick keeping him preoccupied, she could stick an arrow neatly in the city elf's neck, if he decided not to cooperate. But Beleth didn't get where she was by fighting everything. She'd just be escalating the violence, allowing other people to become involved. It could become the brawl that Zevran warned her about.

So instead, the people watching are quickly shoved out of the way, and Zevran has a weepy girl at his elbow. Her body language has completely changed from their last meeting--Suddenly she's all sniffles and big doe eyes and in near hysterics, while managing to look as subservient as a Dalish can get. He's not a human, but Beleth has never practiced this on city elves.

"Merrick--Merrick, are you okay? Ser, ser! Let Merrick go, please, whatever he did, I'm so sorry, just please--" She's on her knees, not actually touching Zevran, but hovering near Merrick, grabbing his arm--Making sure that she can leverage herself to keep pushing him down if he tries any more shit. "If he said anything or did anything, I'm very sorry--Merrick, come on..." Look at her, Zevran. Her and her big teary eyes. Very sad. Very innocent.

"It's been hard on all of us, you know...? We've never been away from our clan this long before. C'mon, Merrick, let's get back to the others..."

Oh thank the maker, someone with sense. And an impressive pair of-

Eyes. He is looking into her eyes as he holds the writing bastard down. Not her chest because he certainly is in no mood for much of anything other than a hot soak and possibly having Bruce check his shoulder in the morning. But there she was, Bella Beleth, pleading oh so tearfully. "Beleth, please, do take your friend."

Were he human or dwarven or even Qunari- he would likely buy it. But it is a gambit he himself has employed in the past. Part of him has a mind to correct her in the here and now, tell her how to really sell it- by not selling it so much. A little polish and she'd have him believing her. But there is a crowd and he wishes this evening done. With a sigh he leans down to check on the muddy elf- on Merrick.

"Are you going to go quietly with your friend, or am I sitting here all night?"

One doesn't spend most of their life around Cyril Ashara and come out of it unable to craft a lie--though Creators, he loathes it. Loathes telling lies, loathes Zevran, loathes the entire Inquisition at this point. He has never, ever lost a fight before. No one has ever been able to take him down, and this damn bastard did it so easily.

"I'll go," he mutters, ceasing his struggling at last.

Edited 2015-10-21 10:34 (UTC)

Even through her big weepy facade, there's an audible sigh of relief. She'd have had to get Cy, or Pel, or someone else to help here if he hadn't agreed, and she wasn't sure where anyone else was at the moment. And this was what she'd told herself she'd do, wasn't it? This was her job. Keeping the others safe.

Leaning down into the mud, Beleth takes the scarf around her neck, and uses it to gently brush at the mud on Merrick's face. Your first defeat was always the hardest. But it was a defeat that Merrick had long been overdue, and maybe this would knock some of that bravado down. She might thank Zevran later. And apologize again.

But right now, her main concern was Merrick. She leaned in to whisper to him, voice soft. Beleth would never be called seductive in her life, but at least with Merrick, she could voice herself. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder as she spoke to him. "I bet I can suggest a better use for all that energy." It wasn't as much seduction as a practical offer--He had the pent up energy, and she knew that offering him a different outlet for it might help keep him in one piece.

"Why do I not believe you." Still- he wants to be rid of the mud and rid of the elf, so he lifts his hands away and stands. Steps back to give himself some breathing room, give Beleth her privacy and begin scraping the mud from his face and hair. It's everywhere, ground into his shirt, his vest, all over his boots. This is what he gets for fighting down his reflexes in the middle of a fight- but then there would be a corpse in the mud several times over instead of an irritable, irritating Dalish elf.

No sense of self preservation. No sense of caution.

It'll get him killed. And if the Maker was kind? He would be the only one to die of his foolishness.

Normally, Beleth's voice would have worked. How many times had they found themselves on a hunt, only for it to be unsuccessful-- To find themselves cold and tired and frustrated, with only one another for warmth and comfort. It almost is enough, but the humiliation he has suffered just boils hot and ugly in his stomach, churning with the anger and self-hatred into something all-consuming.

He's cold, tired, drunk and dizzy from the blow to his head, but he forces himself to think clearly, to plot his next move carefully. He pieces it together in his mind while he pushes himself to his feet-- And then, in a matter of seconds, spins around and lands a hard punch to Zevran's jaw.

"Fen'Harel ma ghilana, Merrick!" She cried out, in surprise, frustration, and anger when she watches Merrick get to his feet, only to take a swing at the other man. She springs to her feet as well, and does the first thing she can think of--puts herself bodily between Zevran and Merrick, clasping the Dalish's shoulders. She should have known. She should have known he wouldn't just take that lying down--literally.

"Mana, ne len'solas!" But she was a twig of a Dalish, and Merrick was one of the most powerful fighters in their clan. She knew that he would never hurt her, she trusted him implicitly in that regard, but she couldn't keep him back, and she couldn't just try to stay between him and Zevran the entire time.

"Merrick, please, I'm begging you, just let it go--CYRIL? PEL?" She calls out their names desperately--If the shouted Elvhen hadn't already tipped off one of her clanmates. Maybe two people could keep him back. In the mean time, she'll keep trying to stay between Merrick and Zevran, talking to Merrick. "Come on, do you want to get kicked out? Do you want to have to go back to the clan and say that you couldn't even stay here a week? What are you going to tell the Keeper?"

It was over. The fight had ended, he was being pulled away, and Zevran was fool enough to allow his mind to drift to what he would do to better his mood. He should have seen the fist coming. It caught him and snapped his head back and reflex has the knife in his hand and ready to be thrown in less than a heartbeat- his patience was at an end forever ago and this Dalish needed to be bled to learn his place.

Less the body between them that has him holding the tip rather than letting it fly- but the names.

Cyril, Pel. Clan Ashara. "Mind your mad dog, Bella."

He snarled, sheathing his blade. "Lest someone put him down."

Merrick is a shaking mess now, holding onto Beleth and trying to gulp in breath. The crowd dissipates, muttering amongst themselves, much more disturbed than entertained. He doesn't hear them, even if they're echoing the same sentiments Zevran had made. He needs to breathe. Calm down. What had Pel taught him again? In through the nose, out the mouth.

His fingers dig into Beleth's shoulders. Rabid dog. Crazy. He shouldn't be here. Put him down.

She wants to grab him and shake him until whatever is wrong with him rattles loose, she wants to scream at him, she wants to make him understand. This isn't the clan, Merrick. These people owe you nothing! And she wants to just break down in a fit of stress because one of these days, that won't be another elf behind her with a dagger, it'll be a human, and they will kill Merrick. One of these days she's going to show up and see Merrick dead in the mud, and no justice for his murder, because who would blame a human for fighting against some crazed Dalish?

She doesn't do any of that, because none of that will help out right now. Instead, she embraces Merrick, fingers working through the mud in his hair. "It'll be okay," She tells him, with the low voice she used on panicky halla. "Everything's going to be okay. We just...need to clean you up." She pulls away a bit, to restart the task of using her scarf to wipe at his face.

"You're going to give me gray hairs, Merrick. Then I'll match Pel and Cyril. Is that what you want?"

His arms encircle her, and he just clings, wild-eyed and shaking. When she pulls away, he's still struggling to calm down, and her words barely land. In and out. Calm down. Count to four. Breathe.

It's not working. The anger is too strong, fire burning up every fiber of muscle, obliterating everything. After a moment he rips away from her, whirling to face the tree nearby--then lets out a strangled cry and slams his fist against it. Once, then again. And again.

There had been commotion with people rushing to see the fight. The thing is that when he hears 'fight' he doesn't think oh I should go see two men roll around. He thinks of his brother and how likely it is that he's one of those men.

He's on his way towards the mess when he hears what's happening and his fears are confirmed. He doesn't say anything at first, just goes up to Merrick and Beleth quickly. He knows Merrick will keep hitting that tree until his hand is a mangled mess so rather just trying to verbally stop him he reaches out and grabs his arm, physically holding him back.

He glances at Beleth to make sure she's uninjured and then focuses completely on Merrick. "Atisha, da'mi." His voice is low, a whisper meant just for Merrick's ears.

For now, he's just making sure that Merrick stops hurting himself. Then he and Beleth can get Merrick out of the sight of prying eyes.

She did something wrong. That's what she thinks when Merrick tears himself away and starts beating the crap out of a perfectly innocent tree. She raises her hands up, expression contorted in worry, trying to figure out what it was that she did wrong. Did she say something wrong? Should she have not pulled away?

But then Cyril appears, and Beleth relaxes. Cyril's better at this. He can help Merrick. She just gives Cyril a humorless, wry smile, then steps back, letting the two have their room. She'll just keep an eye out, shooing off anyone else who might linger at the scene.

At least she'd gotten Merrick to punch the tree, and not Zevran. That was better than nothing.

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Skyhold

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