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WHO: Samouel and Anyone
WHAT: Doing odd jobs around Skyhold, and everyday life stuff.
WHEN: Anytime during the first two weeks
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Anything and everything can happen. Prose or brackets welcomed

There was always something to be done around Skyhold, which was perfect because without having any missions to go on, Sam would have probably slowly gone insane. As it were Sam threw himself more into his practices.

On most days Sam busied himself with dedicating his time to his magic. Mornings often found him in the library picking out a book and later taking it to the dining hall to read as he ate his food, or finding a secluded spot in what was being turned into a garden. Always to himself, invested in the pages, and trying to be out of the way of everyone.

Afternoons he took to actually practicing his magic. A good part of the time he would offer any aid he was capable of doing down at the tents where they cared for the injured and sick. He wasn't nearly as skilled as the more practiced healers who had trained most of their lives in the Circle, but he made up for it with determination. Or if he seemed to just be in the way, Sam found himself testing out spells on the practice dummies behind the Herald's Rest.

The other days that Sam didn't dedicate to magic, he dedicated to manual labor and honing the skills his father taught him. It was also a way to make a few coins here and there. While he did spend some amount of time helping with the stables, Sam primary kept himself to the forges housed behind the tavern. It was hot, rough work, but it didn't both him in the least. It reminded him of things before the Conclave, or even the Blight. Didn't hurt that it was warm and he got a fair workout in the process.

Evenings Sam always found himself at the Herald's Rest. He never drank, except maybe once in a while when Cabot pressed that he try the new "special" of the day or a friendly suggestion by another was made. For the most part he simply just spent time in the tavern because there wasn't anywhere else to go. Especially on those nights that sleep either would not come to him or he just didn't want to face his dreams.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That's quite the impressive calling card. "So would the 'alluring' part go with 'lover and fighter', or you going to use it as a title?"

Sam's shoulders shake with his chuckles at it all. "Alright. So, am I to refer to you as Alluring Zevran Arainai... or just Zevran?"

"I think at the beginning, The Alluring Zevran Arainai rolls off the tongue so nicely, don't you think?" There could be songs. Should be, in fact- probably are a few in Antivan brothels.

"Well you could if you wished- but my friends call me Zev- so that option is available to you."

Sam's brows raise in amusement at the offer. "From innocent offender Circle mage to friends with Zevran Arainai. This has been quite the day."

He motions to the splint mail Zevran is wearing. "Alright, Zev... ran," he's not sure if he's quite comfortable to jumping to being that familiar even if he had offered, "do you need help getting the armor off?"

"And it is not even supper time yet, my how the fates are kind." He crackles a laugh. Why people think him heroic for not dying he never quite understands, but he'll not make a thing of it. "Are you asking if I wish you to undress me? Because the answer will almost always be yes."

"Almost always." He repeats, grinning at the sound of Zevran's laugh. "Not a definite 'yes' and I would rather not chance my hands since I know how talented you are. I think I offered help, but if you wish that I do it on my own, I think I can manage."

"Yes, you may. Disarm away, my friend." He holds his arms out to make it easier, lips curled in a wicked grin. "I trust you'll be able to handle this."

Sam holds up his hands. "Magic hands. Remember?" He snorts before getting up and stepping in closer. Grabbing Zevran's arms he positions them to be held out in front of him a bit more before staring on the claps at his wrists.

"So what happened to your own armor? If you're looking for new something must have happened."

"The most magical of hands." There would be lines and jokes in the future- but for the moment he allows himself to be moved, watching said magical hands at work. "Well...first there was a bomb of acid thrown at me by a Crow, which I killed- it weakened the leather enough so when I met bandits further down the road they were able to cut through it. A pity too, I've had that set for some time now. All Antivan leather."

The word 'cute' comes to mind at how Zevran mourns for his Antivan leather - it's the ears. Course Sam doesn't say it, and he doesn't smile since it's rather serious. It's obvious that Zevran really liked that leather.

"I'm sorry to hear that. It should be proud that it protected you for so long. But..." he pauses a bit and gives Zevran a look. "Acid? You ok?"

Zevran would rather not hear he is cute. Alluring? Certainly. Sexy? Quite so. Cute? No. He is not cute. "The leather took the entirety of that. The Crow didn't' hurt me at all. The idiot bandits, however..."

He sighs. "It's embarrassing. You fight against professionals for so long, you forget how unpredictable someone that doesn't know what they're doing can be."

Sam blinks at that. So he was hurt? Unclasping the last bit of the arms, Sam moves to Zevran's side to start working on the rest, being mindful if there are any injuries.

"Nothing serious I hope." He doesn't seem injured, but then again Zevran IS a professional.

"A shot to my shoulder and scrapes to my ribs. Nothing serious. Irritating, but not serious." Not for a former Crow. "So now I need new armor AND I must wait until my shoulder has mended before getting to the real work."

"Real work?" At hearing the part about scraped ribs Sam makes a point to try and not touch the area too much. Once the clasps are done he helps Zevran wiggle out of the armor.

Plopping the armor back down onto the table he raises a brow. So he was still injured. "Did you see one of our healers?" Sam's eyes narrow as it occurs to him that perhaps Zevran had run into the same issue he was referring to with the smiths. "Or did they refuse to heal you? I would think them better than that."

"Rebuilding, scouting, clearing bandits from the roads, brokering deals with those that owe me favors." He shrugs- and winces for the shrugging. Right. Shoulder. Ah, well, he will remember when it comes time to rebuild the injury.

At the glare he was concerned a moment- until the rest of the question comes out. The idea of someone being frustrated or offended on his behalf is- charming. Terribly charming. "Ah, no. I saw a surgeon. The mages need to save their time and their power for those not as accustomed to being the walking wounded, as it were."

Sam's glare disappears at hearing that the healers hadn't turned anyone away, but there is still some displeasure in his features. Zevran gave up a lot for others and let himself suffer. With no thanks and ill treatment for the most part it seemed.

The wince did not go unnoticed. So he had gone and seen the Surgeon. Bruce? He had yet to actually talk to the man but he had seen him around. At least Zev did that.

"If it isn't a serious wound it shouldn't take up too much time or energy." Sam tilts his head.

"What, are you skilled in healing?" He hadn't seen Sam at the lines for the tents but- perhaps a bit of healing would help. It'd be better than the foul smelling poultice Bruce put on him every morning. Speeding up the process would be nice- and noting felt off in the wound yet. Right now it was simply irritating to not be able to use the arm.

Sam grins moving back a bit to sit on the table again so he isn't looming over Zevran. "Ah, the secrets out. I'm a healer in training. I help when I can down at the tents though I can only treat certain cases. I am no where near Lady LeBlanc 's skill, and I don't know enough to tend to patients who cannot be treated with magic."

One of these days when the stream of sick and injured wasn't so demanding he would have to talk to LeBlanc about helping him progress with his magic.

"But I also know how to use a forge. So I go back and forth to when I'm needed."

"Well...if you do not mind the attempt, I am game." The bulk of the work is done. Any chance of infection has not survived Bruce's poultice and the wound has been healing at something of an accelerated rate for it. Whatever was in that mash of foul smelling herbs? It worked.

Even if he smelt like dying at the time.

"I shall let you see the state of things and you may judge for yourself if you wish to help, no judgement from me. I know what it is to be a student yet. Very different schools, yes, but- I understand."

"If you're able to walk around like it's nothing and say it's just some scratches, I should be able to treat it. I'm learning, but I am capable. Gaping holes through stomachs is a completely different thing." Sam sticks a tongue out at the gross mental picture. "That last bit? Totally not me just yet."

Standing up he heads over to a part of the room that actually has chairs. Motioning for Zevran to sit he walks around to grab a lantern so that he has better light. "You'll have to take off your shirt."

"...I am also a former Antivan Crow." There were particular thresholds that had to be met for pain. But- well. He shrugs his good shoulder and moves as he is instructed. It is no gaping hole in his stomach, simply a small troubling puncture wound near a joint. Sam should be able to do just fine.

His shirt is already mostly unlaced in the usual Antivan style- the cold had not bothered him enough just yet with how he lingered in the courtyard. Soon it would become intolerable and he would have to bundle up like those in the camps- but for now? He can be suave in slipping it over his head, revealing the expanse of his tattooed shoulders and chest. The bandages around his ribs are not his primary concern, those he leaves be. It is the one wrapped around his shoulder that he cuts away for Sam's inspection. "Let us see what your magic fingers can do, yes?"

The sight he sees when he turns back around has Sam giving a low, impressed whistle. That's a lot of tattoos. He's sticking to that story.

Sam watches with interest as Zevran cuts away his own bandage - where the hell is he keeping the daggers? - as he pulls the other chair around to face the man's wound. Holding the lantern over for a better look he can see that there are stitches. There's no sign of irritation, and there's some scabbing starting to happen. The edges are a bit red though, probably irritation from too much movement.

"It looks pretty darn good. Shouldn't be too hard," he shrugs as he sets the lantern down.

Slowly Sam places his right hand over the wound, making sure to make contact but not to press, while his other hand moves to rest lightly on Zevran's forearm. A precaution he's learned if a patient jerks. Course he trusts Zevran is better, but he'd rather not chance it and find out.

A soft green glow soon lights up the area, a breath leaving him as Sam concentrates on the wound. "Let me know if it get uncomfortable."

At this time of day the poultice comes off easily, revealing a small but mildly deep puncture wound. "He used a stiletto. Held it all wrong."

Of course then there is the flick of a hand and a blade- the blade he'd pulled from himself afterward in fact, is held up for Sam's inspection. "Drove it in halfway before the armor caught. As best as i can tell it is a fleshwound, little more. I can still move as much as I should and there is no loss of sensation in my hand or arm."

Other than that? It is a mystery. One he would be happy to have solved at last.

Sam lays his hands upon him and Zevran does as he did before- goes loose and fluid, utterly still but not tense. "It's been some time since I've experienced this last. It still tingles."

"When was the last time you experienced it?" He raised a brow but didn't look away from his work. He was thankful that Zevran was so at ease during this, it made it easier.

There's a sensation that Sam can only describe as 'warm' where his hand touches the wound. He can feeling that tingling sensation Zevran mentions as skin melds together. Sensing that Zevran is going to stay still, Sam slides his other hand up so that he can cover a bit of the wound.

"Mmm. Two, three years ago? I normally do not bother with mage healers because, normally, it is something I can tend to on my own. But when you break an arm while needing to flee a country in under three days..." He doesn't shrug, but his voice does.

Don't ask how he manages that, it's magic. His own kind.

"I paid a lovely apostate to patch me up. Quite handsomely too, I was ready and out of Nevarra within the hour."

"Two or three years ago? And you're letting me do it? I'm honored," he chuckles lightly. The rest of the story he only hums in acknowledgement.

After a few minutes Sam pulls his hands away, scratching at his palms where the stitches kept poking at him. It isn't done, but he wants to make sure it is setting right. "How does that feel? Range of motion still good? I can finish it up if everything seems alright."