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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.

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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."

"Normally I do not get so injured either." He's good at what he does, remember? Still the progress is gratifying, as should be the level of trust given. A human mage- not his first choice, but one made in good faith.

Sam pulls away, so does Zevran. "Mmm. Let me see."

A simple stretch to start- he checks his reach, his rotation, begins twisting it as he would for a mild contortion and everything is lining up nicely. "No stiffness whatsoever- you are good."

As Zevran checks his range of motion Sam stretches out his hands. Not having warmed up after working the forge, he can feel a slight cramp.

"Why thank you. We should probably take out the stitches now before it's fully healed. Might be a pain to do after."

"Oh, it is. I've had to do that before." Wynne had been as annoyed as him after that- but kind when removing them.

She'd always been terribly kind in her own, self righteous way. Yet another dagger flips up from somewhere before he offers the blade to Sam. "Use the hook on the tip to tug it out."

"Seriously. Where are you keeping them?" Sam stares at the dagger with confusion and awe before his eyes wander to Zevran's pants. That's the only logic place they're at, because the Elf is half naked.

Taking the dagger, Sam brings it up to his face to find the hook Zevran is talking about. "Hm." Too bad he didn't have any medical tools. Those would have been better. Sighing, Sam sets to cutting the stitches first, and being careful not to cut Zevran in the process - not like he couldn't heal those too but he'd rather not hurt his patient.

Once they all were cut he carefully started to drag each one out using the hook like Zevran suggested.

"Trade secret." Everywhere, Sam. The answer is everywhere. A good assassin keeps at least seven daggers on them at any given moment.

Zevran is actually sporting twelve but- it's early in the day. There may be more by nightfall. Who can say?

Sam is good at this, Zevran notes. The magic, the tending to people. That compassion thing, he seems to have a pretty solid handle on it, the fact that he's gentle and quite kind is a bonus. All the better. "And out they come. You're doing well."

Sam chuckles as he pulls out the last of the stitches. Twisting the dagger in his hand he offers the hilt back to Zevran. "I would hope so. Magic and hammering are the only things I'm not clumsy about."

Once Zevran has taken his dagger back, Sam sets his hands back on the wound. The green glow returns soon after and Sam hums lightly in thought. "Should I look at the other one after this?"

This time he at least secrets it away slowly- somewhere near his thigh. Whether there's a sheath stitched into the leather of his trousers or now, well. Who could say?

"What, my ribs? If you wish. They are less troubling than the shoulder." Two shallow cuts, long but clean. Not infected and not hindering his movement.

Sam catches the movement and his eyes dart over to watch. Ah. He did that on purpose. The thought makes him chuckle.

"Perhaps, but you have me at your full disposal at the moment. Might as well take advantage of the situation, right?" It's not really taking advantage, but it seems silly not to heal everything that he can.

"I can think of many ways I might wish to take advantage of your magic fingers. To be honest? This is not even the top of the list. But I can see you have that strange compulsion most healing mages do to see someone well- if you so wish, you may." It'll be that much sooner for him to be able to get back out and get working again. For that? He is grateful.

Sam frowns thoughtfully at that, his eyes darting up to look at Zevran's face before looking back to his work. What did he- Oh. Oooooh.

"Well done with the shoulder." His words come out rather quick and he's leaning back as far as he can in his chair. It's suddenly much warmer in the room. "Ah... which side of your ribs is it?"

Zevran can't help it, he laughs. Low and warm and rolling- ah the look on Sam's face. Charming, utterly charming. "The side that is bandaged. Allow me."

Another knife, another cut, the knife goes away and the bandages along with their poultice are set aside. 'just scrapes' to Zevran mean two lines of stitches curving along the black ink etched into his skin.

The laugh is infectious, though it only makes Sam smile rather than break out into his own laughter. A bit too nervous suddenly for that. Oh boy, the rest of this was going to be a bit tougher now that he was looking at exactly where the next injury was. It was going to be hard not to follow the path of those tattoos.

Sam has to stand up a bit to scoot his chair so that he's sitting in a better position to get to the wound. These look a lot better than the other one, but a bit more awkward to get to with Zevran sitting up.

He's not going to ask him to go lay down on something.

Like before, Sam places his hand on the wounds and a soft green light appears.

Looping world in abstract lines that curve along his musculature, forming shapes of feathers, of daggers and talons, interrupted only by the cut in his skin and the stitches that held him together. Zevran turns enough to offer Sam the best view possible which is a little uncomfortable, but better for the healer. He can deal with discomfort.

Sam mutters a 'thanks' finding Zevran's shifted position easier to get to. The wound is quicker to heal, but like the one on the shoulder Sam stops before it is fully healed.

Pulling back he gives Zevran a sheepish smile. "Ah... think I can borrow the dagger again?"