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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

"Yes, well... perhaps warn me first before you show up in a dress." Speaking of clothing. "Well you're all patched up. Were you still curious about the scale armor?"

"Ah, yes! It should be much easier to pull on now." He turns to the table to hold up the scale and it looks promising. Pulling this on is slightly less familiar- it's been some time after all.

Sam snorts as Zevran gets caught a couple times. Walking over he gives the man a bit of help, though lets him do the bulk of it. "Personally I like the scale mail better. Flows a bit better and the alterations would be easier. Takes some time still though."

Stepping back he gives Zevran a once over. "So how does it feel? It looks good though. Very dashing." Whether he's talking about the armor or Zevran is up for debate.

"This fits much better than the splintmail." That had always been Alistair's look, anyway. The scales rest well on his shoulders and back and after a few quiet steps around, a bit of twisting, and one quick backflip later he's satisfied. "It is a little loose in the waist but the length is good and everything else fits well. This shall do nicely."

He poses for Sam's appreciation, deeply pleased with how this has turned out.

Sam's eyes widen at the show of dexterity. "Well it doesn't look like it's weighing you down." He could never do a flip, back or forward, like that. "Is the waist going to bother you much? Though I suppose you could wear it around and feel it out then come back, and we could figure out any of the issues."

"It moves too much when I am jumping- and I will be leaping about a great deal. Do you think you might take it in?" Simpler to alter, but it would take some time. He would rather not go out in ill fitting armor.

"I think we could manage." Sam walks away for a moment, returning back with some charcoal, paper and a measuring rope. "Where do you need it changed?"

"Below my ribs and just above the hips, that should do it." He pinches the mail, a scale or so on either side would have it fitting perfectly. "Other than that, this armor is exactly what I've needed. You have my thanks."

Sam hums thoughtfully, looking at the areas Zevran was referring to. Moving closer, Sam reaches around to loop the measuring rope around the Elf's torso. He mutters to himself as he figures out the right width before crouching down and tightening the rope around the hips.

"Well don't thank me just yet. We'll have to take the size down a bit on either side. Could be several days or more." Looking up Sam raises an amused brow. "Which probably would have been fine before, but I suspect you're itching to get out now that you don't have those stitches."

"If it is only a day or two, perhaps it will not be so bad? I could finish setting up a few things around the hold before I rush out into the great wide world." And pull in favors, coin, and resources. The Hold would need quite a bit of help to find it's legs.

Pulling the rope away Sam leans over the table to write up a few things. "I can see what we can do. Is there anything else you want done on it while I'm at it?"

"Mmm. I don't suppose you could add a bit of feathered embellishment, could you? I am no longer a crow but hinting at that in my tools truly pisses them off. And that amuses me." It won't bring any of them back- but it warms him none the less.

Sam raises his brows at that. "Are you talking about... metal feathers or actual feathers?" Biting the inside of his mouth, Sam rubs the back of his head, already imagining what to do depending on the answer.

"If you want metal ones... you're not going to be getting it back in two days. Real ones? Once we're finished with the alterations you could take it to... whomever does that kind of thing?"

"I think metal would be more fearsome and striking, yes?" It would take more time- but it would be well worth the wait. Something that spoke of who and what he was- he'd need a new cloak to go with it but that he could manage elsewhere.

"Take your time. I will find a way to keep busy about the hold until it is finished."

Wait. Metal feathers? Shit, what had he just gotten himself into? Sam sighs. He had to ask. "Is there going to be a certain way I can get a hold of you?"

"You see now why I wanted a stop gap until Herren saw fit to give Wade my letters rather than something custom. Do not worry about it." He can be particular when given cause, armor is sufficient cause. "If you have need of me I am in the tavern almost every night- doing what I can to keep the peace."

"I can see. You're a very demanding man, Zevran." There's a smile on his face, but he's looking down at the sheet of paper, sketching out a design. He might have to have one of the others think of it. He's not the most artistic.

At hearing the mention of the Herald's Rest, Sam looks up. "Has there been issues at the tavern?"

"Not yet. But people are tired and Skyhold is not what most might have thought when they chose to travel here, we have mages and templars, humans, elves, a handful of qunari all milling about and trying to get along in order to save the world. There will be bickering. Tensions are high. All it will take is one fool to set the whole thing up in a brawl that might end in bloodshed. So I sit, I sing, I play the lute and tell wild stories. It keeps people calm- but it is much like trying to pin a sheet of paper over a window to keep out the rain. It will not hold for long." And when it failed it would be catastrophic. "We very nearly had blood a night or so ago. One of the Dalish was spoiling for a fight and everyone could tell. I handled it."

Not well, but he handled it.

Edited 2015-10-22 07:27 (UTC)

Zevran has a point. There are a lot of people gathering at Skyhold, all of whom with different backgrounds. Even if they did have a common cause it was going to be a while because things got settled. The lack of beds doesn't help.

At hearing that there had actually been a fight Sam grows concerned. He hadn't heard it. Then again he was a heavy sleeper when he could sleep. Or perhaps that was when he had ended up walking into Lady LeBlanc?

It further bothers him to hear that it is a Dalish. "Didn't happen to be a guy with silver hair? Yay high?" Sam holds his hand up about a foot shorter than him.

"No, but I have had a run in with him as well of a decidedly more pleasant sort. Though I think they know one another." With Beleth calling for Cy afterward, it's not that much of a stretch. "The one I had a roll in the mud with had darker hair and skin. Bit like a bastard too."

It'd taken one of his poultices to get rid of THAT bruise. Ugh. "You would think Dalish would have a stronger sense of self preservation. We're outnumbered. Now is not the time to be rocking the boat."

So Zevran had met Cyril then. Sam raises a brow at that. Well at least he's not talking about Cyril, and he's pretty sure Gavin wouldn't start a fight, so that rules him out. But it seems Cyril knows the Elf that started the fight? So definitely from the same Clan. He can't remember their names though.

At the mention of 'we're outnumbered' Sam has to assume Zevran is referring to Elves in general. Rather not stick his foot back in his mouth, Sam decides just not to comment. Ugh.

"He bit you?"

"Right on the cheek." A beat. "My face, not my ass."

Sam makes an effort not to smile at the correction. Biting someone on the ass during a fight? That would have been odd. He moves to get a look at Zevran's face. "I take it you treated it? I don't see it."

"A very strong poultice and some oil." He sighs, reaching up to rub the spot. "Like a rabid mabari. He has talent but no control whatsoever. With training he could be marvelous- but he was all rage, absolutely no focus. Better suited to a berserker than a rogue."

"And you handled it? With those injuries you had? Well that must have been a pain in the ass." No wonder his wounds were red.