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[ungovernable]

WHO: Benevenuta Thevenet, Dorian Pavus, Zevran Arainai, Nerva Lecuyer, Taashath, Rafael Viteri AND THE OTHER ONE. I don't know how to spell that and I already looked up Rafa's name.
WHAT: Pretty much what it says on the tin. And by tin I mean subject line.
WHEN: Covering a span of several weeks, after puppies and before showing up late to Emprise du Lion.
WHERE: Nevarra, mostly.
NOTES: Plotting post; original sign up post. Get at me at matriarchal or via PM if you have needs.

Having taken Ayse's information to the Inquisition leaders, Benevenuta is dispatched with a small group to handle the matter in Nevarra. Feel free to do individual closed threads within the subheaders of anything you want to achieve in Nevarra, and we can work out amongst ourselves how best to do plot elements! We will try to spread out plot contributions so that we don't get bogged down in a ten thousand person thread for any one part.

Comments

[ombranera]

Not as far as his fair Antiva- but further north than he has been in some time. Zevran spends the bulk of the journey observing his traveling companions to get a better sense of them, their habits, gestures, mode of speech, etc. Reflexes from living as a Crow for so long and curiosity for the past decade. Understanding people helps him approach them appropriately- when in doubt? He plays up the roguish bard angle, picking idly at his lute, glowing the warmer the weather becomes. At lest there are fewer bandits.

And no dragons.

Or spiders.

And limited darkspawn.

[liberalum]

It's basically the most pleasant time Dorian's had travelling anywhere since joining the Inquisition, save for specifically bear-free afternoons spent in the Hinterlands with Evelyn and company, so long as the allergies Dorian would swear up and down he does not have didn't kick in. But those specific memories still manage to make his heart ache, and even under the bright sun, there had always been a bite in the air as the chill tumbled down off the Frostbacks.

Here, however, the sky is a clear blue dome, and the sun is actually heating what it touches. When they next dismount to take a break, Dorian sheds his cloak and busies himself with packing it away, arms bare. When a wind sweeps down the road, it carries with it warmth, rather than being something to brace against. He might feel guilty for being so content, to be away from Skyhold--

--but that sounds lame, so, he doesn't.

After seeing to his horse, Dorian glances over at the sound of lute playing, which is becoming characteristic. He listens for a little while, rubbing the velvety nose of his chosen steed, a sedate mare by the name of Star, and once he senses the song is wrapping up, he strolls on over.

[ombranera]

Clear skies and warm air- Zevran is all but glowing under the sun while he finishes his last line of the song. It has been so very long since he has been this far north- he's almost forgotten the warmth of the sun and what it feels to have air that isn't horrifically dry rolling over his skin. Part of him worries over leaving Alistair and that dog behind.

Still, there is nothing more to be done for it. The worst of his poisons are set out and if it finds something and gnaws on it and dies? His life will be simpler.

Even if Alistair would make that face upon his arrival home.

Without a tune to hold his hands attention they tap idly upon the body of his lute, his back to a nearby tree, face tipped up toward the sun. He hears someone approach- too light to be Taas, no clink of armor nor swirl of skirts which cuts Nerva and Benevenuta from the running. Rafael did not often seek him out.

Some fears lingered. It suits Zevran and thus he thinks nothing of it. All that leaves, however, is Dorian Pavus- a curious man, a handsome man. A dangerous man. It is more than enough for him to linger in his current lax posture, all alight in the sun, terribly aware of how it burnishes his hair and eyes to a bright, warming gold when he opens them with a polite smile. "Do you have a request?"

[liberalum]

"I do."

Dorian is certainly a more passive breed of observant, and not someone who alters his behaviour very much in an effort to accommodate others or even benefit himself, but he's taken note of his traveling companions. They could due worse than a hulking qunari and an assassin elf, certainly.

He waves away some buzzing insect -- because nature, even at an acceptable temperature, is the absolute worst -- and then extends that hand out. As far as well-dressed Tevinter magisters go, he is remarkably free of glittering adornment, his fingers bare of rings as his neck is free of hanging pendants. "May I?"

[ombranera]

Layers and layers- or aren't there?

Of course there are, he may be no magister but he is of Tevinter. The manner in which the Magisterium carries on, the way a man such as Dorian lives? Puts the Orlesian Game to shame. What exactly he is after Zevran cannot pick out; but it benefits him little to be less than agreeable. Without a word he lifts the lute to Dorian's waiting hand, head dipped in a nod that is similar enough to demure should that be what he wishes to see- but not so much as to mean insult should that not be his intent.

[liberalum]

Dorian's doesn't bat an eye at the deferential nod; elves being deferential is the same as elves being invisible, and not necessarily in a rude way. But he does take the lute, with a sound in his throat that implies thanks, before he moves to lean against a neighbouring tree, setting his foot back against the trunk in his own mimicry of rogueish bard.

But as his fingertips draw over the strings, it seems as though he has some skill. The tune is something from Qarinus, less plodding than the average southern ballad. Occasionally, he trips over a note, correcting swiftly enough.

"I have about three of these altogether in my repertoire," he says, after a moment of playing. "I was never good at it quickly enough to want to learn more."

[ombranera]

"It does require patience." Not to imply Dorian is impatient. "And a skilled instructor."

Not to imply whoever was teaching Dorian isn't skilled. Truly he..does not know what prompted this, but he listens- picking out the melody in an attempt to place it but for very many reasons, he never truly spent time in the Imperium, let alone lingered should he pass through. Such a place is horribly dangerous for elves. The song, the man, his intention are all unfamiliar but not beyond his ability to discern.

"You have fine hands for playing, I must say." Artist's hands, mage's hands. Longfingered and subtl calloused from pens and staves, it'd take time for them to build up along the pads of his fingers to better hold the strings.

[liberalum]

There isn't much ulterior motive to give away, although the side-along glance out the corner of Dorian's eye might imply some motive in simply seeing Zevran's reception to a friendly Tevinter not-really-a-magister. Dorian remembers: the miserable uphill trek from the ruined Haven, and sitting down with strangers like this, and forcing them to like him primarily so he didn't go mad, and could earn a decent spot by the fire.

It's more challenge than supplication. Daring to be found charming.

"You're too kind," Dorian says, his melody unravelling as he picks out a scale, as if unrusting himself. "I might have the hands for it, but I must lack the heart. You know, I attended a Circle where learning music was considered a means of sharpening a mage's talent for complex spellwork. And I'm far better at complex spellwork than I am at music."

He stills the strings with the flat of his hand, and turns the lute around for Zevran to take back from him. "It seems somewhat removed from your usual profession."

[ombranera]

A posture and practice Zevran knows well- enough for whatever concerns he harbored initially to unknot in the back of his mind. Far from home, Tevinter being what it is, Dorian being who he is? Zevran is unsurprising by this much...he is surprised that Dorian seeks to make this ploy with him. He is an assassin, true, and known well for his association for the hero of Ferelden and Alistair, also true-

But he is an elf. Much as he says he is an Antivan first some things are beyond ignoring.

"They have, I suppose, similar concepts. Muscle memory and will weaving something into being- though a bard's song is a bit less impressive than a lightening strike." He has to grant that, having seen some shade of Dorian practicing in the yard. All flair, more like a dance than battle magic. Wynne and Morrigan were never quite so flamboyant.

He takes the lute back and begins to pick out the first strains of what Dorian had played, correcting himself once or twice. "Deft hands and a quick memory are something of a requirement as an Assassin. Having something to make me look less dangerous, well. No one looks twice at an elf with an instrument at a ball. Even if someone has been killed."