faderift | → ｔｈｅｓｅｒｐｅｎｔｏｆｎｅｖａｒｒａ

"In the Crows I worked as part of a trio." It does not pain him to think of it today- it does not pain him to think of it most days. The laughter, the planning, the cunning, the kill. "There was not quite so much subterfuge involved in the Fifth blight and I have worked alone in the past decade by necessity if nothing else."

With the Crows out for blood- there were few he could trust on a good day. Fewer still he could trust on a normal day.

Such thoughts he tucks aside as he shakes out his braids and uncorks a potion- lightly acidic and ripe with the scent of citrus; quite unlike the usual spices he wore. He works it through his hair little by little, parting it with his fingers to ensure full saturation.

"So sad," Scipio muses, mostly to himself. For truly Zevran does not seem much saddened by his work alone. "A decade, that is-- the ten years, yes? Ten years was how long I was partnered with Rafa, before we were joined to the Wardens. To think of those ten years without him is too bleak to think of long. I would be dead."

A beat. He corrects, thoughtfully, "Or perhaps only very bored. But that might be the same, yes? Rafael is a salt of life."

A strange phrase, when he thinks on it. With the thought of salt in his head, the smell of the potion is all the better, like an orange fresh from a tree. Attention caught, Scipio watches with interest.

"That potion, it has such a lovely smell. It will cause a curl to your hair?"

"My trio and I- we were together for much the same time. The marvels we managed- you know when it was but my partner and I? We were decent. We managed our tasks well and with skill but we were not remarkable; but with Rinna..." He sighs, a fond, sad smile twisting over his face. "With Rinna? We became exceptional. Many a time I have missed having her guidance these past ten years."

The salt of life- Zevran crackles a soft laugh as he readies his hair, tugging up the first length and one of those heated rods. "He certainly is a salty fellow at times, yes? I can see how he might change a life."

For the more interesting at least- and for an Antivan? That is worth everything. "It makes my hair take the curl better. Opens it to the heat of these rods, they are enchanted to heat and hold for a time and upon removal? My hair shall hold the curl provided it is not too humid. Within a week or so the effect will fade away."

It is Scipio's experience that, when one hears a friend who speaks of old friends and old partners in the very past of tenses, then it is better not to ask what has become of these friends and partners. He has shed many relations in his years (save, of course, for Rafael, who he would never ever shed). Some partings are amicable, some are violent; some are natural, some are unnatural; some are carried bittersweetly, some with no emotion, and some sadly.

So: it is better, not to ask, to let such stories be told in their time, if they are told at all. It is comfort enough that Zevran has not been alone, and that he has known the bond of such skilled companionship. Would that everyone could known such a bond!

"Salt he is," he agrees (no offense, Rafael), "and a salt I would miss, too, for ten years, were I without it. You have a strength, my friend, and a cleverness unsurpassed, to work alone." All Noodle Heists aside, this is sincerely meant.

And that said, he may now watch and heed the preparation of the hair, with rapt attention. There are other tricks to tease out a curl from a wig--after all, not everyone was blessed with such curls as Scipio was born with--but this one sounds very promising. "What a good trick," he proclaims, appreciative as only a fellow tradesman might be, "and one I will remember. Have you been to Nevarra before?"

The discretion is appreciated- the whole of the situation is more than a little bitter, more than a little bloody- and a mark of a dark time in Zevran's life. He does not share it unless he must but he cannot quite bring himself to lie over it. Calling the situation complicated and rough is the best he might do.

"It was a difficult transition, going from a trio to a party to working alone- but when you've no other choice? You learn to make do." With sleepless nights and locked rooms and traps strung over the door. Letters to the handful of people he trusts and an awareness that running from city to city will only work for so long. At least here he has some security.

"Once or twice, though I never lingered for long. Too close to Antiva for comfort." Strand by strand he wraps his hair around the rods and clips them in place, working his way around. Some curls were large, some were small, to offer that variation a natural curl holds. "I can give you the name of the dwarf that crafted these for me, if you'd like."

The thought of working alone after falling mercy to fate is so awful that Scipio stops thinking of it before he even starts. Zevran has a strength unmatched, is what he allows himself to think. Without Rafael, Scipio would probably shrivel up and die. No: it takes a courage and a strength that he does not have and will never have, to be able to work alone. To start anew. Such a thing grows a little more respect in him, for Zevran.

He is more able to think of circumstances forcing one to avoid certain cities and places. To that, he is sympathetic. An understanding nod, then, before he brightens. "Truly? That would be appreciated! Though, I suppose--" And he deflates slightly, at this supposition, "I suppose a need for such things is nearly behind me. My career, it has changed."

"Has Alistair not told you of the disguised sneaking about we had to do to infiltrate Fort Drakon? Wardens have just as much need for disguises, my friend. They do whatever they must to see their goals through. Keeping these tools and skills? Has as just much worth as knowing how to kill an Ogre." Another rod, another pin, and Zevran smirks over his shoulder at Scipio. "From a distance, if possible, and if not? Find high ground to leap upon their back and sever their spine at the base of their skull. It always worked well for me."

Wait-- what?

Scipio's mouth drops open a little, an expression of shock. Zevran's glance over his shoulder will find him still composed thusly. Disguises? Leaping down from above, in a surprise attack?

"That is," he starts, but no, he is too offended and finishes, instead, hugely indignant, "Why did no one tell me!"

"About the ogre or about the disguises?" Zevran locks the last rod in place, turning over an hour glass to keep the time. "The ogre, truly they ought to have told you that from the start. Of all the darkspawn they are the largest and the most difficult to take down in a straight fight. The disguises...well. Perhaps they are jealous they are not as pretty as you and Rafael, yes?"

"Neither!" he answers, wounded. "Neither the ogres, nor the--"

Well, the part about pretty might indeed be correct. The Wardens among their company do not seem the sort to be jealous over looks, or indeed the sort that would hoard the fun disguises to themselves. But appearances can be deceiving.

Scipio considers this. Then he considers Zevran, very seriously. "I will have to speak to Alistair, of this," he says. Very seriously. "But tell me--have you truly killed an ogre, yourself?"

"Now that is a most grievous oversight indeed." He would have thought the Wardens to prepare their men better. "For shame."

Perhaps he ought to have words with Alistair. Then again it is unlikely Ogres will be wandering about on the surface with no blight in truth. But where there is a blighted dragon there is often darkspawn. Sharing what he knows? May be to their benefit.

Then again, Scipio seems happy enough to do so himself. Zevran shall leave him to it. "Many, during the blight. They are large and formidable but when you know the trick of it? Not quite so terrifying."

The lack of Scipio's Grey Warden preparation would be complicated to explain, involving a hasty and ironic conscription, and is not, actually, Alistair's fault. Or anyone's fault, really, except perhaps Scipio's own. Every time a question of did you know or were you told or have you been taught comes up, Scipio explains it away: yes, of course, killed a hundred darkspawn myself, such things are easy, do not question me, a man of the world! Playing the part of the experienced Warden does wonders for the reputation. And it is difficult, therefore, to fill in the holes of the education when the uneducated will not admit that there are holes.

Regardless of these truths, someone should have told them. About the disguises, at least. They are experienced disguisers. This is very unfair.

Yet as put out as he is, Scipio cannot resist the lure of a good story. Yes: he must know more about the ogre's death. If nothing else, it will help to distract him from this sting of betrayal. "What is the trick of it?"

Edited (small stuff srry) 2016-03-07 16:06 (UTC)

"Wait until they charge- Qunari may turn upon a whim with more grace than their size might suggest- but Ogres are larger, bulkier- slower. Once they have made their charge they are lost to their momentum until they crash into their target or the wall beyond. If you can master vaulting over or around them and cut the back of their neck? It is an easy enough kill. I would suggest rolling around them at first- if they grasp you? Broken ribs are the least of your troubles." That was a fine way to die, crushed and bitten and thrown from a cliff.

A few near scrapes had him worried- and that was when he was at the peak of his game. Scipio? Would do well to keep a safe distance.

At this brief description, Scipio's eyes go a little glassy. "Oh," he says. "I see. Yes, that is-- easily done. This was a thing that you did? Once, or more than once? My friend, I think that, either way, you are a wonder."

All of which is true. This is a very good story, a good victory. Yet, personally.. easily done? Really, what he should have added to that, is: not. There are many talents that Scipio has. There are many skills to his name, many successes and many conquests, in fields of treasure, fields of theft, fields of lies, fields of love, and, yes, even fields of battle. Or, rather: duel.

One does not duel an ogre. One must, apparently, vault over their back and cut the back of their neck. In his head, Scipio tries to work out how high one would need to vault to do so. He is accomplished at gymnastics, can walk on his hands as easily as he does his own feet, sometimes even more easily, without enough wine in him. Could he vault so high as an ogre's neck?

"Do you ever," he starts, and frowns. "I mean to say-- do many people look around themselves and wonder, how it is they came to be where they are?"

Or is it just him.

Now that- that is the look of a man that is overwhelmed by the idea, by circumstance, or by questions. Most Antivans did not know to fight as he did. Conman and delightful scoundrel Scipio might be- but perhaps he had been overestimating that which the wardens had trained him in. That which he is capable of.

"Every day of my life." A rare shade of honesty- but he has known this floundering before. Experiences it regularly. "You learn to look at what you might do to better where it is you stand, and do that. If the Wardens have done little to train you in the art of killing darkspawn without dying yourself- I have been training rogues in battle. Making time to teach you what you would need will not be so terrible a thing. The simplest and easiest trick? You already have. The rest of us? We know Darkspawn by their roars or by their smell. You are a Warden, yes? Undergone your joining? You can sense them. That is why Alistair never learned to mind his flank during the Blight. He knew where his enemies were and could react based upon that rather than seeing them. YOu will learn to do the same."

"Well, it is not that I am untrained, you see," Scipio begins to say--or, rather, to protest. But then again, the thing of it is that he is untrained, or at least, that what training he has does not quite apply in the same ways. It might, if Zevran is to be believed--it seems that disguises at least have their place among the Wardens--but as to the rest of it...

The honesty that he receives from Zevran is a kindness--and a little bit of a relief, too. Scipio nods, grateful. "I suppose the knowing does help," he says, "the-- preknowing, I mean. To have such a sense is like playing a rigged game, and these rigged games are the games that I am best at." Mostly because he can turn all outcomes to his favor. All the same: "You would truly take the time to teach me these other tricks? The tricks of the battle?"

"Different lives, different training." Zevran waves it off not so much as unimportant, but as irrelevant. Nothing to be ashamed of. Wardens are brought in for what they can do or for punishment, not one of them truly knows how to kill darkspawn until faced with such a thing. An Antivan Duelist might fare well against a single foe- but a hoarde? Requires fresh eyes and a solid instructor.

"Is that not the point of preparations for battle, to stack the deck?" Zevran's eyes crinkle in a warm grin as he pulls the rods one by one from his hair. "But of course. The wardens, aside from you and Rafa, are so grizzled, so serious, so Southern. They would be a great deal less pretty and interesting without you. Keeping you alive? Is a public service."

His point is good, and his compliment, better. Scipio's smile jumps quickly to his face, as much a sign of his agreement as it is a signal of how pleased he is to hear it.

"You are very kind, my friend, and very right." No false modesty here. Such qualities are qualities that he and Rafa have in spades, spades upon spades, and pretending otherwise would do them both a dishonor. "They are the ones of luck, to have us among them--for your reasons at the very least. How good it would be to show them still more reasons. Very well, then--I accept your offer, and will become your willing student. It would be an honor, for me. Not in the least because if your tricks with the hair are as successful as your other tricks, I will be the best prepared Warden among them!"

--For those curls are, after all, springing free and formed in perfect shapes. Truly, the work of a master.

Antivans had to stick together in the south- provided they were not caught up in petty grudges (the pasta incident was not petty, it was a point of pride, but it has been long since laid to rest) or opposite sides of a feud. Jonas may have released Zevran from his oath of loyalty years ago but extending a shade of his assistance to the Wardens only felt right. His brother was among their number and someone needed to point out when they had gaps that required filling.

In their knowledge. Minds, so filthy.

Rod after rod he pulled from his hair, the soft gold now caught in a mass of ringlets. Zevran combed his fingers through them to test the give and nods to himself, satisfied. "I speak it as I see it, as the saying goes. When we return from Nevarra? I shall leave my evenings open to train you. Fewer witnesses so the grand reveal is all the more surprising, yes?"

And so any failures aren't mocked. Mostly.

"I could not agree more." Long has Scipio favored the surprise, and the grand reveal. This is part of his showman's spirit. Since he does not consider himself a failure, the possibility of such does not enter into his mind. Of course he will be a success, just as he has been a success in everything! And with so great a teacher as Zevran instructing him, his success is even more assured.

Pleased, he beams at Zevran, and sticks his hand out for a handshake. "We are so completely in agreement, my friend. And I will hold you at your word, and look forward to it!"

And who would have thought, that he would be eager for such lessons from la pasta rivale? Truly, the world is a funny place.

Edited (yikes spacing) 2016-03-18 16:17 (UTC)

Zevran takes the hand as given and shakes it in turn, grinning. "It has been a fair while since I've taught someone that already knows the bulk of how it is done in Antiva. You will be a swift study, of this I am certain."

Not having to explain what he means half the time by using certain words, certain references? Will make it go by quickly, that understanding a fellow countryman has in their very bones shall make this easier on the both of them. Perhaps, if pressed, he might extend the same offer to Rafael- as one cannot train half of a duo; it does not work as such. The pair work as one in most everything else.

"Perhaps extend the offer, too, to your partner. Things are easier on the battlefield if you know with great certainty that your left hand is as skilled as your right, yes?" If one does not have to worry after their fellows.

Scipio's enthusiasm flags a little when Zevran brings up Rafa. Only a very little, of course, mostly in the slight downturn of his mouth. Not that there's anything wrong with Rafa! All is quite well. It is because of Rafa that he is here at all, to make this agreement with Zevran. What fortuitous circumstances, yes?

But also... Also.

"I will suggest it to him," he agrees, diplomatically. Zevran's point is quite a good one. Perhaps if it presents it so to Rafa, he will agree. Yet honesty and respect for this small friendship inspires Scipio to add, "But he may not agree. He is not so..." How to say. Thoughtfully, he waves a hand, as if to pluck the words out of the air. "He finds less joy in things. This wardening, he finds it the harder."

"It is a hard path to walk- all the more so for cunning Antivans. There are wardens of Antiva, this is true, but they are as different to those of the South as oil is to water. Different thoughts, different means, different tactics. For that alone on top of what it is you must endure..." He stops a moment and considers, turning his eyes to Scipio in a rare moment of seriousness.

"You hear the song as much as the rest, you and he, yes? Suffer the dreams, the hunger?" Zevran had traveled with two new Wardens for the better part of a year during a Blight. He knew what troubled them. "Alistair does not much care to discuss these things beyond 'grin and bear it' but...if you, either of you wish for something that might help ease these discomforts, There are some things I know to ease the pain or offer a more restful sleep."

Scipio is not a coward, per se. He has a brand of courage particular to him, the sort that allows for both foolhardy risk and hasty retreats at the sight of dangers deemed inescapable. It helps to have Rafa, who often has a keener eye for the troubles. Though Scipio was skilled at slithering out of trouble even before their partnership, he has come to rely on Rafa to inform him.

There is, unfortunately, no way to slither away from these terrors of the night, the gnaw of hunger and the tune that exists, somewhere, at the back of the mind. These things cannot be escaped. These things are difficult to confront. And so they don't. Scipio trusts Rafa with his life, would trust him with his very soul, should it ever come to that, yet their conversations on such new complaints have been very limited. Easier to complain of the cold and whatever work is now expected of them. But Scipio knows what it is that he feels, and suffers. And to think of Rafa, forced to suffer such things: this is somehow more difficult.

And so Zevran's offer easily gets attention from him. "Truly?" It is an offer as kind as the offer of training. "To not sleep does make things so difficult, and--" He hesitates, wary of betraying Rafa's trust. To speak of weakness is not done. Yet his concern overcomes such thoughts. "Is it a potion, that would help? Or some other such thing?"

"Every warden is different. Potions worked for Jonas for the first month or so- but that was during a blight. It may work better for you and your friend- and even then? A month or so of actual rest can be of great comfort. Teas, exhaustion- many a time Alistair would spar with me, with Sten, with Jonas to work himself to the point of passing out. It helped. As for the food?" He shrugs, setting his kit aside for the moment. This is Warden Business.

He is not an official Warden but- any that traveled with them during the Fifth Blight came to know much. "Keeping a personal store on hand is not unreasonable. You are newly joined, I am told it levels out. Alistair does not eat quite so much as he did ten years ago, but it is still considerable. There are a few cooks that are more easily persuaded by Antivan Charms. As you are both quite charming it should not be so great a burden, yes?"

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