[ OPEN ] Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran and YOU
WHAT: Zevran's Birthday and Ardent Blossom Contest
WHEN: Forward dated to Guardian 5
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Shenanigans connected to this announcement

Someone had been a sneaky little shit, preying on Zevran's lack of familiarity with traditions and dates and the weight people tend to put on something so mundane as a 'birthday'. Someone (Alistair) had spread word and made a thing of it, despite Zevran not seeing the point nor truly wishing to cause a fuss. He had, however, decided to take a day for himself to do nothing. No fuss, no stress, no real work. A day to indulge in a few of his many hobbies. He did not know what one did on their birthday normally but here he was, sitting in the Courtyard with one of his found spoils on his head, awaiting those that paid mind to his earlier announcement. When he wasn't idly sketching whoever he saw in the courtyard he was in the Herald's rest, enjoying a quiet drink and making notes on the better stories or songs he has heard throughout the day.

Comments

[ombranera]

"You are better than I, my friend." He pulls some worn, tin cups from the desk, checks them for residue of any kind before pouring for them both. Something of home with something close to from home, arranged if not prepared by someone he cares about. Sentiment, again, but...for one day it's fine.

Even if he isn't going to have emotions about the meal.

"This comes from a vineyard not far from Antiva city, gorgeous hills, huge villa close to the coast- the mistress of the house is quite lovely and has an appreciation for flexible elves. Sometimes I would visit in return for a case of their latest vintage."

[byblow]

"Cad," Alistair accuses lightly. He lifts a cup to sniff at the contents, makes a face of considered approval, and drinks half of it in the usual gulpy and unfinicky Fereldan fashion.

He does appreciate it, though, even if it's possibly a bit wasted on him.

Maybe it would be better to let Zevran eat first, but he's fidgety and impatient in addition to unrefined, and as soon as he's set the cup back down he fishes into his pockets and sets down on the desk a pair of small rune stones—one black, one white, neither enchanted, both rubbed silk-smooth in places where Alistair has spent a decade habitually worrying at them with his thumbs.

"Pick one," he says, and quickly appends, "Don't make me explain." That isn't normal for him. He'll bookend the sappy stuff with jokes, maybe, but he won't withhold it. The problem now isn't that he doesn't want to sound sentimental; it's that he can't articulate what it means to him without talking about Cousland, and they're having a nice time, why ruin it. "I just want you to have one."

[ombranera]

It is something of home shared with someone he holds as dear as he would think he'd hold his own blood, had he any worth holding. As such it is not wasted; though he does take his first sip slower. Familiar and warm, with the pasta and fish it is all the more so than the peasant bread and honey. Zevran is mid chew when the stones are set down and those-

He's surprised Alistair kept them. After Loghain...

Not asking is asking much of him but- he reaches out, sliding his fingers over the dark rune stone. A worry stone. Something for luck or for fortune, or simply for approval. It had gained Alistair's at the time. All of them so desperately pretending they didn't ache for these little signs that someone cared.

And Jonas had, in his own way. More than Zevran had expected. He pulls it close. Swallows his pasta, rolling the rune over his knuckles as he would a coin. "Thank you."