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

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

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.

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"We would spend half the time licking our fingers clean afterward-" A beat. "Perhaps you should have brought the honeycakes."

His smirk is so innocent, his eyes so bright, it is of course for the flavor of the cakes he asks and not the licking of hands. "Did you bake these?"

More civil a subject, he knows.

She makes a noise worthy of Cassandra, shooting him a look. He has to make it about that, doesn't he? Though the tease is precisely that. A tease. Little more. This is a little game they've constructed, and so long as they both follow the rules no real ill can come of it.

Instead she waves at him to take another, to try as many as he likes, before her hands fold primly in her lap. "I did. I'd taken to making treats now and then for some of the children staying in the hold...as well as those deserving of a little respite. It seemed the thing to do."

Her shoulders lift in a faint shrug. She's hardly rich, has little to speak of to her own name, but she takes care of those around her as best she can.

There is a line and he is careful not to cross it. Toe it, certainly, perhaps push now and then, but never cross. She lets him know what is and isn't over the line as it tends to move depending on how either one of them is feeling on a particular day. Some might find it exhausting. He?

Finds it fascinating.

While the scones were delightful enough on their own, to know she made them herself, softens his smile. "They are marvelous, Leoncina."

It shifts almost constantly, but they read each other well enough that it hardly seems to matter. She never truly takes offense, and he never presents himself in an offensive manner. Indeed, he's been almost gentlemanly. His flirtations are mild things, almost as if he simply can't help himself.

But there's more to him than that, isn't there? The first night they'd spoken, she'd seen it there in his eyes when speaking of his friend. The one she reminded him of, the older woman in the Warden's company. Obviously there's a great deal of heart under that smarm.

Or she wouldn't have gone through the trouble of making the scones.

"Good. I'm pleased you like them. Not everyone's fond of sweets," she admits, tucking a lock of curly hair behind her ear. "You of late seem to have a taste for more bitter notes."

And the corner of her mouth quirks upwards.

"We were not given them often in the Crows, and I do not often have the time nor trust to purchase them as I would; but these? Are wonderful." He trusts that she's given him something that will not do him harm, delights in that she thought enough of him to mix and bake anything at all. Fine gifts of leather and wool and silk are marvelous but something like this.

Something personal, something with sentiment? Warms him. "If you never tell anyone else how these are made I shall be forced to curry your favor for them until the end of my days."

And he would.

Shamelessly.

"Family recipe. You know how these things go."

Her attention finally strays to the sketches he's been working on before her arrival, notably the outline of her brother's profile. "An artist, too? You hadn't mentioned that," she adds absently, tilting her head to get a better look without needing to reach for the paper itself.

"Truly, I do not." That is no joke but it is given so easily, so offhand that he can and does laugh at it. "But I shall simply come to you and look sad until you feel moved to share your gifts once again."

As he tilts the page of his journal to her so he might share his. It's a fair likeness, something he picked up in his youth and picked at when he has the time. "Well you spend a lot of time waiting on rooftops as an assassin. It became a way of testing my memory."

Without prompting he flicks the page back to show Mia herself on the page, all soft, smug smiles as she moves a piece on the chessboard before her. One of their earlier games, by the look of it.

"I'll have you know I'm immune to puppy eyes. My youngest brother employed them far too often, and they've quite lost their effect," she tuts, clucking her tongue. But he's free to enjoy the treats here and now, and truth be told it wouldn't take a sad look for her to consider making them again.

But it wouldn't do for him to know that.

Settling in more comfortably, she leans over, to better look at the sketches that cover the pages. When she sees her own face, however, a wrinkle appears in her brow. She's not often one for regarding herself in the mirror, save to make herself presentable.

"Your memory must have quite the filter," she finally murmurs, tone uncertain.

"Ah, but those are human puppy eyes, Elven puppy eyes are their own animal." Sadder, wider, brighter. They could soften even the hardest of hearts- but for now he simply tears off another bit of the poppyseed scone and pops it into his mouth, enjoying the flavor.

That she thought nothing of her own appearance comes as no surprise. She hasn't struck him as a woman to care much for such things.

"Hardly. I know a lovely and clever woman when I see one." For that is where his focus in the drawing lay- the brightness of Mia's eyes, the faint curl to her smirk, the way her brows angled in thought as she considers the board- looking rather than where she is placing the piece but to the next move five ahead.

"Hardly a need for honeycakes with words so sweet, then," she replies with a smirk and a shake of her head, before her eyes fall back to the page once more.

It's startling to realize you've been a point of such focus for someone else, or perhaps his memory is simply that good. It must be that. Zevran is using flattery to throw her off balance, as he's been doing for quite some time now, because of course it can't be genuine. She's no fool.

Funny, though, the way she looks through his eyes. Seeing her own reflection in passing, all she ever looks is...tired.

Both eyebrows lift as her gaze returns to Zevran. "It's a remarkable talent, regardless."

"It is a fine way to pass the time, keep track of important faces; or help remember those I look upon fondly." And he does, at that. Look upon her fondly. There's an indomitable spirit in her, a highly Fereldan sort of steel that He admires, an intelligence he respects- and a depth of compassion he does not quite know how to handle. Thus the attempts at charming her which still come to naught.

By now it is something of a game, seeing what doesn't work. What new trick she will turn down. But for once? The sketch is not a part of it.

Fondness. It's an odd thing. She's fond of him in her own way, or she wouldn't be here, but it would hardly do to let him know that. Certainly not to let him think his charms are having any effect whatsoever.

It is perhaps in spite of them that she finds herself thinking of him, now and then.

"Mm. And who else have you managed to capture?" she inquires with a raised brow, gesturing towards the book. He doesn't have to share, of course, but she can't deny being a little curious.

"Well..." He flips to the beginning, his first rough sketches from his early days in Skyhold. Scouts and soldiers, a rough outline of the hold itself against a bright sky. Lace Harding, Cullen in his armor looking tired, Leliana at her desk with her hood back- Alistair in his armor, Alistair with straw in his hair, Alistair sleeping curled with dogs- various Dalish- Merrill with her string, Nari carving, Cyril lounging, Gavin laughing, Ellana smiling, Merrick frowning, Pel looking sad and lovely, Beleth sleeping in a tree- Maxwell sitting on a log in the Fallow Mire, The shadowy outline of Sam at the forge. River high on the walls dancing in the wind, her brother working a mortar and pestle. Isabella in all her loveliness cheating at cards, Cassandra looking stern, Varric with his letters, Fenris with a tankard and a crooked smirk. Taas in all his lounging, muscular glory swinging his axe, Korrin with lightening crackling between her fingers, Twisted Fate playing cards with a lazy smile, Anders smirking, Morrigan and her boy sitting quietly in the garden. The Iron Bull sparring with Krem, all thick lines and furious movement, Vivienne holding court in the balcony, the rough sketches of her surroundings fading into the intricate detail of her posture, Michel de Chevin's jawline, head tipped back in the throes of something blissful or mirthful, Norrington somber and weary at his desk, Aracheli leaping from rooftop to rooftop, A bright lady sitting, twisting gold into thread, Kalian curled up around a book in the garden.

Sketches of a man in heavy lines with a hard jaw and harder eyes, half finished and abandoned. Fonder, sweeter lines of a face not in skyhold, elven ears and brilliant eyes finished and left alone but the once on the page.

She recognizes a fair few of these faces, so clear is the way he's captured them. It's more than just the image. Here he's captured what is so quintessentially them, and as the pages turn she finds herself moved by the detail with which Zevran chooses to remember these people.

That she is among them no longer seems a ploy. The harder lines about her face ease as they turn, and turn. Not all of them she knows, but she's glimpsed almost all of them at one point or another in the keep.

"Truly remarkable. Perhaps you went into the wrong field," Mia murmurs, dryly affectionate as her lips quirk upwards before pointing out the elven woman. "I don't recall seeing her here. Someone you knew before, I take it?"

"I have sold a sketch or two for coin in the past, yes." Usually when he had the time and the money- a noble that caught him at it years ago made noises about being his patron in the arts but...well. He killed him.

Hazards of the job, truly.

He stares for a moment at the sketch, a face half remembered but long since memorized. His smile goes small and sad, his eyes distant. "Someone I knew a long while ago, yes."

A lifetime ago.

Mia's eyes lift, observing that moment of quiet introspection. He remembers her fondly, she thinks, he must. But she is long gone, in one sense or another. Perhaps she ought to have gone into art herself, to hold fast to the memories of those she's lost as well.

"Well. She's very lovely," she replies gently.

"And I don't mean to invite melancholy. You're free to tell me, 'Mia, mind your own business' if I overstep my bounds. You know that, yes?"

"She was." Rinna. Had he any paints he could put the red to her hair or the grey to her eyes, cold like a spring mist over the sea. "Ah, there is nothing to overstep. I would not have shown you if I had not wished to speak of her. But I shall remember that for the future, yes?"

"Of course. What would an assassin be without some air of mystique?" Mia chuckles, waving one hand dismissively before letting it drop to her lap. "I imagine there's a great deal more to you than anyone will ever know."

And while she hardly expects to be the one to see beyond that charm of his, it's intriguing enough to see glimpses, now and then. Sentiment is not something commonly ascribed to men of his profession, but then he almost seems to thrive on that unpredictability.

Which is now only sometimes more annoying than not.

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

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