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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Nahariel is quiet on the approach, but easily noticed. She's carrying what looks like an egg shape of a lightly polished golden-brown wood, her set of carving tools buckled to her belt.

"I've a story for you, if you like."

"Ah, Morena." He smiles, setting aside his notes and sketches for the moment to offer her his full attention. "I would like to hear it. Please, sit."

Cyril appears after reading the announcement and looks far too amused by how Zevran looks with flowers on his head. "My, what a dashing sight," he says. "Is that what's at stake for the contest?"

"It is indeed." Zevran flicks to a fresh page of his sketchbook, roughing out the angle of Cyril's jaw as hie approaches. Smile lazy and warm- he's even foregone the usual leathers and most of his knives for the day in favor of a loose, red silken shirt in the billowing style of Antiva, a tightly fitted black brocade vest, his softest, darkest leather trousers and his finest leather boots. Dressed as though he were home rather than in Skyhold- all he needs is the half cape. "I have four to give as prizes."

Cyril's brow rose a bit. "Only four?" he suggested. He also took some time to appreciate the way that Zevran looked today. He had a strong desire to run his hands over that shirt and feel the way the fabric touched Zevran's skin. "I suppose I'll have to work extra hard to stand out from the crowd."

"Only four- aside from those I keep for myself." One for him, one for Alistair. It only seemed fitting, after all. "So."

Curious, thoroughly curious, he leaned back, knowing full well the lines of the fest hugged him so, tapering to a point just above his belt buckle and all the sordid things that lay beneath.. "What is it you intend to do to impress me?"

"Well someone looks like they're dressed to 'kill'." Sam raises his brows as he approaches, smiling a bit crookedly as he tilts his head to take in Zevran's outfit and the flowers haloed on his head. "I take it that is one of the circlets you were speaking about in your message?" he asks, motioning a circle around his head to refer to the flower crown.

He's curious about it, but that isn't why he comes looking for Zevran. Rather it's the small basket covered with some cloth that brings him to the courtyard for the assassin.

She slides into place a bit away, and smiles.

"Some time ago, deep in the forest, an egg was laid," she begins, pushing the wooden egg from her palm to her fingertips, pulling the first of her tools free from its pouch.

"Before the bird within the egg knew how to know, it could feel the weight and warmth of its mother upon it, and all was well." As she spoke, she began to carve. The warmly colored wood came free curl by curl under her practiced hands.

"One day, soon before it was ready to hatch, the warmth went away. And, when it hatched, it was alone." The egg slowly gave way to the shape of a bird, what would become wings partially raised behind it.

"It did not know what it was, or how to become what it should be, and it called out into the forest in its confusion." Its beak became evident, the head curving slightly down towards it.

"There was to be a response to its call--but not the one it had hoped." She carved a space beneath it, leaving what would be legs connected to the bottom of the egg.

"For it happened that in this forest there also lived a flock of crows, and they came to answer the cry with their hunger, rather than their help." The last vestiges of egg disappeared beneath her patient knife, turning to a perch of sorts.

"When they came to take the bird as food for their young, however, the leader of the crows had an idea. She could see an opportunity. For she was old and wise, and knew what the fledgling was. If they could raise it as one of their own, it would grow into a strong hunter, and provide much more than it could as the small meal it was that day." The beginnings of talons appeared, gripping the perch.

"And so, they took it back to their nests, and the bird became a crow." She paused for a moment to switch to a finer tool, and to sweep the mess of shavings from her lap into a bag that had been folded up and tucked into her belt.

"It grew as the others did, perhaps a bit more. It spoke their guttural cries, though perhaps more piercingly. When its feathers came in and did not match the glossy black of its fellows, it thought perhaps it was not trying hard enough. But they all took wing together, and never did it doubt the old matriarch's assertion: it was a crow." As she spoke of its cries, she shaped the beak--long, flat like a crow. For fledging and flying she began to detail feathers, giving it tracings of a crow's spread primaries, the eyes small at the sides of the head.

"It came to pass that the matriarch was right. The bird had sharp eyes and sharper talons, and over the years it provided much for the flock. It never asked why it was different, and she never told." She continued her detailing, adding more feathers, the grasp of the talons on its perch.

"It came to pass one day, while the flock looked for food, that another cry was heard in the forest. Going to see if it could be a meal, the bird was astonished to see another like itself. She had been attacked by wolves, and would soon perish. In the trees, the crows waited for her end so that they could feast upon her." As the bird saw its like, she began to change the carving, rounding and widening the eyes.

" 'Why do we not help her?' asked the bird, 'Why do we wait for death?'. 'If we do, we will go hungry,' replied the old matriarch. 'But if nature takes its course, we will all be full. Perhaps if we look, we may find eggs as well, and grow even stronger.' " She began to carve the primaries, different than the lines she had carved lightly into the wings before.

"Suddenly, the bird remembered how cold it had been before it hatched. It thought of the crows, waiting in the trees, perhaps waiting for its own mother to die--and so, indeed, had it happened. The old matriarch saw the change in its eyes, and became scared. 'I was wrong to take you!' she cried. And then, in fear and anger, she spat its name." Nahariel carved away the length of the beak, turning it into a wicked hook.

"'Hawk!'" And so it was. Under her hands, it had changed from a crow to a kestrel, gripping its perch, wings slightly spread as if about to burst into flight.

"The other crows became frightened as well, and their meal was forgotten in the fight that followed. There were many crows and but one hawk, but it fought with the ferocity that only one who has lived so long without its name can fight. At the end, many crows were slain, and the rest fled, screeching vengeance and fear." She replaced her tool for a finer one again, continuing her detail work on the wood. As she spoke of the fight, the perch emerged in more detail as a weapon hilt.

"The hawk winged down to its fallen sister, then. With her dying breath she told of her nest, and the hawk promised that the eggs there would not go uncared for. That from the moment of their hatching, they would be taught what they were, and how to become what they should be--" Another tool, this time to gently smooth the wood in the places that were not as detailed.

"--For in the end, nothing is as powerful and free as someone who has come to know what they are." Finally, she applied a few drops of oil to a soft cloth and rubbed the carving with it until it shone as well as the egg it had started as.

With a small smile, she brushed the wood shavings from her lap again--they were finer, nearly dust, so this time she let them fly off into the afternoon breeze. Then she turned, and held the finished carving out to him.

"Happy birthday."

Edited 2016-01-31 03:56 (UTC)

"The one I am keeping for myself, yes. I've four more to give out." A fifth held in reserve for Alistair, of course, but that went without saying. The rest are to be distributed at his whim. But that does not seem to by why Sam is here, unless the basket has props for his talent. "I think they are rather fetching."

Cyril chuckled a bit. "Is the contest happening now then?" he comes a little closer and touches Zevran's shoulder lightly. Mostly because he can't resist the urge to feel that red cloth. "I'll have to make sure I have music first."

He set down his pen as the story began, eyes flicking between her face and her hands. The smooth, certain strokes that brought shape from nothing- slowly crafting a bird, a crow, from lines marked into the wood. With the burr and lilt of her voice he wonders if she knows exactly how close to the truth she is. That he'd lost his mother, that he'd been sold, trained, reshaped into something that, if not quite what he is was close enough to suit until he learned better.

That it took a death of someone or something dear for him to learn that his life wasn't as it ought to be. That he could be more- should be more. Or that he was nothing like those that shaped him into the weapon they'd needed.

He'd been smiling at the start, caught and entranced by the tale and her hands as much as he had been her whistling before-

But it slowly drew somber, contemplative- an old ache coiling behind his eyes and in his gut to have it set out so plainly. Perhaps he ought to seek out those like him and do more than offer a merciful death. Perhaps-

No.

A tale told, a good tale told, a beautiful carving made? "Beg pardon?"

He blinked a little at the offering, at her smile, puzzled. He'd chosen, yes but-

"...Alistair has been telling tales."

"It is happening all day. If I am suitably impressed? At the end I deliver the prizes to those that earned them." And Cyril could certainly earn one depending on what it is he means to do. Zevran took Cyril's free hand, the one not touching his shirt, and tugged it close to kiss the back of his hand. Under Cyril's fingers he would find that there was a subtle pattern, a raised stitching in the shirt. "I'm certain we can have that arranged. What would you need, Tresoro?"

"Four more? I'm surprised that I'm finding you on your own then - you haven't been swarmed for them yet" He chuckles lightly as he stops short of Zevran and takes a seat in front of him, shifting a bit to get comfortable as he continues to eye the flowers. "They are rather beautiful... and magical." He can feel the small amount of lyrium from this distance.

With that said Sam sets the basket in front of Zev before leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on the top of his hands. It's not exactly props, but the basket does have something from his talent. "How many daggers did you say a good assassin should have on him?"

"I think the enchantment is one of protection, but I do not know enough to tell of what sort." He reaches up to rub a leaf between his fingers, pleased by the fresh, cool feel of it. There is nothing quite like fresh flowers in the morning, still beaded with dew. That these feel as such always? Is delightful.

"Seven, at least." He quirks a brow at Sam, wondering what he's heading for. "Why?"

"Something seductive, of course. Would you expect anything less of me?" Cyril asks. He's smiling in a comfortable sort of way when Zevran kisses his hand. The fingers against the cloth played a bit with the design. "Or perhaps I should try to be less predictable?"

Kaisa doesn't know Zevran as much as she knows of him, but the other Wardens who did know were fond of him, and Alistair clearly liked him enough to arrange this whole birthday blast for him. And, of course, he had helped defeat the Archdemon and the Blight--As far as Kaisa was concerned, he was a friend of the Warden Order in general.

Which meant that she was happy enough to slink on over and flop down bonelessly next to him.

"Hey, how has that announcement been going so far? I thought about it, but then I was like, what am I good at? I'm good at a lot of things, but none of them are really fit for showing off in the middle of Skyhold, you know?" She stopped her chatter to raise an eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at her lips, as she waits a beat, before continuing. "I don't think they'd like me bringing an ogre here." That is the only thing she was talking about, of course. Pay no mind to that smirk.

"Anyway, aside from that--" She dug into a pouch on her belt. Bethany had been in charge of arranging the Official Warden Present, but that didn't mean that Kaisa couldn't sweeten the pot a little. She fished out coiled up piece of fabric, and pulled it out, stretching it so Zevran could see. It was a long blue ribbon, with an embroidery of grape vines twisting around it. "--I thought this would look pretty, with your hair. And the person I got it from said it was Antivan, but they were Orlesian, so, you never know."

She paused, frowning. "That wasn't really a sterling recommendation for it. But it's pretty, you're pretty, I thought it'd work out. It'll match what Bethany got you."

"Well enchantments aren't my forte so I wouldn't be able to tell you for sure. At least you'll look nice while doing everything, yeah?"

At the question Sam gives a bit of a shrug before motioning for Zevran to go through the basket. Under the cloth isn't any fanciful packaging, but there is enough for him to go through. A leather pouch with a set of daggers etched with wings, a whetstone, and a variety of fruit.

Nahariel had made some guesses at the shape of it, enough to pick through old stories in her mind until she found one to suit, had tailored it a little more closely--perhaps a little too much so, more than she'd known. She knew she'd been taking a risk with the telling; after all, she hardly knew him, and a journey of finding oneself was never without sorrow. There had just been something about him that had reminded her of her own small isolation, and so she'd reached. She was sorry to see the vestiges of that ache in his face.

And rather embarrassed to hear she might have been wrong about the occasion in the first place.

"Is it... not?"

"I- no. It is but- In the crows we did not celebrate such things. It is a day as any other- most of us did not know when...Alistair made me choose a day." He snorted a soft laugh, cradling the carving in his hand. A Hawke- and not any. A Kestrel.

Years ago he made a joke to a stoic Qunari in the middle of the dusty road and now? It feels horribly appropriate.

"He asked if he could spread the word. I suppose I now know why." His eyes, when he lifts them to her again, are warm, shining with sincere affection. "Thank you. This- and the tale- they are beautiful."

"Is this some manner of saucy surprise-" Ah, no. Not saucy.

Kind. Terribly, horribly kind. They are simply adorned and exquisitely balanced, he takes them out one by one to flip them over his fingers, test the edge against the pad of his thumb- inspecting every angle not to criticize, but to appreciate. "These are..."

Marvelous. That is the only word for them. And thus, that is what he says. "Marvelous, Sam."

"I find myself all aquiver in anticipation either way." He presses another soft kiss, this time to the inside of Cyril's wrist- but there is no heat to it. This is idle affection, gently and sincerely given. "Now what manner of seductive thing are you imagining, mm? Or is that a surprise?"

This was someone new. Zevran blinked at her approach, attempting to place her for this level of familiarity spoke of either knowing him or bedding him at least once before- but he cannot recall her face, nor her voice, nor the shape of her hands and those are things he recalled ever and always of those that he took to his bed, or at least wished to take to his bed.

Without a name to put to the face or a memory to put to the voice, he simply let her speak.

Let her flirt- or at least attempt to flirt.

He was fairly certain it was an attempt to flirt. Someone truly needed to speak to the Wardens on how it was they do so- with the infertility and resistance to disease? one would think they'd take better advantage of it and learn to be charming. Not that she wasn't. He leaned back in his chair, head tipped to the side, smirk curling at his lips. "The stitching does seem familiar to me, yes."

Grapevines were a familiar motif, he traced the embroidery with a light fond hand. "And what, dare I ask, has Bethany chosen to get me?"

Sam certainly expects a comment from Zevran - something lewd or other - but at seeing him cut himself off, Sam cannot help but grin wider, more so because of the expression on Zevran's face. To be honest he didn't know what to get the assassin, but after much thought something that would be useful and practical seemed like the best way to go.

The compliment has the proud grin turning softer, a warm smile that Zevran liked the gift. "I'm not sure if they'll be a match for any of the daggers you've collected so far, but... hopefully you'll find them useful. They'll cut fruit rather well at least." That being said Sam reaches over and pulls a peach from the bottom of the basket with amusement.

"Happy birthday, Zevran."

"Oh, well, it was more of all of us, but she was the one wh--Secret!" Shit. That loose tongue was going to be the death of her one day. She rubbed the shaved side of her head, a sheepish smile on her face. "It's a surprise! But you'll see. All of the Wardens decided to get you a gift, but I figured it'd be okay to get you extra things. I mean--"

She stopped again, this time frowning as she looked like she had come to a startling and rather upsetting revelation. You could all but hear the gears turning, before she turned back to him, and stuck her hand out.

"Andraste's flaming tits, I'm sorry about that. It's hard to remember I'm, ah. Allowed to give my name without risking getting dragged away in chains." That certainly sounded better than 'I got so excited to meet you and give you things that I forgot to say my name'. "For what it's worth, Warden Kaisa Daesun at your service. Maker's breath, everything is all tits up lately, I swear I don't just go around dropping in on whatever pretty elf I see and give them hair ribbons."

She paused for a moment, rubbing her chin. "I'd need a lot more hair ribbons, if I did."

This all seemed horribly familiar- more than enough for him to crackle a low laugh. Excitable and exuberant, now where had he seen that before. That the wardens have opted to get him something- he could see that argument coming from Alistair as he knew Zev well, perhaps even Sabriel. But the rest? He knew of them, was friendly with them, but he would not call them his friends. Then again this whole gifting business seems a little more and less nuanced than he'd expected.

Perhaps having a birthday to celebrate each year would not be so terrible. He was getting so many lovely, free things.

"We do seem to have a surplus of lovely elves. And humans. And dwarves, and Qunari- I wonder if it was not some manner of requirement for recruitment, that you be handsome or lovely."

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

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