faderift | [ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

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[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

WHO: Alistair, Araceli Bonaventura, Beleth Ashara, ~~Anders~~ Detlef, Korrin Ataash, Taashath, The Iron Bull, Twisted Fate, an Zevran Arainai. Guest Starring: Samouel, Cyril, and Merrick, Super Special Guest Star: Leliana.
WHAT: The Crows come for the Ombra Nera.
WHEN: Begins Guardian 6
WHERE: Skyhold/Antivan Border/The Road
NOTES: CW/TW FOR: Flesh hommonculi, violent/gruesome content, torture, blood magic, non-consensual drug use, adult content, adult language, reader discretion is advised. Sign up post, original plotting post, hit me on PM or @

thesouthernbelle if you have questions.

It's a normal morning in Thedas until, abruptly, it isn't. The Crows come calling; they are swift, they are certain, they are silent and leave behind but one witness that won't be alive for much longer (or so they assume). Prize in hand they ride North for Antiva.

Subthreads for portions of the plot are yours to tag around in as you like!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's been long enough that he feels somewhat settled in his skin. Has more than one mask to pull up- but at least it is Fate who has never asked more than he can give nor expected anything other than what they share. Familiar enough to settle him without the glinting, painful bite of guilt and pity he finds in Alistair's company, Zevran extends a hand that yet trembles to snag Fate's. Tug him closer.

"Let us see if you cannot show me one of those card tricks, yes? I think I have it now." Something simple. Something mudane. Something he can do to steady his hands.

He tries to not make it obvious, how his eyes become curious as he watches how Zevran pulls him closer. There's no struggle, and certainly no judgment. It's a simple mental note before he moves on with a faint smile. Less his usual smug smirk and almost relaxed looking.

"What a confident bravado," Fate says. "We'll see, hm?"

His shoulder lightly presses against Zevran's as he pulls out his cards, because of course Twisted Fate brought them with him. They're close enough to everything to him, a source of comfort and something to do. When he shuffles them in the tavern, no one would ever know if he was tense and trying to distract himself or if he was bored with nothing to do.

Here, it's slower, comfortable, as he lets Zevran's eyes become distracted.

"We'll start simple, I think." Because he has seen before how those hands have shook, with every reason to, but he doesn't call attention to it. "Here."

A single card is taken, and with ease as if he was breathing, Twisted Fate twirls it between his fingers.

"Pick a card?"

Things never felt the same in the Fade. Blades had their cuts dull, falling from a height merely stunned him awake. Even the most bone deep agony was oddly removed for all that it was and wasn't actually happening. But warmth- warmth he's missed.

Warmth he needs.

And warmth Fate offers by being close enough for him to lean into and against. There is nothing like the smell of leather and the beat of a heart under his ear, the texture of cards under his hands. He reaches for the offered card, attempting that same twirl. He's mastered that one, he thinks-

Time is a funny thing in the fade. But he thinks he has it. Manages a rough sketch that lacks it's usual grace.

He knows for a fact that Zevran can do better than that, but he smiles with patience instead and says nothing. For right now, it's better to let him work it out with his hands, keep him busy.

A hand rests on Zevran's shoulder, and that's as far as contact he offers. Zevran is welcome to take anything else, when he's ready to.

"You're getting it," he says, as if without a doubt. "Keep trying that."

There's a pause as Twisted Fate contemplates, then tilts his head. "You have a lot of people here who care about you. It'll help."

If that means anything.

"With the card trick?" He snorts- as though that is the only thing worth worrying over. People caring is-

It isn't entirely foreign. Alistair cares despite his better judgement and Zevran, selfishly, lets him. Leliana cares, Morrigan does in her way. Shale...

Shale cares as much as they are able.

Everyone else is...everyone here he did not expect. Does not know how to handle. So instead he focuses on that little flourish, eyes narrowed, even if he can only see through the one.

"Yes, I think with enough encouragement from your friends, you'll find the ability to perform the card trick," Fate responds a bit wryly.

To insist on more might be stepping into an area he isn't certain is something that should be broached. Then again, he knows what he was getting into the moment he went with Korrin and everyone else. He knows why he's here now, even.

"Might even ask for an encore."

The shoulder is gently squeezed.

"Yes, a round of cheerleaders to get my hand to stay steady. Hurrah." It's drier than it might be otherwise- the shaking will subside in time. Knowing it isn't what's in the back of his head doing this to him and it's just the lingering grip of whatever they'd pumped into his system with their needles and opium? That means it can be overcome in time.

But the rest, the wavering uncertainty, the things he'd rather keep to himself-

That will take longer.

"I assure you, I will encourage them to rave about your abilities as loudly as possible." There's a soft laugh, encouraging the humor. If that is what brings him some meager sense of comfort, then Fate will not deny him.

He's fine with being the distraction.

"Keep working on the card. Maybe I can tell you a story while you work. Background noise can help." Fate moves his hand from Zevran's shoulder to the middle of his back. Simple contact seems best until the other elf engages otherwise; Fate's body language is entirely open, welcoming if wanted. "A tale of romance, maybe? Or more adventure? Something else entirely?"

He snorts a faint chuckle, a little sharp around the edges but- he's gathering himself little by little. It is enough for him to work on that same flourish and twist. This time? It is more steady, more fluid. Less shaky.

Mindless repetition, he can manage that.

"Adventure." He murmurs without inflection- the last thing he wishes right now is a tale of romance. He's sick to death of sentiment; even if it is the one grounding thing he has left.

Most of the stories he's shared have been tall tales, exaggerated, or outright lies. Undoubtedly, Zevran expects as much, so what would it be if he shared something truthful? Right now, he expects Zevran may not know the difference, and the sentimentality of the choice could be missed. It's not worrisome.

This isn't for Fate. It is for Zevran.

"When I ended up in Rivain the first time, I stuck out. More than you might expect, Dalish aside. I didn't know how to survive well in a place like that; hunting and gathering, those are skills I know how to do in a forest to survive, but living in Rivain? Oh, so different. I'm sure you might have an idea. I tried to take someone's loaf of bread and nearly got my ears rounded for it. I didn't expect someone to step in and help me, much less a human. She covered for me, said I was ... ah, what was it? The stupid elf servant that wandered off, special needs, something like that. I played along, and we got away."

He cracks a smile. "She hit me after we both were alone, told me how sloppy I was. Fortune doesn't favor fools, she told me. Right before she offered to partner up and show me how to steal. Figured that was reasonable; having a mage for a companion is handy.

"Eventually, after a few years, she asked me for a favor. Who was I to say no? She showed me how to survive, after all. Turned out she had a grudge against one of the pirate captains, and wanted to kill him. I wasn't eager to be involved, but I felt I owed her. Catch him out during his shipment, they need the fruit to avoid scurvy. So, we did. Her, myself, and her little gaggle of followers."

Fate pauses, his eyes following the way the card moves. It's becoming smoother, and he seems satisfied when he continues. "Unfortunately, a group of essentially children against a grown man and his crew couldn't quite stand up to them. We had to escape. At best, all we could do to make his time miserable was to throw his cargo overboard and set his boat on fire a little."

Each attempt is more fluid than the last- Fate correct in that the lulling rumble of his story helps him focus. To think without thinking quite so hard, to feel more than calculate. His failures earn him no scorn, no derision, and no pain. Strange how a single traumatic event has stripped him of a decade's worth of distance and put him right back where he's never wished to be.

This is more and less than looking up at Jonas, yearning for the blade, blood on his teeth. This is..overwhelming and numbing- he's never had so many care, so many mind him so well and so intently without there being a price. Yet he cannot pay it for he does not know the currency. His body? Ha. He cannot move without some manner of ache and his face is no longer what it should be. His skills? His hands shake and the idea of attempting to hold a blade long enough to kill anyone is laughable.

His company?

Why would they linger for something so false and hollow as his company?

He doesn't understand, cannot understand, but he tries to keep the scales balanced for he cannot afford a debt. Even this kindness, this tale comes at a price. "A 'little' on fire?"

"Well, it's a bit difficult to set fire to a ship when it's already raining, so a little on fire is about as good as it got, magic or not." Fate chuckles.

"As it goes, Sada -- that was her name -- was determined to strike back. I'm not incredibly involved in personal vendettas, so I decided it was probably smart to end our partnership then and there before I got dragged off to try something else. Maybe steal the captain's breeches? Either way, it was time to leave. Tried leaving Rivain a few times, but I always sort of found myself back there.

"The next time I visited, I was playing Wicked Grace, as I do. Prideful, rich people love to show off, and I was too happy to remind them the limits of their purses. I didn't expect a vashoth to join us, and no one else did. He ended up outplaying everyone else, but pretended to be stupid, as people might expect him to be. First time I ever lost a card game to someone, and I was certain I knew his tells. I didn't. Hit my pride a bit, but it was a good lesson."

Fate pauses, and rests his hand on Zevran's wrist. "You're doing well. Let me see you shuffle the cards now," he instructs. "Anyway, the vashoth. Clever man. I liked how he played, and figured that could be useful. Didn't seem like he wanted to confront pirate crews anytime soon, thankfully, so we agreed to a partnership for a time. The most stubborn man I ever met, but an amazing shot. Couldn't pick locks for shit, though."

Eventually he gets it, the fluid twist, the flourish. Something so small, so simple should not bring him so much pleasure. He should have had it on the first try. He should be doing better.

He turns to press his cheek against Fate's shoulder for a moment, giving up the card for the whole deck and this? Leaves his hands feeling clumsy. He tries a basic cut and shuffle and, after some fumbling, manages it. The more he focuses on what he is doing, the harder it becomes and he sighs, turning his attention to Fate's tale instead. That helps. Not thinking helps. It is a safe sort of drifting he offers, one with an anchor. "Locks can be quite difficult if you are unaccustomed to the mechanism."

There is no judgment. His hand is held out, offering to take the cards back. Best not to push anything right now. He thinks if he was in a similar situation, he'd feel the same way. It'd be odd to not be able to so something so simple.

"I tried to teach him," Fate says wryly. "Suppose he got Ferelden locks just fine. Basic ones. Anything that wasn't a locked farmer's closet, though, he was out of luck. Everything else? Despite the size of his hands, he was good at what he did. Didn't like the weight of a sword, and he preferred his bow. I always said I'd feel bad for the man at the end of his arrow."

Gently, he tucks some hair over Zevran's ear. "Made a good team for awhile. Our best haul was an Orlesian noble; hell of a con, that one. I applied enough make up on my face to cover my vallaslin and pretended to be one of his servants. Didn't even notice the difference, but I started a rumor about someone coming to rob him of his vault. Eventually, he got so paranoid that he had his servants move his belongings -- myself included. My partner came in during the move and we ran off with his things. I had to get the vest refitted, but it's still one of my favorites to this day."

"Now that is a fine con. I must commend you for it; not even in Antiva has anyone managed something quite so brash."

Fereldan locks are tricky bastards when one is used to the overcomplicated tumblers and springs of an Antivan lock. Nothing should be so simple; it was mortifying how difficult he found them during the fifth blight. Almost how it is mortifying that he cannot shuffle a deck. He sighs and hands the cards over, hands patting his pockets for a trinket he does not think he has.

"...has anyone found a black runestone?" He had it on him when he was taken, that much he recalls- but as he was found naked...

"It was a wild ride, one con after the other."

He thinks about it, briefly. There's a thoughtful look before he's turning his attention back to Zevran, a more pressing and immediate concern. The cards are received, pocketed away for the time being.

The question makes him tilt his head. "No. I was not aware you were missing a valuable. Where do you think it may have been lost?"

"Something I was given the day before." From Alistair. A stone he'd held onto for whatever reason and gifted him. Something from the Blight when times were simple and he knew where he stood. "It was likely lost in the struggle."

Nevermind. Sentiment. Weakness.

"It is unimportant. Tell me of another of your cons?"

It was a gift, then. Something lost, and probably more dear than Zevran wants to say. Frankly, he's in a similar situation; Twisted Fate is still kicking himself for having lost his arrowhead during his little run from the bears in Emprise du Lion. He dislikes the idea of having lost it entirely, but it's looking that way.

But it doesn't necessarily have to be that way for Zevran. He'll make a note of it to look.

"Of course. Let's sit for now." Verbally, he presses no further. He knows what to look for. Instead, Twisted Fate gently guides Zevran to sit with him.

"There was a traveling merchant who went by the name Henmar. A very proud dwarf, overpricing his goods and a self-proclaimed negotiator. He had several indebted to him. There were two steps for this con: first, my partner and I agreed that we would, of course, run off with his money. That was the important part. The second? We had to devalue the crafts he was importing. Usually dwarven crafts are reliable, but not when they're made with cheap material by starving underclassed.

"My partner, Malsaam, started first with purchasing armor and a shield. Not that he really used the types, no one would know by looking at him. You see a vashoth, most people assume he's going to hit things with a hammer or something equally enormous. With a bit of ice magic, we made it more brittle as a little insurance for our performance. In the middle of the market in Denerim where Henmar had his shop temporarily set up, we paid someone to attack Malsaam. One strike, and everything cracked. Malsaam pretended to confront Henmar, who did try to defend himself but several others began to feel they were conned by the merchant.

"Henmar lost a great deal of business. I convinced him to play some Wicked Grace with me. I made it seem like I was a naive Dalish elf, so he felt confident he could reclaim some of his losses."

Twisted Fate smiles sharply. "You can imagine how wrong he was. We put him out of business, and ran away with his money."

Nothing, it is nothing, and he puts it from his mind like nothing. It is a stone. A thing. He should be comforted that he yet lives, that everyone that was so foolish as to come fetch him was not harmed terribly, that a few of the crows yet live and now might have a chance to learn that which he was taught during the blight. Eventually he will need to face them. Present the choice but-

He needs to be what they fear, then. The Ombra Nera. Right now he is having a difficult enough time being himself; though every story, every touch brings him back into his skin. Fate is nothing if not an anchor, a solid diversion for how he settles in his bones. It hurts; but that helps more than hinders.

Without the runestone he settles for a button he'd picked off his shirt, rolling it over his knuckles. The first few passes are clumsy but, eventually? He manages it.

At least until a crackle of laughter jars his hand, Zevran snorting into Fate's shoulder as they lean and sit. "I am sensing a pattern to your cons, my friend. You are not so careless as you would have others think."

The laughter is more victorious than he cares to admit, and he smiles to himself. The comment does give him pause and he tilts his head faintly, his arm resting around Zevran's waist, a silent indication of comfort.

"Is that so?" Fate asks, as if indicating he desires clarification. There's the presentation of indifference, but he suspects that Zevran's made his own conclusions.

And he's clever enough that he doesn't think he could express otherwise.

"Mhmm. I have you pegged." Punching up. Cutting down the pompous. Doing a little good rather than a grand gesture- it suits Fate better than playing at being a hero. Men such as they were ill suited to that role. Little things- getting rid of one man, chasing out an unwelcome trader- these make the world slide into place. Balances the scales. It is a kind of nobility Zevran can get behind. "You choose targets that are rich and somewhat cruel- as well as foolish. I must say? I approve."

Quite a bit at that.

Well, Zevran isn't wrong. For the appearance he gives of being a smug, self-centered man -- which, he freely admits to being -- his motives are clear. To take from the proud, the rich, the prideful, and the cruel, to take theirs into his own. Eventually, he just smiles a little, the expression more sincere instead of his typical smirk.

He bumps his forehead against the other elf's temple, gently.

"Then I can't really complain. I've had to live a little more honestly since joining the Inquisition, but I like what I did."

"Perhaps we might run a con together in Orlais. There are many such marks and I have not worked with a partner in crime for at least a decade." Idle thoughts, idle planning. it'd be some time before he felt fit enough to be seen anywhere, let alone run any manner of job but...when he did? Working it with Fate is one of the best options he can think of. They understand one another without needing to talk it out- can play off of one another in a pinch.

It's marvelous- and settles him in no small way.

For a moment, he looks thoughtful. It's a nice fantasy, isn't it? To imagine going back to a life like that. It's nostalgic, in any case.

"It's a fine idea. But you and I are in a similar position; I haven't worked with anyone in a long time. If there's a time in which I'm no longer part of the Inquisition... Well. I would want to say yes."

But he doesn't know that he could-- or should, rather.

"Perhaps a con on the behalf of the Inquisition. Sister Nightingale is not so far above such things should it be in the Inquisition's better interest. But- I understand." He'd worked as a fighter with a group now and then in the interim but there is nothing like a solid partnership.

And nothing like losing one.

Trying to pick it up again- it can be difficult. Almost painful. "Thoughts for rainy days."

[ CLOSED ] THE ANTIVAN CROWS SEND THEIR REGARDS

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