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!

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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."

"I don't doubt that you would be an excellent partner, Zevran. Me, though... That is another story. I can't say that I've had a particularly good track record."

There's a pause and he glances out into the field before he shrugs.

"Not that you really need to be hearing my concerns right now. Do you need another tale, or some rest?"

"You've a better record than I. A decade ago I had two partners, we worked as a trio. One solid unit." As light and dry as he can manage, offhand as he flicks the button up and catches it. "They both died due to my foolishness. One for my naivete, one for not knowing to leave well enough alone. Their blood is on my hands."

Another roll along his knuckles, another flick into the air as he catches it. "Perhaps one more, if you do not mind it?"

As though he had not just bared one of his oldest scars.

For a moment, he's quiet and contemplates what Zevran's just shared with him without asking for more. Not right now. Honestly, he's surprised that Zevran had shared that much with him, but he knows how trust is a careful thing for both of them. The nature of their life makes it difficult to obtain and keep, and when broken forever scars over.

"Of course," he says quietly. Who is he to deny a story?

"For years, Malsaam and I went across Thedas with the cons. It was thrilling, and I'd never known a greater friend than him. No one had known me better, and I suppose no one ever will. Gradually, we accumulated more people to work with us, a crew of sorts. Kolt was sharp as a whip and could set any trap you wanted, and Wallach was a fine warrior. The Brick was a Tal-Vashoth. They were decent people.

"Eventually, we came across another potential con. A magister, who held many prisoners as his slaves in a place nicknamed the Locker. Rich, noble, and living on the blood of people he'd imprisoned. It was a typical mark for us in profile, but going into the Locker to rob him in the dead of night? It seemed dangerous. I told Malsaam as much, that I couldn't see an out. As an escape artist, I always needed to think of at least one escape plan for us, but I couldn't see how we could make our way out if we were caught. Malsaam told me as long as I had his back, it wouldn't be a problem.

"It was cold, freezing rain. Wallach and the Brick broke in first, acting as a distraction. I went in after with Malsaam and Kolt, working our way to the vault. The plan was going south. Told him as such, but Malsaam has always been prideful, stubborn, and incredibly stupid sometimes."

Twisted Fate slips his arm away from Zevran, looking carefully at the other elf. "I left him behind, taking the rest of the crew with me. The magister took Malsaam away, enslaving him. I went back a few days later to break him out, and instead I ended up getting the rest of our people killed.

"The end of this tale? Well. Let's just say it's not quite done yet, and that I think we're a little more alike than I previously assumed. If it helps to know."

Well.

That isn't the story he thought he'd hear- something true, something that aches enough to be real. He cannot quite part with the whole of the tangled mess that was he and Rinna and Taleslin. Explaining it takes more than he has in him at the moment. He's also far too sober and fairly certain Anders would throw a fit if he attempted to drink. Even if it's tempting. Even if it'd help him sleep.

Perhaps framing it in such a way would make it more likely to be granted? Just one bottle of brandy or wine. Something to make the shades silent.

Still- he looks up, hair covering the scarred side of his face by design; not as though it obscures his vision. There is none to be obscured. "...It becomes easier. Not by much but...Given five years you stop thinking back to what you might have done differently. Then you remember that you've forgot and spend the rest of the next day drunk."

"I've never stopped wondering," he admits quietly.

Not that he can. It's impossible. The brand on his shoulder keeps from doing that, and more. But that's another subject for another time. The story told is in truth, and in part had been to help in relating. The other, to honor the trust Zevran has given him.

He already knows why he'd come to help, after all. He knows why he's here now.

"I hope that wasn't too much of for me to tell." Fate cracks a smile. "When you've recovered further, I think drinks are owed, hm?"

"...To be honest? Nor have I." There have been moments where he was able to put it from his mind, but...

Only that.

Moments.

Still, here and now? It is easy to overlay that with his current concerns- Whether or not he is permitted to drink. "Detlef hasn't said anything against my indulging."

"Well, and who's to say it won't numb some pains, eh? I find that medically sound."

Twisted Fate rises and offers his hand. "When we return, then. I'm afraid my flask is rather empty at the moment." It hasn't been a less than stressful time, after all.

"A shame." He reaches a hand up and steadies himself carefully, tipping his face away from Fate so the motion won't reveal anything he would rather keep hidden. "I owe you a round or ten, for your help."

Alistair had been quite thorough in explaining what everyone did.

"Trust me, I had plenty on our way here. I should have figured we'd need a bit more."

Fate gently squeezes his hand, snorting softly to himself. "Well, I wouldn't say no if you want to repay me," he says. "Just bear in mind that it was done without that in mind."

"It must have been a stressful ride." Edging around things he does not truly wish to know and cannot truly wrap his mind around. At least with Fate there is no question of why. He's heard the answer enough to be flippant and tired enough to be unable to form a joke properly.

"Yes, yes, you came out of the goodness of your heart and because you missed me so very, very much. That does not prevent me from repaying your kindness with brandy in the future." Make light of it. If he can make light of it, he can endure. if he can endure? he can adapt. If he can manage that? he might find a way to live with all of this.

"Eh. Boredom, mostly. No one felt like playing a game on the way over. A shame."

Twisted Fate scoffs. "True, what would it say if I did something out of the goodness of my heart instead with an ulterior motive? Best capitalize on your offer. For now, I've kept you long enough, I think. But I'm glad to tell other tales when you want them."

"And I am well overdue for sharing some of my own." True he is down an eye and unsteady in his own skin but this? This feels more like who he is supposed to be. Zevran feels a little more himself and for that? He curls his fingers around Fate's wrist and tugs his hand up, pressing a kiss to the back. "Thank you."

For the tales.

For coming.

For the distraction.

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wickedchase - 2016-02-07 21:33 (UTC) - Expand

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