Did I go at it wrong? Did I go intentionally to destroy me?

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran and You
WHAT: Zevran back at Skyhold, Recovering
WHEN: Mid to late guardian, covering a span of time
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: CW/TW FOR: Mentions of torture, withdrawal, suicidal ideation, swearing, self loathing, etc. Shit gets dark. This log is also for characters not on the rescue long. Locked thread below will be done on first come, first serve.

[ His Quarters ]

Good day

Sometimes it's good. He's tired from the trip, tired from the ordeal- but he'll see people. Play cards, answer questions- as many as he can stand. Nothing about the side of his face he has hidden under a bandage, nothing about what was done to him- but he'll describe Antiva. Mention how gallant and ridiculously awesome his rescuers were. Share coffee or brandy or whatever he has on hand- and make light. He tires easily early on in his recovery, but later? He might converse for an hour or so before needing a break. Alistair sees most people in and out as needed.

Bad day

Early on he spends more time alone, quiet and isolated, Alistair a silent, stoic wall between him and the world. Notes will be passed along as well wishes- but he'll only see the most demanding and even then? He'll be listless. Snappish. Frustrated that they forced their way and company upon him when he would rather be left in peace.


[ Stables ]

Good day

A target on the far wall and a dagger in his hands, he's attempting to learn to compensate for the eye- under a leather patch now that neatly hides both the eye and his new scars, and talking a small group of strange new students as they work on...carving toys. Or sketching one another. Or working on a lute- a difference from the lessons he'd been giving before. But they do as they're told and laze about while he works on the throwing, or while he walks them through a particular shading technique, curl of the knife, or chord. Even when they're dismissed he continues with the throwing, aim slowly circling about to something better.

Bad day

When his patience with himself is at it's limit, when he's climbing the walls for want to get away from Alistair's oppressive hovering, when he cannot bear to even teach, he hides in the rafters of the stable. More likely than not there is a bottle of wine or brandy or something stronger still hanging from his fingers, head tipped into the shadows as he drums his fingers against his chest. Until Alistair or Beleth hunt him down, he means to remain there, high above where most people don't think to look.


[ Clearing Outside of Skyhold ]

Later in his recovery, when the worst of it is settled, no matter his temperament he is out running drills with those same students, agility drills, knife drills, a highly acrobatic and complicated looking game of tag or one of the most terrifying rounds of hide and seek possible while he lounges under a tree, calling out corrections or instructions. A bottle of wine, a basket of bread and dried sausages. When his mood is poor and his patience low he runs with them, pushing himself to the point of surly exhaustion. When it is high he sits and drinks and sketches out various shapes of armor, tools- things they may need.


[ Battlements - Locked to Bruce, Sabine, Martel, Mia, and Nahariel ]

On the darkest nights he cannot sleep. Not for all the wine in skyhold, not for all the sleeping spells and draughts available. To close his eyes is to see the fade- to be back on that hook, back in that cell with the blood and whispering. The Shades. He's back with the choice- the knife in his hand and the order in his ear. Wakes to find Alistair, so quiet so trusting. It would take nothing. When the weight of this is too much he walks up, out, finds himself a perch, sitting on the edge of the battlements, peering down at the rocks below. All he has to do is lean. All he needs to do is let go. It would be so very easy to let go, to be done. Maker above, he wants to. Even when he has found it in himself to take a step back, to return to bed; another night might have him back on the battlements once again, considering the drop.

Comments

[ombranera]

This is where I say 'I have seen bigger' and we both giggle as we know I am not speaking of the mountains, yes?

[ He arches a brow in her direction, the pain and the bruise and the press of her lips achingly familiar in every way that they are not- but the amusement, the pain, the hair-

He shakes himself to the present with a crooked smile. ]

Sunrise is marvelous. All that red spilling like blood- or for less macabre thoughts- a river of rubies.

[glandival]

That is how that goes, oui. Except about how I do not giggle.

[ Sabine shifts to pull her knees up and circle them with her arms, bracing against the cold a little. ]

Like fire, [ she offers, on consideration. ] And the clouds look like smoke. But then the wind comes, and it tastes like ice, not like ash. It doesn't blaze the same way.

[ombranera]

No, I do not imagine you do. Perhaps titter? No, that is something soft behind fans and lace. Chortle? I imagine you might snort, a little, when you laugh. You've the fine nose for such things. Not like a nug but- a small snort, a bright laugh. Or perhaps is it more wry and bitter, low like a chuckle?

[ Waxing poetic about a woman's laugh.

Must be a day that ends in Y.

Zevran shuffles over enough to tuck an arm around her shoulders for warmth. Nothing more. ]

The view from the top of one at the dawn is just as breathtaking. Provided there are not dragons, of course.

[glandival]

[ Sabine rolls her eyes midway through Zevran's spiel, but her mouth gentles into an almost smile. There is the subtle flick of a side along glance as she feels his arm settle over her shoulders, and she rounds them to accommodate and leech the warmth it provides. ]

Dragons would be breathtaking, [ she argues. ] If I have joined the Inquisition and do not get to see a solitary dragon, I'll call it time wasted. Not just like this, from far away. I want to hear its wings, and feel the ground shivering when it lands.

But you are so well travelled [ is teasing in tone ] you must have seen everything you wish to see.

[ombranera]

Poet's soul in you, is there? [ Or at least the potential for the same. It reminds him a little of a different redhead from the usual, weary but wide eye'd and convicted. ] I will say this much- they are far less romantic things when they are five feet from you, attempting to rend our head from your shoulders with their teeth. Killing them is an ordeal.

And if we have the sort of luck these organizations tend to have? We will find them. We may even find several.

[ Massive, biting, beautiful things. How well would he fair against one now, he wonders? ]

Mmm. Not Everything. But a great many things, yes.

[glandival]

[ The look on her face is incredulous at the claim as to poetry, and she nudges her elbow into his ribs for his trouble. ] I've been told I have an imagination, [ she says, as a conclusion. And like maybe this was said as a source of of contention, rather than a compliment. ] And it would not be a very good dragon if it was not trying to kill everything in its path. I would as soon behead one as pet one.

[ A small elf with smaller knives and some arrows would probably need help, but. Whatever. ]

Imagine living in the dragon age, and never seeing a dragon. [ Her toes wiggle in her boots. ] I am guessing-- there are nationalities of women you have not yet sampled?

[ombranera]

[ Rather than bruise it prompts a soft laugh- a chuckle, a chortle, no snorts but a crackling roll of a thing. He is permitted to tease so long as he provides warmth. It is a rule of Alistair's, one he means to keep. Especially if it allows him to tease fine elven lasses. ]

Elves are, apparently, quite delicious. It ever attempted to gnaw upon me to the exclusion of all others. Being dragon bait is not so terrible a job provided you can move quickly.

[ Ah, fun times. ]

Men, actually. Finding a man in the Anderfels willing to stop being serious long enough to have a good roll in the hay is difficult.

[glandival]

Then you have no choice but to keep your eye out for your Anderfels lover boy, [ Sabine asserts, all logic and authority, her hands going out in front of her to splay fingers in starfish spread. ] There are all kinds, here, in the Inqusition. Perhaps he is in Skyhold this moment, pining for fine Antivan [ a deliberate pause ] brandy.

That will loosen him enough.

[ Her hands tuck back in. ]

And then you can tell me about it.

[ombranera]

Brandy only does half the work, a little oil and finesse should do the rest.

[ He too extends the hand not about her shoulders- making a fluid, graceful, albeit horribly vulgar gesture. ] Thusly.