[ OPEN ] Well I can't stand to be with myself, this liberation's seemingly rare

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran and Various
WHAT: Zevran sparring and dealing
WHEN: Throughout Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Violence, swearing, usual Zevran Content Warnings Apply. Open prompt below, poke me on plurk for a closed starter. Prose or actionspam welcome!

As much as he'd protested Alistair running off on some mission in the west- the time apart gives him that much more chance to train. He'd been doing so privately in the barn, occasionally squaring off against Settimo when they both had the time and patience for Settimo's paranoia and Zevran's over-adjustments for the blind side. Learning to fight with only one good eye is slowly driving Zevran to frustration. Settimo could not come at him hard enough to be a challenge, he could not learn his new limitations without a solid effort on both their parts.

Setting aside his vanity he takes to the training grounds- but working on stuffed dummies is only good for so much. Soon enough he is picking out soldiers and rogues to come at him in the dirt circle. Day to day it goes much the same. Zevran stands with bad eye covered and his swords, with his hands, with a single short sword and calls any that would step up to help him regain his awareness. It is, to be honest, slow going. More often than not if his opponent has any manner of skill he ends up on his ass. But he grits his teeth, stands, and goes at it again. And again. Afterward he recovers with the highlight of his training- a bucket of water to sluice off the sweat and grit of the day. Whether it's the relief the cold brings or the appreciative looks it tends to earn? He doesn't say. But thus he spends his days, training himself or wrestling with the fledglings, who will offer their own commentary and catcalling in Antivan during his other matches.

Comments

[byblow]

Alistair is slow to answer because he's gone very still, head falling forward, like—you know, like a dog. A dog rendered helpless by skritching. Because there aren't enough other opportunities to draw that comparison. He needs a few moments to process, then another few to lift his head and reluctantly—but it is necessary—twist to look at Zevran with an evaluating squint.

"Even the shaved parts?"

[ombranera]

What, you think I could not handle such a look? I will have you know there was a summer in Antiva where it was so hot I shaved my hair down on the sides to nothing, leaving only the top strip long. It even started a new trend among the Crows." And a few of the Antivan nobility. Ah, youth. Still he goes right back to the scritching and scrubbing, swiping suds away from Alistair's eyes before they run the risk of slipping in and stinging them awfully.

[byblow]

Alistair makes an attempt to help with his eyes, but all that really does is make his hand knock uselessly against Zevran's. He gives up quickly and drops both hands into the water, back to scrubbing feet and calves. "I'm sure you could," he says. "That doesn't mean you should. I like your hair how it is. Just duel him this way, I suppose. He has a mustache. That probably counts for something."

[ombranera]

"That I cannot grow." Elves and facial hair do not mix, for some reason. Body hair in general. He tips Alistair's head back with a nudge to his forehead. With the warden at his mercy like this? He is able to rinse the lather out quickly and apply a measure of oil to his hair before he can say anything against it. "And you, perhaps, could grow yours out a little. Not so much as mine, of course, but- a little."