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

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

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.

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[ Cyril had told Zevran of Merrick's recovery and that? Eases his mind somewhat even as he wrestles with his own scars from being taken. Until he himself is settled and solid once more he does not feel as though he should present anything other than a solid, strong front to his apprentice. The last thing he wished to do was drag Merrick down with him should something pull him low.

Now, though- now he feels solid. Feels stable. He takes the time to seek Merrick out- seemingly normal save for the faint shadow under his visible eye- and the leather patch covering his injured one. ]

Actually seeing Zevran out and about Skyhold, and not trying to slink around into shadows or other places is a nice change. Course that being said Sam only seems to see the elf either in the barn or the sparring ring, going through form, wrestling, or picking fights, more often than not, flat on his ass.

For a while he only watched from a distance before continuing on with other things, but as the days went on he slowly grew closer and closer to watch when Zevran fought, staying just a bit longer each time. Eventually Sam found himself leaning on the fence or against a wall as he watched, seeing what form of practice Zevran would pick for the day or who out of the crowd he would fight.

Today it was wrestling and Sam watched with an weary but curious gaze as Zevran tried besting his - what was he calling them? - fledgling. Once it seems he is taking a break Sam clears his throat and tilts his head. "You've been practicing pretty hard lately." Obviously he has, but it's a good way to break the ice and test the waters considering the last time he tried talking to the Antivan he had been given a rather cold shoulder.

Another round, another pin- Settimo is tiring faster with each session of grappling and Zevran? Wearies of the gentle handling. He pats the younger Crow on the back as they roll free and stand to dust themselves off. Every day is a struggle- but every day he gives himself something new to focus on. Today? Leverage. Finding it and using it. Not entirely unlike how he'd gone about it when he was first trained but different enough to leave him in a kinder mindset.

Despite how their last conversation went, Sam is greeted with a hooked smile, the scars on his cheek making it that much more wicked in a way Zevran is learning to work in his favor. "I have to relearn a great deal, unfortunately. Would you care for a round?"

He twists to pop his spine, tugging his shirt up and off despite the cold. He'd been running hard and hot all day- and means to continue for at least one more hour- or a few more pins. Depending on which came first.

It's a mixture of the way Zevran smiles and asks if he wanted to go for a round of wrestling that has Sam raising a brow. That hadn't been his intent, but honestly he shouldn't be surprised by this after all the other matches he had seen the elf thrown himself into.

For a moment he considers it, watching as Zevran stretches and takes off his shirt, biting the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. After some consideration he gives a shrug and moves away from his spot though stopping a distance away so that Zevran can't suddenly start on him and grab him.

"Am I to take my shirt off as well?" he asks with a bit of a grin. Not that he minded either way, but with a shirt the elf obviously had more of an advantage to hold on.

"That depends on how many catcalls you wish to endure- and how many handholds you wish to leave me." Zevran rolls out his shoulders with half an ear to the pleased murmurings of the usual sort- as much as anything else? This is a reminder that he is at least a little attractive. Perhaps Bull had been right- the scars are hot.

Getting his head around it entirely will take him some time yet, but he is coming around to the idea.

As if on cue at the mention of 'catcalls' several mutterings can be heard, which has Sam's gaze shifting from Zevran to the peering eyes. Ah, right, there was an audience. Well he could put up with some jeering if it were to happen.

Reaching over his shoulders to grab the back of his shirt, Sam too pulls the article of clothing off over his head and then tossing it off to the side. Bringing his hands together he works his fingers and his wrists out, hearing several pops as he does so.

"I am ready when you are." In battle the fights would not be half so fair but for the moment? He needs the warning. Time to settle himself into 'training' and 'nonlethal'. Dipping into his usual reflexes would be disastrous in this and he has no desire to truly harm Sam.

Honestly if he suspected that Zevran wasn't going to curb a bit of his skills to this sort of level he wouldn't agree to a match. Willingly putting himself at the mercy of a trained professional killer was not something he planned on doing. Not that he wasn't expecting to get a bit hurt, there was always that chance, just not sent to the healing tents himself.

Letting out a long exhale he steps closer, though still keeping out of Zevran's reach at the time. "Let's start then." That said Sam lowers himself into a stance, arms up to protect his face and sides if need be and shoulders squared for a hit.

"As you like." Zevran settles onto the balls of his feet, arms up, posture light and canted forward, coiled like a trap. He waits a moment to gauge the set of Sam's shoulder, where his weight lies before darting in, coming at him hard from the left. Bigger means further to fall, means longer reach (which is a given) but it also means a stilted center of gravity which he means to exploit. Zeveran attempts to hook a leg behind Sam's and an arm about his ribs for a pivot and twist. If he starts on his terms, he hopes to end on them as well.

Most of Michel's time since his return from Emprise du Lion was spent in something of a break from those events. He supposed he could appreciate the gesture in that the Inquisition had not sent him off on another mission immediately so that he could recover, but now he was growing restless. A driven man with his specific skillsets couldn't go long without a purpose and he's spent several nights staring at the eave of his tent, Chéri wandering in and out for a bit of company now and again.

There was that and the tense climate. He hadn't spoken to Zevran in several days, he's realized, but that didn't mean he wasn't abreast of what the elf was trying to do. For the most part he kept to himself, tending to his recovery and once he felt well enough he tended to the horses that were unattached. Though eventually he did indulge in his curiosity as Zevran finally took to the training grounds and he watched from an unassuming position in the darker places. He was interested, but not interested in being caught observing, and...honestly he could not help but to admire the exertion. Over and over, falling down and getting back up again, he does watch with appreciation, but it wasn't that sort of appreciation.

Even if it was not that sort of appreciation from Michel's particular corner of the yard it was very much that from several others ringing the practice circle- all the more so when Zevran gave in to the heat of his exertions and stripped himself to the waist for the next round of grappling. Even Zevran's opponent took a moment to blink at all that tan skin, the tattoos that wound about his arms, shoulders, and ribs.

Making use of the distraction was an old tactic, one he fell into easily enough. Whatever it was he actually said couldn't quite be parsed from a distance but it had the other man sputtering, flushing- long enough for Zevran to slam in for a solid hold on the first grapple. It being a long day and he having been at this for hours already- being smaller, being out of practice, being half blind-

Zevran got at least one more pin out of it before he took a blow to the gut that startled both himself and his opponent when he went down hard in the dust, gasping around laughter. He remained down for a moment, muttering that yes, he yielded, while he caught his breath and the crowd dispersed.

He tried not to come up this far at night any longer- the climbing was treacherous when he can only truly see half of the world- but he missed the effort. The exertion. The wind in his hair. And this was not one of the highest points he could pull himself to and that? Made it safe enough.

Ish.

Relatively speaking.

He wasn't about to slip or jump at the very least.

Many things can be heard from the rooftops. Birds. The odd fit of laughter from children, their high voices carrying well. Music? Was not one of them. Zevran followed the oddly familiar and not sound until he found it's source. "I should have known."

Who else would sit aloft and play so well?

Michel wouldn't admit that something twisted in his gut at that, the obscene appreciation of Zevran's body in such a situation seemed inappropriate to Michel. Like he was a display piece and not a man trying to adapt to his eye, whether this was what Zevran was attempting to evoke from the crowd or not...was uncertain. If it was then that twist in his gut had something to do with a feeling he didn't and would not entertain.

If Michel were a less understanding man outside of the control of his impulses he might have been tempted to run out there when Zevran hit the ground hard. That should not be mistaken for a lack of concern, but he understood that in these situations sometimes you went down hard. Coddling didn't help at all, but when the crowd began to clear and Michel had found his nerve, he pushed out of the shadows and approached Zevran.

"That was the most impressive fall by far today," which implied Michel had been observing for some time, "can you get up?"

She's neither soldier nor rogue. But she has been training, the steps recalled to near-perfect accuracy.

While she doesn't make an appearance in the ring, lest other people see her and perhaps inform Simon of where his sister has gone and what she's up to, River instead leaves a colorful ribbon tied around one of Zevran's practice swords. It is her notice that she wants to see him, but not here. Elsewhere.

There's no note to indicate where, but he can find her. They've traversed the battlements enough times for him to know where she can be found at a given moment.

With Zevran getting used to his blindside Sam had purposefully kept his left side lightly guarded, an easy way to draw the smaller man in without exerting himself, but equally prepared when and if he did. He has to stop himself from smiling when he sees the dash to the expected side, though he'll have to give Zevran props for the speed.

At feeling the arm connect to his chest he immediately raises his leg up and over the hook, setting his feet back down between Zevran's own. Krem's used that maneuver on him many times so he's gotten used to it from smaller opponents. Course he doubted Zevran could bodily lift him like the Charger.

With Zevran this close, Sam goes for a counter leg sweep, grabbing for Zevran's arm and then using his right leg in to yank the elf's own leg from under him.

Usually, he would be among the crowd of appreciative looks and a sharp, smug look as his eyes would wander over Zevran's body. These days, that's... more of a complicated matter, but his eyes flit and he still silently likes what he sees. It's just more subtle than he'd bothered to in the past.

Regardless, as Zevran cleans off the day's sparring, Twisted Fate approaches.

"Don't suppose you need someone to get at your back?" he asks, bowing his head slightly, more polite than he has been before. It's not that he'd been incapable of it in the past, but things are changing here.

He is trying to accept that change, even within himself.

There is a moment he thinks he might actually have it- his weight centered, his grip sure, and then abruptly? He does not. His leg goes out from under him and Zevran swiftly changes tack, hooking his arms about Sam's wrist and bringing his legs up to lock around his elbow, feet planted against his shoulder. It works better when he's already on the ground but-

Sam is tall enough and strong enough to be able to hold him up like this. Whether or not he can put a heel to his shoulder long enough in warning for the pull is something else entirely.

Zevran remained where he was, staring up at the sky until a familiar voice cut through the usual din of swords and hands and the thud of arrows. He tilted his head enough to catch sight of the Chevalier and had to arch his back to do so. A familiar posture to anyone that has had him in bed. Even the flush to his skin and the manner in which he panted for air likened to such a time. Bed and battle were much the same in the end, though bed's victories were far, far more fun. "I have a marvelous view from down here."

Yes, he could, no, he wouldn't. Not for a little while longer.

After a long day of getting knocked around- seeing the ribbon is a fine change of pace. A chance to climb and attempt to fly? Far better than being ground into the dirt by his new limitations. A few words have Settimo taking his weapons away for cleaning and storing as Zevran finds the best way up to the battlements.

Not the stairs.

Stairs are for other people.

Soon enough he's up, winding about until he finds the dark waves of her hair whipping about in the wind as a banner to follow. Zevran slinks to her side and props himself next to her on her perch, eye flicking out to the horizon. "Hello, little bird."

"If it is you?" Zevran smirks over his shoulder, sluicing more of the water down his back for Fate's use if he so chose. "I would appreciate the help."

Wicked smiles and wicked fingers, a warmth in his smile that had been missing since he'd been taken. But he is here, more himself for all that he is down an eye- and Fate has been ever kind in helping him hold fast to normalcy.

Oh, he's far from being surprised at how purposeful that display is. It does make him chuckle quietly before he's kneeling behind Zevran. "And I am immensely happy to assist, of course."

Twisted Fate's hands rest on Zevran's back before sliding up to his shoulders, his thumbs rolling against the muscle there. "Seems like someone's had a long day," he observes. "Let us hope that work is done for now, hm?"

Warm hands after a wash of cold water gliding up his back, rolling out the sore spots he'd earned by landing hard? Zevran cannot and does not repress the soft groan as he arches into the touch. Perhaps he overdid it today. But if it earns him this?

Perhaps he ought to overdo it more often.

"I have much to make up for, relearning how it is I fight with the blind side is taking longer than I thought- and probably less time than most would like." He's getting the trick of it, little by little.

It was, indeed, easy to make the connection between Zevran's posture and breathing where he was and the same that Michel found he used in the bedroom. The Chevalier had to wonder if the habit was so well formed that he no longer noticed the way he appeared. It didn't matter...well...perhaps it vaguely mattered. Mattered to the point where he was tempted to remove a layer of his own clothing to cover Zevran with.

"Truly?" Michel glanced up, well he supposed the sky and the hold was better than the view he had of Zevran and the mud. Perspective mattered a great deal he supposed, though if Zevran was going to languish, Michel decided it might be best to stretch his legs and do the same, making himself comfortable on the ground, "you seem to be adapting well enough."

"Truly. It is not the sky over Antiva City- but it is a lovely sky nonetheless." And from here he could ignore the fact that sitting up would be painful and that he had mud in his hair. Cleaning that out would take a fair while. Ah, well. It was overdue an oiling anyway; he'd been lax in taking care of himself. No longer.

He turned his head enough to track Michel's descent, eye bright with mirth, lips hooked in a smirk. "Ah, yes, now only half of the time I end up on my ass for not seeing someone come at me on the right instead of nine out of ten. I suppose that is an improvement."

The tenseness does not escape him. He's far from being a professional at this, but Fate thinks he can get the grasp of what will feel nice for Zevran. Thumbs slide along his back, putting pressure against the muscle once more.

"It'll take time. But you're skilled; I have no doubt you'll learn to make it an advantage. Every handicap can be made into one, even this." Nails lightly scratch down Zevran's back before resting at his waist.

"Hand over the water. We'll have you cleaned in no time."

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

For Merrick

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For Araceli

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