Night 50: M111-M120 Hallway

[sanguinario]

So, her roommate was nice. A nice, ordinary girl... with memories of a serial killer. Nothing to worry about but switching that girl's memory with Bella's face. Absolutely nothing to worry about

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M111

[scavengerbird]

It was dark when he came to. Zevran trusted his instincts, and waking up in the middle of the night was not something that he did voluntarily. It was an exercise saved strictly for emergencies, and so he shed the drowsiness swiftly. A shame, really. He had been looking forward to the prospect of a relaxed morning. He was confident in his ability to tempt the Grey Warden into a late start on the day. Another time, perhaps.

For a moment, he resisted the urge to move. He focused on keeping his breath steady, and then listened. Oddly enough, he heard nothing, but that was not much of a cause to relax. He didn't detect the presence of anyone else in the room, not even the steady inhaling and exhaling of the one whose tent he was sharing. Frankly, despite all of his battle experience, Amell was not an assassin, nor an actual warrior. He had been raised safely in a tower where nothing snuck up on you at night (save for demons in your dreams, apparently, but a knack for light sleeping was unlikely to help much in the face of possession). Zevran did not credit their noble leader with the same paranoid foresight he himself possessed, although the mage might have slipped off for some other reason. However, if he had thought it was a threat, he surely would have roused Zevran.

Zevran shifted, as relaxed as you could please, and reached for his dagger. A chill ran through him when he found nothing but soft cloth and the edge of a bed. It was what opened the door and brought to his attention all of the little details, and all of the ridiculous ways in which they were off. He was indoors, in a pleasantly warm room, tucked into a bed that was too soft for current Grey Warden funds. It was dark, but now that he was cautiously confident that he was safe from an immediate attack, he could see that he was completely, entirely and inexplicably alone. There was a tremor deep within him, but fear just didn't have the same bite as it had when he was young. Either it was because back then he had simply been a child, or because the Crows had chased away such inconvenient feelings.

Zevran slid off the bed, and he already knew he would not be lucky enough to find his weapons and armor. He was wearing a soft tunic and trousers in a cut that was surprisingly foreign. There was a primitively drawn emblem on the front that looked like a painted smiling mask in a loud shade of yellow. He made a face back down at it that was significantly less pleased.

Re: M111

[scavengerbird]

It was not his friends who had delivered him here, and whoever his captors may be, they of course were not going to be very keen on the idea of him being properly equipped. He might stab someone in a fit of self-defense. Perhaps their intentions were not malicious (he was alive, was he not?), but there were dark thoughts at the edge of his mind. They were threatening to come in and play out terrible possibilities of how he came to be moved in his sleep with no sign of the Grey Warden. But he did not need to think on them now. He would not move faster for imagining his companions captured, tortured or dead. He already knew it was a realistic possibility, and he could address that when he found out exactly what their fate was. There was no point in mourning the living.

But these people, they had made him soft. He liked them. Well, if not like, then at the very least he didn't particularly want them dead. It was only one or two of them whom he worried for now, which he supposed was better than having taken the lot of them into his metaphorical bosom to treasure and protect. Still, it was a good thing he would never need to return to the Crows, one way or another. They'd find his newly relaxed demeanor very unbecoming of an assassin.

The room revealed much about his circumstances as he quietly tore it apart, and yet it told him nothing. One by one, he opened drawers and laid out their contents. The closet had more of the same clothes he had on, but he gladly traded his slippers for a pair of boots. (He took a moment to miss the fine one he had been given by the Warden; they could not easily be replaced.) Stripping the bed revealed nothing of interest, but the objects he had found in the drawers were very interesting. Bizarre, even. A pack of pointed shafts, an empty book and a metal club. However, he could not refuse anything that looked as though it might break bone or pierce skin. Something about being kidnapped and relieved of his weapons sat poorly with him.

Even in the darkness, the room was white from ceiling to floor. It bothered him. Perhaps it was supposed to give him impressions of purity and comfort, but instead it made Zevran feel oppressed. Chantries had that effect on him as well, but this was no chantry.

As satisfied as he could be in the flimsy clothes, Zevran was left with nothing else to do but venture outside. There, he would find his companions or he would not. It was simple, or it should have been. Zevran had taken a halthy handful of the small shafts, and gripped one of them as he slowly opened the door. A quick jab to the neck, and any opponent would be sufficiently crippled. The short metal club would work as a nice backup. It made him feel a little more sure of himself as he crept out into the long hallway. The architecture was unusual, but in the end, it was nothing more than a series of doors. Stranger than the aesthetics was the number of people, simply wandering about, conversing. It seemed that the strange clothes he wore were a sort of uniform, and no one paid him much mind. He slid the makeshift weapon back into his pocket, and adopted more casual posture.

Re: M111

[scavengerbird]

[To here.]