so an elf and a witch of the wilds walk into a bar....
Characters: Zevran Arainai, Morrigan, Alistair I hope, and anyone else who might be interested...
Setting/Location: One very lucky inn!
Date & Time: Day 0, morningish
Warnings: Do not disturb a sleeping witch.
Summary: In order to leave town, you must first choose your party members.
It isn't the first time Zevran has opened his eyes in the morning not knowing where he is, nor in all likelihood will it be the last time, either.
Now, normally, he finds it preferable to do so under the following circumstances: waking while naked; wrapped warmly in, say, some thick Ferelden furs; next to the embers of a once dying fire; with a warm body still pressed against his, handsome and strong and broad chested, or petite, with ample, delectable, delightful curves... But, realistically, not all such mornings after can be quite so pleasant as that ideal scenario. Practically speaking, only a bare handful can live up to such expectations, such fond memories. And, Zevran admits to himself with a slight groan, this position is far from a fantasy.
Years of training tell him almost immediately--it's the almost that always gets him--to survey the situation and take stock of the details before making it obvious to anyone who might be watching him that he's still alive. Playing dead, the kind of tactic one often observes amongst animals in nature, is natural for a reason. It works. Very well, actually. Unfortunately, dead things don't usually moan--unless one counts the final gasp, lungs expelling all the useless air they can no longer employ. One of the most horrid sounds, preferred by the more morbid poets--people Zevran really can't stand. They're so miserable under the covers. Anyone with a working brain, or a working something else, would prefer someone more lighthearted. Give Zevran a composer of ditties and limericks any day, and he'd have a much better night.
Yet, as Taliesin would say, Zevran's attention to details can at times be...shoddy. What I lack in detail, I make up for in enthusiasm! Zevran used to say, and sometimes, it was enough. Other times, Taliesin looked murderous, and Zevran was forced to make himself scarce, since absence always makes the heart grow fonder.
"Alone again, I see. Ah well; such is life. Now, if I were to start talking to myself--then I would have cause to worry." He laughs, only slightly, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Maker's breath; what happened last night? If he had a bar of silver for every time he had to ask himself that question, he'd be a rich elf, indeed. And he could buy himself a great many pretty things.
This isn't Denerim; he'd know the scent of that town anywhere, not quite as leathery as Antiva, but not quite as muddy as the open road.
The headache suggests a night spent with dwarven wine, but surely he wouldn't be so stupid as to go that far...? Dire straits drive a man to that kind of drink. "Has the Archdemon won already? It certainly feels like it."
Setting/Location: One very lucky inn!
Date & Time: Day 0, morningish
Warnings: Do not disturb a sleeping witch.
Summary: In order to leave town, you must first choose your party members.
It isn't the first time Zevran has opened his eyes in the morning not knowing where he is, nor in all likelihood will it be the last time, either.
Now, normally, he finds it preferable to do so under the following circumstances: waking while naked; wrapped warmly in, say, some thick Ferelden furs; next to the embers of a once dying fire; with a warm body still pressed against his, handsome and strong and broad chested, or petite, with ample, delectable, delightful curves... But, realistically, not all such mornings after can be quite so pleasant as that ideal scenario. Practically speaking, only a bare handful can live up to such expectations, such fond memories. And, Zevran admits to himself with a slight groan, this position is far from a fantasy.
Years of training tell him almost immediately--it's the almost that always gets him--to survey the situation and take stock of the details before making it obvious to anyone who might be watching him that he's still alive. Playing dead, the kind of tactic one often observes amongst animals in nature, is natural for a reason. It works. Very well, actually. Unfortunately, dead things don't usually moan--unless one counts the final gasp, lungs expelling all the useless air they can no longer employ. One of the most horrid sounds, preferred by the more morbid poets--people Zevran really can't stand. They're so miserable under the covers. Anyone with a working brain, or a working something else, would prefer someone more lighthearted. Give Zevran a composer of ditties and limericks any day, and he'd have a much better night.
Yet, as Taliesin would say, Zevran's attention to details can at times be...shoddy. What I lack in detail, I make up for in enthusiasm! Zevran used to say, and sometimes, it was enough. Other times, Taliesin looked murderous, and Zevran was forced to make himself scarce, since absence always makes the heart grow fonder.
"Alone again, I see. Ah well; such is life. Now, if I were to start talking to myself--then I would have cause to worry." He laughs, only slightly, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Maker's breath; what happened last night? If he had a bar of silver for every time he had to ask himself that question, he'd be a rich elf, indeed. And he could buy himself a great many pretty things.
This isn't Denerim; he'd know the scent of that town anywhere, not quite as leathery as Antiva, but not quite as muddy as the open road.
The headache suggests a night spent with dwarven wine, but surely he wouldn't be so stupid as to go that far...? Dire straits drive a man to that kind of drink. "Has the Archdemon won already? It certainly feels like it."