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.
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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. )
'Twas not of her doing. Morrigan had little interest nor desire to go near the depths of the elf's mind to even twist it in the slightest of ( ... )
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"Your rooms? Are these your rooms? I would have thought there would be...well, more sinister trophies of your conquests, for one thing," Zevran mumbles, trying a neat Antivan trick--pinching the bridge of the nose while shaking the head, forcing some blood back into the brain while all else refuses to operate properly. "You know the sort of trinket I mean--eyes of newts, horns of snails; hearts in jars; other, equally vital parts of the anatomy in jars; that sort of thing. It seems so plain for you, Morrigan, I am disappointed. But..." The more he keeps talking, the more he stalls for time, the more he might be able to flee out the window before Morrigan captures his vital anatomy to ( ... )
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"Very well, if I am so inclined to believe you - you did not bring me here, and I certainly did not bring you here, then..." She paused. She was unused to having much say in the matters at hand - the Warden was the final ( ... )
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For now, in any case.
"As always, I appreciate your line of thought almost as much as I appreciate...other lines." He smiles--his winning smile, though does he ever really win with it? Of that, he is less sure--and tests the floor, glancing around the room, taking full stock. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the imaginary jars and bottles. Altogether too common, and not the sort of place Zevran would have chosen for a tryst. Then again, Morrigan is not the sort of woman ( ... )
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Only for the door to knock directly into a servant girl carrying a large pile of sheets in her arms - surely whisking down the hallway to her next task, and surely in Morrigan's way. Harmless enough, however certainly an obstacle to step over whilst the girl was busy gathering her dropped linens and apologizing profusely. T'was of little concern to ( ... )
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It's his turn to stand, stretching out his legs, remaining relaxed, or at least maintaining the appearance of relaxation. In truth, he's far from it. Something does not feel right; so many things do not feel right. If he spent the night with Morrigan, he only wishes he might be able to remember it, especially if he is to die--and after all, most spiders do devour their mates, having no emotional attachment to them past the single moment. His prospects do not look promising. Especially without the Warden.
The Warden...
He shrugs, pulling aside a curtain and glancing down into the street below. "Yes; it most certainly looks like Ferelden. But as we both know, appearances can be most deceiving. I wonder what manner of sorcery this is. Some new threat with which we must contend? How pleasant for us all."
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It would be hard, in any case, to have a nightmare about such a place--usually, Zevran's nightmares are restricted to what he has already experienced. He's not one to linger over the concept of the unknown, nor one to bite his nails in anticipation of a terrible battle with a great monster known as the Archdemon. He leaves that to the Wardens. They do it enough for everyone, if the sounds they make in their sleep are anything to judge by.
With a soft sound, he shakes his head, pulling himself away from the window. "Well then, if it is not magic, then it must be real, mustn't it? And if that is so, we have a distinct advantage--or rather, I should say, you have a distinct advantage, my sweet, gentle Morrigan, loving and tender as you are, capable of knocking a man over with a single glance. Now we must simply... ah. What is this ( ... )
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"Looks utmost useless," she prompted, tilting her chin upwards as she studied the small... thing from afar. "Is it of any importance? Perchance, you should open it." The elf, at least, was quick-footed enough to avoid any injury should it be a trap. Yet it was so... unimpressive that she doubted even that.
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"If it is a trap," he murmurs, spreading his fingers out, "then let us hope I am swift-fingered enough not to lose any fingers, yes? Though I already know your answer--Elf, that is of no consequence to me; what care I for your fingers, on or off? No need to speak; I already know you so well."
With a grin, he passes his hand above the device, around it, then gently picks it up, turning it over.
No traps, no snaps, no finger-biting--so far, so good. "It is surprisingly light," he explains. "I think it is some manner of box."
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"Open it," she prompted then. "Fear not, I still have a few health poultices should the box decide to bite you." Zevran was only momentarily hesitant - his slim fingers soon pulled open the lid of the device, propping it open by its hinge.
"HELLOOOOOO! CAAAAN YOOOU HEEEEAR MEEE!?" screamed the device in Alistair's voice - Morrigan could not suppress her shout of surprise, jumping back.
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"Ahhh, that voice. Those dulcet tones... What a pleasant surprise this is! Is there not some fable of old that reminds you of this moment, Morrigan? Opening something quite unfamiliar, unleashing hideous monstrosities upon the world..." Holding the device slightly farther away from him is a start--he manages not to toss it away, though barely, because it would not do to break it before they have had a chance to observe its secrets.
"Do you wish to reply to him, or shall I--why am I even asking?" He turns back to the device. Knowing how to use it? Fah; that is for lesser assassins. Here, this appears to be a useful button. It is colorful. "My dear Alistair, such a pleasure to hear you are in high spirits! And how reassuring it is to be greeted with the strong, calm voice of a Grey Warden."
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He knew they shouldn't have let that assassin join them. He frowned and, not thinking straight decided it would be good to play the blaming game. "You! You slipped one of your...poisons in my drink didn't you?"
It didn't make any sense but clearly Alistair wasn't thinking things through, he was just wanting an easy answer to all this.
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She continued to be the bystanding listener, however, sharp eyes trained on the object in Zevran's grip.
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Zevran shook his head. There were more pressing matters, at the current time, ones to which they must attend. For better or ill, they had found Alistair. And, true to form, he was blaming Zevran. Why did one always assume hallucinations were the work of an assassin's poisons?
"Please, Alistair, please," he replied. He seemed to have something resembling a basic understanding of how this thing worked now--magically, obviously; a communication spell of some sort, and no doubt Morrigan would be able to explain it, were she so inclined. "If I had slipped one of my poisons into your drink, then you would wake up in a far stranger place than this. By which I mean, you would not wake up at all, but most certainly not with me."
Zevran glanced at Morrigan then, brow lifted. Ah, sweet Alistair. "Well! Now that that little matter is settled... Are you sure you aren't merely still inebriated from standing too close to Oghren? I know you haven't much experience with anything ( ... )
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