Chess is more common than darts in Thedas, but Zevran shares Sam's affinity for throwing hard, sharp things at less sharp and significantly squishier things. He's also quite good at it.
It's not long before there's a blond elf perched on the edge of a nearby table, watching. He's back in his leather armor by this point in the evening, with his daggers strapped to his back; as comfortable as the tunic from earlier was, it's going to take a while before he's used to being out of "uniform" for prolonged periods of time.
Ah. An elf. Lovely. But Sam supposes there are all sorts here, and it's not Mizzamir, that much is obvious even at a glance. Given that, the tension in his shoulders doesn't last very long, nor does it interfere with his next throw.
Ah, this must be where the traditional human/elven racial prejudices begin, yes? Zevran is beginning to wonder just what it is about elves that offends people so much, because it doesn't seem to be a purely Thedosian thing.
To his credit, he doesn't move from where he's sitting. He recognizes a professional, or at least exceptionally skilled, hand when he sees one. While he's not particularly worried about getting hit with a dart, he feels that he should be polite and wait for a good opening before he says anything.
Sam's problem has far more to do with one elf in particular - but that happens, when most of them buggered off to parts unknown well before he was born. Mizzamir hasn't left him inclined to trust most of them if they do come back. But this is Milliways, so it could perhaps be a different story. In fairly short order, he runs out of darts, and takes the opportunity to nod to his company. Might as well find out what sort of person this is before he goes leaping to conclusions.
Unless someone has a contract out on Sam, he has absolutely nothing to fear from Zevran, provided that he also keeps the same professional stance about not killing people he's not being paid to kill (unless they really, really deserve it). The elf grins when the young man runs out of darts, and returns the nod. The expression on his face is an easy and open one, and it doesn't seem like he's got any ulterior motives behind his presence. Just appreciation and curiosity.
"You have a very good hand with those," he says, voice cheerful. "Who taught you how to throw?"
When the elf had been bought by the Crows, he hadn't known the pommel of a dagger from the blade. All of his skill is owed to a combination of natural dexterity and the teachings of the masters, along with years of practice. (Which has made almost perfect, though probably not quite as perfect as Sam. Poisons are another matter.)
Oh, he certainly does. Straying outside of contracts only gets messy - though all bets are off if Sam happens upon a rapist. "I've always had a knack for it," he replies. (It may, in fact, be more of a magical ability than a knack, but Sam is not going to give that serious consideration. He's more than fine with it being a special talent of his.) "Though the Guild was of great help in teaching me how to use it."
That, curiously, is one of Zevran's hair triggers as well. It's also one of the rare occasions when he's not the least bit inclined to give his mark a clean, quick death.
"Ah, I thought that I detected a certain... professional touch," the elf notes, amusement and approval in his voice as he hops gracefully down from the table. He's lithe and quite short, but Sam probably knows that this can be advantageous with regard to certain career paths.
"Perhaps you would agree to a game? We could compete for points, or a round to follow if you would prefer."
He'll even play with the darts, rather than his favorite throwing blades.
"You too?" Sam smiles a little, but actually relaxes quite a bit more than that. He's not aware of any elves from his own world pursuing that career path, and that consideration aside, he knows where he stands with a fellow professional. "A round to follow sounds good to me. Do you care which color of darts you play with?" As he says this, he goes over to the board and pulls down the darts (red and blue).
"Oh, yes. I will hazard that we are not from the same place, much less the same Guild, but it is an ancient and time-honored profession, no? And nearly as universal as prostitution. Any place that is populated by more than one person, someone is bound to need... assistance, eventually, with one or the other."
Zevran Arainai, public servant. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but it's how the Crows come to think of themselves. They may kill for money, a great deal of money, but their reputation for swift and terrifying efficiency protects Antiva's borders better than any army could ever hope to do. And, as Zevran would likely argue, surely the lives of few nobles that have stepped on the wrong toes are a small price to pay for ensuring that the general population will never suffer invasion, or be conscripted and slaughtered in battle. You cannot have wine if you're unwilling to crush a few grapes.
"I do look good in red, and how fortunate that is," he chuckles, "but I have also always looked quite ravishing in blue. It will
( ... )
"Likely not. I've never heard of any elves studying in Bistort, even before they all left. As to the universality... you might be surprised by the number of people willing to see an end to it." But then, he may not, depending on his world's political climate. Sam shrugs, and hands over the blue darts. "By all means. Would you like to start, or shall I?"
"Truly?" Zevran looks a bit surprised by that. "How terribly barbaric. What greases the political wheels, then? Surely the people do not put their faith in the politicians..." The very idea boggles the mind. "But as for elves, they are quite common in my Guild. Almost disproportionately so, in fact."
Humans find them pleasing to look at, after all, and that can play very easily into a successful kill. Getting a mark alone becomes significantly easier, and yet people are still unlikely to remember exactly what a particular elf, a mere second-class citizen, looked like, no matter how beautiful. It's one of many kinds of invisibility, and one that Zevran in particular has refined to an art form. Sensuality is a weapon that very few people are prepared to counter.
"It was I who challenged you," he says as he accepts the blue darts, "so it is your place to go first."
"Oh, it's not as bad now as it was, but... when there's a wizard about who intends to force all of the world to act in favor of his Greater Good, matters get complicated. I was the last assassin left in the Six Lands, for a while." And he's very glad not to be the only one now. "I suspect we're out of elves, now. Most of them left well before I was born, and Mizzamir... mainly stuck around to cause trouble. Not that he saw it as such." As he speaks, he takes aim with his first dart and throws. It looks quite casual, and yet it compensates perfectly for the damaged feathers at the dart's back; the dart hits just inside the bullseye circle.
"Ah, I can see where that might become a problem." And he does. He went to the chantry when he was young, after all, and knows quite a bit about the history of the Tevinter Imperium. He can even speak a smattering of Arcanum. The lessons boiled down to the fact that mages being in charge of things rarely ends well.
"To be the last assassin, however... In Antiva, we have many of them, and the other countries have their own guilds. An assassin without a guild would find himself in quite a bit of trouble, given that people want an assurance of quality. And if he were successful, well. Then he would be a threat, and other assassins would fight each other for the inevitable contract."
He lets his own dart follow Sam's, and there's a soft thunk as it sinks into the board, just inside the bulls-eye, blue flights nestled neatly against the red.
"I don't think he ever killed anyone outright. Not merciful enough for him." The scowl on Sam's face should be indication enough of what he thinks of that. "He whitewashed most of them into agreeing with him that they needed to leave the trade. I feel sorry for the ones who died before they could get their wits back about them." His second dart looks like someone may have sat on it once. He still sinks it into the bullseye. It's all in knowing how to compensate for your equipment.
"It likely would have been more merciful to kill them outright, rather than force them to forget themselves. Besides, the idiot nearly destroyed the world while he was at it. I don't mind having fellow professionals about the place again, now that Mizzamir's dead, but..." It's complicated. And he knows Cata would love to have a few words with Mizzamir on the subject of whitewashing, provided the wizard wasn't in any position to do anything. The center of the dartboard's getting rather crowded, at this rate; when the contest is this obvious, Sam sees no reason to feign being terrible with projectiles. This particular dart has a tendency to veer to the left; fortunately, there's still room on the left edge of the bullseye.
It's not long before there's a blond elf perched on the edge of a nearby table, watching. He's back in his leather armor by this point in the evening, with his daggers strapped to his back; as comfortable as the tunic from earlier was, it's going to take a while before he's used to being out of "uniform" for prolonged periods of time.
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But Sam supposes there are all sorts here, and it's not Mizzamir, that much is obvious even at a glance. Given that, the tension in his shoulders doesn't last very long, nor does it interfere with his next throw.
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To his credit, he doesn't move from where he's sitting. He recognizes a professional, or at least exceptionally skilled, hand when he sees one. While he's not particularly worried about getting hit with a dart, he feels that he should be polite and wait for a good opening before he says anything.
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But this is Milliways, so it could perhaps be a different story.
In fairly short order, he runs out of darts, and takes the opportunity to nod to his company. Might as well find out what sort of person this is before he goes leaping to conclusions.
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"You have a very good hand with those," he says, voice cheerful. "Who taught you how to throw?"
When the elf had been bought by the Crows, he hadn't known the pommel of a dagger from the blade. All of his skill is owed to a combination of natural dexterity and the teachings of the masters, along with years of practice. (Which has made almost perfect, though probably not quite as perfect as Sam. Poisons are another matter.)
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"I've always had a knack for it," he replies. (It may, in fact, be more of a magical ability than a knack, but Sam is not going to give that serious consideration. He's more than fine with it being a special talent of his.)
"Though the Guild was of great help in teaching me how to use it."
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"Ah, I thought that I detected a certain... professional touch," the elf notes, amusement and approval in his voice as he hops gracefully down from the table. He's lithe and quite short, but Sam probably knows that this can be advantageous with regard to certain career paths.
"Perhaps you would agree to a game? We could compete for points, or a round to follow if you would prefer."
He'll even play with the darts, rather than his favorite throwing blades.
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"A round to follow sounds good to me. Do you care which color of darts you play with?"
As he says this, he goes over to the board and pulls down the darts (red and blue).
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Zevran Arainai, public servant. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but it's how the Crows come to think of themselves. They may kill for money, a great deal of money, but their reputation for swift and terrifying efficiency protects Antiva's borders better than any army could ever hope to do. And, as Zevran would likely argue, surely the lives of few nobles that have stepped on the wrong toes are a small price to pay for ensuring that the general population will never suffer invasion, or be conscripted and slaughtered in battle. You cannot have wine if you're unwilling to crush a few grapes.
"I do look good in red, and how fortunate that is," he chuckles, "but I have also always looked quite ravishing in blue. It will ( ... )
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But then, he may not, depending on his world's political climate.
Sam shrugs, and hands over the blue darts. "By all means. Would you like to start, or shall I?"
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Humans find them pleasing to look at, after all, and that can play very easily into a successful kill. Getting a mark alone becomes significantly easier, and yet people are still unlikely to remember exactly what a particular elf, a mere second-class citizen, looked like, no matter how beautiful. It's one of many kinds of invisibility, and one that Zevran in particular has refined to an art form. Sensuality is a weapon that very few people are prepared to counter.
"It was I who challenged you," he says as he accepts the blue darts, "so it is your place to go first."
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And he's very glad not to be the only one now.
"I suspect we're out of elves, now. Most of them left well before I was born, and Mizzamir... mainly stuck around to cause trouble. Not that he saw it as such."
As he speaks, he takes aim with his first dart and throws. It looks quite casual, and yet it compensates perfectly for the damaged feathers at the dart's back; the dart hits just inside the bullseye circle.
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"To be the last assassin, however... In Antiva, we have many of them, and the other countries have their own guilds. An assassin without a guild would find himself in quite a bit of trouble, given that people want an assurance of quality. And if he were successful, well. Then he would be a threat, and other assassins would fight each other for the inevitable contract."
He lets his own dart follow Sam's, and there's a soft thunk as it sinks into the board, just inside the bulls-eye, blue flights nestled neatly against the red.
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"He whitewashed most of them into agreeing with him that they needed to leave the trade. I feel sorry for the ones who died before they could get their wits back about them."
His second dart looks like someone may have sat on it once. He still sinks it into the bullseye.
It's all in knowing how to compensate for your equipment.
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It's complicated. And he knows Cata would love to have a few words with Mizzamir on the subject of whitewashing, provided the wizard wasn't in any position to do anything.
The center of the dartboard's getting rather crowded, at this rate; when the contest is this obvious, Sam sees no reason to feign being terrible with projectiles. This particular dart has a tendency to veer to the left; fortunately, there's still room on the left edge of the bullseye.
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