[ OPEN ] Someone screaming like their world might explode

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran
WHERE: South Village
WHEN: November 19th
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: Excessive abuse of span title tags and google translate, drinking, nudity, some sexual content, adult language, reader discretion is advised

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Fountain Park

Victory means revels, revels means wine, means warmth, means hot, slinky bodies of tittering devotees glad enough to take a tumble with a handsome, exotic elf for his part in saving Ferelden- and the world, the rest of the world matters too he supposes- and that is how Zevran fell to the fade the night before. Sated and warm, wrapped in silks, tangled with many adoring limbs and soaked in brandy- coming to underwater is, to put it delicately, something of a shock.

Despite his startle, eyes snapping open to find no salted stinging (not the ocean, though his first thought was to blame Isabella), he does not lose his breath, he does not flail. His lungs do not yet burn for all that the frigid pressure of water weighs down upon him like the Grandmaster's disapproval, tangling about his throat like a firm, familiar (dead, very dead) hand. Light above and that is where he pulls himself, swimming with purpose until he breaches the surface, hair plastered to his skull, new, strange clothing painted to his slight frame as he rolls out of- a fountain? What in the Maker's name-

The sun is high but the air is like ice, prompting a sharp crack of frustrated Antivan as his teeth begin to chatter, golden eyes flicking from shadow to shadow. No dog. No Oghren. No Alistair- no one he could blame for this and-

"...il cazzo?" He lifts a foot, squinting at- "What kind of bullshit boots are these?!" He'd just finished breaking in the Antivan leather boots the Warden gave him- being cold, wet, and lost? That he can bear. The boots? This is too much.


Inn

First thing's first- fire. Fire and ale, food if it's available- or at the very least whatever it is he can con from the scullery maid. Shivering mess he knows himself to be, plying upon the softer hearts of whoever minds the hearth shouldn't be so impossible. Zevran's shuffled his way inside, bag and sodden boots dripping as he makes a beeline for the fire. In time with the squelching of his footsteps his voice lilts and stutters- "Freddo freddo freddo freddo freddo freddo le palle del Produttore è freddo-"

Stripping down without a lick of shame (he is cold, he is wet, he is miserable) Zevran shucks the clinging violet fabric with a grimace, standing shirtless before the fire like a lizard on a sunwarmed rock, soaking up the crackling heat. The sound that twists out of him isn't as soft as he'd normally like and far more indecent than he truly intends (for once). Black ink curls around his skin, etching out feathers and claws, scales and talons all the more revealed when he twists his hair up to wring out the damp, pinning it in place so his shoulders and nape might warm. Step one: Heat. Managed.

Step two- he turns wide, sad eyes on whoever is closest, hands clasped in front of his chest, all imploring innocence. When in doubt? Use common. The buildings (and weather) seem Ferelden enough. "I've no coin with which to barter but- perhaps I can make a trade of skills for food? Ale? Even a crust of bread, Ser, please-"


Perimeter

Reasonably warm, dry, and slightly less miserable than a few hours ago- Zevran settles the itching at the base of his skull, that dull awareness of needing movement and needing to know more of his surroundings by bundling himself up once more and taking a slow, wandering circuit of the village. From treeline to river he makes a winding way, gauging distances from building to building, trying to see how shadows might fall come the night. Not that he will need to make use of his stealth here, it seems, but you can take the elf out of the crows, but you cannot take the crow out of the elf. Or some such thing, Zevran isn't entirely at his best. He'll have a witty rejoinder on hand and ready should anyone prompt him.

Cold as it is? At least there is no snow. Or mud. Or mabari; though he does find himself missing the mutt. With Cousland and his pet, Zevran always had another pair of eyes he could trust. The warden found him useful, the hound? Liked the snacks and scratches Zevran could provide. Honest enough alliance, that. Something he finds himself surprised to miss but- this would be the first time he's been alone in-

His huddled in pacing slows to a stop, head tipped to the clear, cold sky.

It is the first he's been alone in all his life. It's a strange, detached sort of feeling, like a loose rib but in the center of his chest. Unmoored. Far from his home, far from his chosen country of exile, his companions- he does not even have his daggers. For all this there is but one appropriate word:

"Brasca."