[ OPEN ] Il Sogno Va Nel Tempo

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran Arainai
WHERE: Inn, Fountain Park, Fishmonger
WHEN: December 4th
OPEN TO: OPEN TO ALL
WARNINGS: Mentions of fish gutting and cleaning, Google Translate Abuse (hover over Antivan/Italian for translation), Spicy Storytime will have some sexual content. A lot. Mostly sexual content.

---

INN - The Barber of Antiva

It's early in the day when Zevran finds not one, but three boxes with his name written upon them well, he assumes Satinalia came early, especially once he gets a look at the contents. One has him grinning, fetching the store of shaving kits he'd found in the Inn, packing a bag before setting up with a message offer to the whole of the village.

Need a shave, trim, conditioning, scalp massage or styling? Perhaps you wish your hair braided in a fetching manner, or your nails filed and buffed. I will be in the Inn near the fire offering these services all morning.

It took a trip or two to find a kettle and platter from one of the abandoned houses, a large bowl for steamed water and towels from more of the same, folded and steaming with water as he bustles about a chair. An arrangement of lotions, oils, creams and soaps are set on the table next to him as he whistles a bright tune, straight razor scraping in a steady rhythm against the strop on his thigh. This is simple, relatively wholesome work- and an excellent way to learn all the village gossip. The fact that it would earn him some favor with the locals doesn't hurt either.


FISHMONGER- Fishsticks!

The second of the boxes prompts him to risk the cold, bundled up by the dock, floating a line in the water. He has done this before in sunnier weather, the height of summer- it takes stillness, patience, and a keen eye. Awaiting the proper opportunity. It works well enough, pulling fish up from the river, setting them in a bucket to carry back to the building for cleaning and descaling- bloody work to cut open and remove the guts and blood from the succulent meat. Guts to one bucket, fillets to another, Bones and heads to yet another for use in a stock later. It would be a simple enough past time if not for the mice that keep running across the boards and freezing his fish solid.

Once or twice he could ignore it, but by the third? He's swearing, swatting at the tiny mice, trying to protect his hard won spoils."Ho intenzione di trovare te e tutti i tuoi piccoli bambini grassi e bollirli!"


INN - Kitchen Takeover

"Andiamo a vedere alla spiaggia mentre splende la luna piena," Bottle of wine uncorked and at least a glass in his system to start (to cook is to drink is to cook, it's a rule. One cannot be done without the other.) which makes singing all the easier. He is warm, he has a box full of spices with which to cook, a collection of flour and eggs, vegetables and fresh fish. Perhaps someone else intended to handle cooking the lunch today but Zevran will offer any that sweep in with the intent of doing so off to the side, offer them a cup of wine and a chance to rest as he sets about kneading fresh pasta, stewing vegetables and garlic, measuring out spices and oil for a shallow fry.

He might be dusted with flour and have a smear of sauce on his jaw, but he's the brightest, happiest he's been since he woke in the frigid fountain. Flitting from where he is working the dough to where he is stirring sauce to where he is marinating fish to where he is mulling wine is less a jog and more a dance from surface to surface, singing all the while. "E tiritùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttù. E tiritùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – la tarantella la llara lla llá!"


FOUNTAIN PARK - Fire Dancing

Something he'd learned (on accident, he didn't mean to set part of the table on fire and he put it out QUICKLY so that must count, yes? Yes) was despite the strange mice and their freezing, skittering feet; he now has magic. Fire. And well, never let it be said Zevran ignored a skill. One must practice with their magic to learn to control it, yes? Yes. Or there will be demons. He starts simply enough, holding a flame in his palm, lighting a stick, dunking it in the fountain and attempting to light it again. Here is safe since, well. There is water right there in case anything goes wrong. As the day winds on he manages to direct balls of flame like spinning poi, carving quick circles as he spins around the lip of the fountain. Because he likes to live dangerously, of course-

Or be able to dunk himself in if he sets something on him on fire.


INN - STORY TIME With Zevran (option for Mild or SPICY)

The end of the day (a marvelous day, a wondrous day) has Zevran, full, warm, cup of mulled wine in hand, feeling far more conversational than he has been since his arrival. There are no Crows. No one has any reason to wish him dead, elves are strange but not lesser, the people here are as lost and lonely and bored as he. Why not take advantage and spin a few tales? He gestures as he speaks, plucking from stories of his latest grand adventure.

Mild

"So there we are, trapped in a cursed forest, mist to one side that only ever turns us about, werewolves on the other penning us in, and who offers us aid? Not the Dalish, no, they were tending to their sick, not the dwarves we won allegiance from earlier, they were preparing for the battle to come. But a Tree. A rhyming, living, breathing oak!" He crackles brightly, hands flicking up to measure the height and breadth of the thing. "Everything he said. Insult or assistance or question, all came in rhyme. It was charming for the first five minutes but then grew terribly dull."

Spicy

"This is- I mean normally a gentleman does not kiss and tell, yes? But you and I my friend-" A few cups of wine in while warm, loose, and feeling quite safe? Anyone could be his friend. He lists forward, hair spilling over one shoulder, eyes glimmering bright in the firelight, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You and I both know I am no gentleman."

Zev's nose wrinkles as he snorts, a half stuttered giggle. "But this Contessa, ah- she had strange tastes no? She promises 'oh my husband does not satisfy me, oh he does not know what burns in my blood' and I, well, I have tried many a thing and heard of even more so whatever it is this lovely, and I do mean lovely woman with eyes like embers and a chest like two melons straining against her bodice? I am more than willing to try. Normally when nobles say 'oh this thing it is so kinky' usually it means 'tie me up and call me names' which, well. You do you, I suppose. But the Contessa? Had far more dangerous tastes."

Comments

Kitchen Takeover: Counterattack

[lastofthekellys]

Kate has been wretched. It's been days. Days since Benedict has vanished. Days of him gone. Not dead, God please not dead, but gone. Vanished. Like so many here and why him? Why him? Why give her the chance to know him, to love him, to marry him, if then he was to be taken away?

She hasn't gotten drunk only because she can see his disappointed face, but even that is increasingly feeling thin against the need to just forget.

So, the innkeeper went to the Inn. Her Inn, in many ways, for all she let her ownership lapse a bit over the past few months. (The past few months of being happy.) She cleans. She scrubs. She feeds the rabbits and the chickens, and collects the eggs, and she goes to start the preparation for lunch before the volunteers arrive and-

And the woman stops. Stares.

Her reaction is... perhaps not the most rational. She's hit by all those delicious smells, and they are very nice, and a nice change from the herbs and stews they've lived on, but all Kate can do is focus on the man's hands. Covered in flour.

Precious, precious flour.

"What the hell are you doing?"

[ombranera]

"E tiritùppete – ttùppete-" He pivots on one heel, turning to go back to rolling out more of the gnocchi as his audience makes herself known. With great emphasis. "Ah, cooking? Making pasta, specifically."

He rolls off yet another of the small dumplings, setting it next to it's brothers as he carefully dusts his arms clear over the table where it might settle on the pasta, rather than go to waste on the table or the floor. "You are the lady that usually prepares our meals, yes? Marvelous! Today you get to take a rest, I will handle the lunch. It is a bit different from the usual hearty stews, and they are quite hearty and delicious but-"

As he speaks he sweeps to the mulled wine, ladling out a cup, collecting a chair to offer both to her. "Sit, drink, enjoy the warmth."

[lastofthekellys]

That wine is nowhere strong enough for what she wants, and it certainly won't do anything if Kate were to, oh, say, grab it and drown in one gulp, but God help her, she's tempted. Instead, she stands her ground, arms crossed and eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

Dimly, she's aware of the care he's using to make sure the flour doesn't touch the flour. Dimly.

"A rest," she repeats, flatly. She just manages to bite back a rather childish, I don't want to rest. Instead, her eyes move from dumplings to the pots, trying to take in everything he's doing.

Spicy Story Time

[skyward_eyes]

There was this thing about the Inn that just led to strange interactions for Nida. Perhaps that was why he kept coming back, time after time over the last few days. He'd come by after dinner to settle in to enjoy the fire, to look over more of the backup supplies and had come down with a spare blanket to drape over his legs to enjoy the extra warmth. He hadn't quite managed gloves yet and so he wasn't ready to deal with being home too much, not with the peakitten that could get him messed up at a touch. He liked safe to sorry.

Which was why he had been here when the blonde with the tattoos, accent and strange ears had waltzed in and started telling stories. It had started as delightful tales that Nida had stayed silent during, but as the man grew more and more tipsy the tales had gotten more and more ribald. Not that it bothered him because the man was entertaining when he was in his cups.

"Indeed, no gentleman," Nida agreed, amused as he watched the man wrinkle his nose. The information seeking nature just meant he had to pry further, had to egg the man on, even if he didn't much care where the tastes of this Contessa ran. "Like what? Choking, knives, or fire? I've heard of people like that."

[ombranera]

"Worse. She wished helplessness, but could not risk the marks a rope would give. Her self control was not much to write home about, tell her to sit still and she squirms within five seconds just to see if she'll get the strap." He sighs, wry and fond. "Ah, but her solution was- well. Quite risky. At certain concentrations there is a paralytic, you see, a mixture of nightshade and venom from a spider that will prevent someone from being able to move- but will not render them unconscious or prevent them from experiencing sensation. I was familiar with this thing for professional reasons, less for the bedroom. Imagine my surprise to find a wealthy Contessa hiding away a chest of the stuff!"

Even in Antiva? Such a thing is quite strange. Zevran props an elbow on the table, nail tapping it's surface as he lilts through the rest of the tale. "Now there is always a risk- enough to keep you from moving is just half a drop or so off of keeping you from being able to say- breathe. Or keep your heart from beating. This, I think, may have been the draw. The risk."

[skyward_eyes]

Okay now Nida's genuinely invested in the story. Mostly because he's half horrified of the idea of bringing poison into the bedroom. Weapons, maybe. Restraint, possibly. But poisons? Pretty dangerous. Of course there is another question about why someone would need that sort of poison, but Nida can easily draw that conclusion.

"A full chest of the stuff?" Nida asked, leaning in himself. Yes, he might be a touch invested now. "That's a bit excessive if it's that potent. Well... did you use it?"

Hyne help him, he has to know if the lady lived.

Granted now he really knows what Altair meant when he advised not trusting people, but he could have drawn that conclusion himself.

Frozen Fish

[treadswater]

There are traps to check, even now with winter coming. Especially now with winter coming. Fresh food'll be increasingly scarce and there are still stores to make and maintain, and anyway, this is what Finnick and Annie do to stay useful. Part of what they do anyway. Finnick's home with their critters, trying to avoid the mice, and it's Annie who is here to check things.

Well, that's what she meant to do. What she actually does is see a blond man who'd look right at home in District Four (apart from those pointed ears, that's all distinctly Capitol), trying to fish and instead swearing at the-

Mice.

"Aw, damn," Annie says, louder than she meant to. "They here as well?"

Ask a stupid question, Cresta. She winces to herself a little and hurries closer. "Um, you need a hand?"

[ombranera]

"I fear they are everywhere-" He darts away from the scurrying of the latest, avoiding a frosted boot and foot by an inch. "Are these new additions to our lovely little home, or have they only just now found it cold enough to show themselves?"

If it were possible to, perhaps, trap them? Imagine the use. Part of him remains terribly curious, the other- well. His palm heats as he rests it against the frozen fish, his ire rolling through with heat before he realizes his fingers are- well.

On fire.

[treadswater]

"Oh, they're new and they're a pain in the ass," Annie grumbles. The way this man moves, even surprised and confused as he is, is light, graceful. To her Career-eyes, when paired with the strength in his shoulders it speaks of training, and that always makes her relax around strangers faster than kindness.

Careers. There's no helping them, really.

The fire doesn't make her startle so much as just blink, assess, keep her joints loose in case she has to dive for cover. It all depends what he can do with it, really.

"Uh, I. Is that new?"

Inn - The Barber of Antiva

[can_fight_ugly]

Conditioning. Who knew such a simple word could have meaning and import? Anne has been managing as well as she could without complaint - she's not going to complain about the lack of diversified haircare products when they've got other, more pressing survival matters at hand - but she's also not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She's just used to a different way of life, and any little reminder she can get is greatly appreciated. She seeks him out, her normally sleek and straight strawberry-blone hair suffering from lack of routine and an excess of a dry fall.

"Hello, I take it you're the one running the salon?"

[ombranera]

"I am indeed, such as it is. If I am able to make more supplies I might take one of the nearby houses over to make it a more formal establishment but- for now this will suffice. Come, sit." And as it is done in Antiva- Zevran offers Anne a cup of wine despite the hour. "I am going to assume you are here for me to help your thirsty hair, yes?"

He doesn't touch it yet as he has not been given leave- but it is an easy assumption to make. He can guess at how well it ought to fall, how it should be soft and silken.

[can_fight_ugly]

Wine, yes please, she takes a sip as she settles into her seat, savoring the taste and letting it sink into her mouth. She wondered if there were an area here they could turn into their own little Napa Valley.

"Yes; please tame this mess. I don't think I've sported this much frizz since Junior High School." Oh, but not to be rude - "My name is Anne - and who's skill do I have the pleasure of enjoying today?"

Inn - The Barber of Antiva

[killorder]

Much as he's tried, Jake is not used to having to maintain his hair and beard on his own. Not without the aid of an electronic shaver, and the base barbershop. Now he's been here for three months or so, and he knows he's looking ragged. It's not something he's ever much done on his own, and it shows. It's that though, or the mountain man look, and he's not sure he can pull that off.

So the message is like an offering of the gods.

Figuring now one would offer to do this for others without some kind of skills, Jake washes his hair and face in the kitchen sink of their place with the soap from the butcher shop to at least look partially acceptable and puts back on his virulent pink sweatshirt with jeans and heads out for the very short walk over to the Inn.

It's not hard figuring out who made the offer, offering a shy smile and a wave.

"Uhmmm, please help?"

He might have been capable of something more articulate but... help?

[ombranera]

It is not the worst case he has come across in the village, let alone in the past year but- it would be on the list of those most in need of help. Clearly the gentleman knows it, which is to his credit. It is quite the sight all the same and he says, in the softest, saddest voice he can manage. "Oh no. What have you done to yourself? What haven't you done for- nevermind. Sit. Sit and I shall make everything better."

He immediately guides Jake to the chair, setting the kettle to boil, checking his razors and manual clippers, such as they are, while running his fingers through the man's hair. Clean, which is to his benefit, but long. The winter has been dry and it shows, oh sweet Andraste how it shows. "Under all of this I assume you have a jawline-"

Which he reaches down to touch, burying his fingers in the scruff to find the shape of Jake's face, catching him by the chin to gently turn his head back and to each side to check the damage. "...steam, massage, condition- how do you usually have it cut? I am not letting you leave without an oiling either, the weather is dry and your hair is weeping."

[killorder]

"What choice did I have?" Which is not the best excuse, but until now there hasn't been many answers for fixing it.

He let's himself be guided though, knowing that beyond the damage of his attempts, he looks positively rough. He's not a guy for long hair and a scruffy beard and he hates it. So he's definitely glad for this to fix everything.

So he takes his place, settling in with a smile. "I'm glad you're here. Never had to try and do this myself, so glad you're here."

"Uhmm, usually I have it buzzed on the sided, tapered. It's a military hair cut. Short goatee. I was a military captain before this place." He pauses, frowning slightly. "Oiling?"

The Barber of Antiva

[rebornpaladin]

Shiro has something resembling a morning routine in place, so by the time he's wrapped up with Altair and made it to the inn, making a beeline for whatever's left from the morning's breakfast or the night before's dinner, he doesn't have anything he needs to do, anywhere he immediately needs to be.

He wishes he did. Every minute of the day not spent in action feels claustrophobic. It's giving him too much time to think, and remember, and consider all the gaps. It makes his headache, which is low level and persistent, spike into something noticeable and immediate.

Any concrete thoughts are derailed, though, when he spots Zevran wielding a straight edge razor with extreme competence. Shiro is poised with his arm half shrugged out of his coat and two chilled sticks of perfectly spiced, fried, marinated fish he found in his mouth, and he has the brief feeling of being caught, like he's about to be chided by a flight captain, but about the degree of eligibility his bachelor state is in re: manners and presentation, as opposed to acceptable risks in lower atmosphere maneuvers.

[ombranera]

Zevran is whistling quite the merry tune to himself as he tests the edge of the razor with his thumb, even going so far as to pluck a hair from his head and let it fall across the blade- splitting it neatly. Perfect! A flick of the wrist and it snaps closed, set aside as he arranges the rest of his tools. Clippers, scissors, tweezers, file, comb- bottles of oil. Familiar and comforting for it, all. He has half a mind to pause to collect some tea to start the day when his eyes slip up to Shiro. "Ah! How are you finding the dragon on a stick?"

He recognizes his own handiwork more than most- spices like that aren't easily found in this place and while he may not hoard it to himself? They are not something he'll pull free just every day in such a large quantity. "A festival treat from my homeland- or as close as I could manage with the fish in the river."

It is not quite as sweet and flaky as those from home but it is tender and fries nicely none the less.

[rebornpaladin]

Shiro can't smile properly around the two skewers in his mouth but of course they're Zevran's handiwork. He hesitates a moment, then finishes shrugging his jacket off his arm, curving his shoulders so it slips down his partial arm, sweeping his arm across to catch it as it falls, folding neatly over the crook of his elbow, and reaches up to take both skewers in hand and remove them (both with considerable bites missing) in one seamless motion.

Once he's no longer chewing he nods his grave appreciation.

"They're wonderful."

There are a lot of... jars, set out on the table beside Zevran, and his brow quirks as he looks them over.

"You're a man of many talents, it seems."

Barber

[quinientos]

He's not looking for a cut or anything, really, but after spending a week as a wolf, there are tangles in his hair that even Vasquez doesn't want to try doing on his own and no matter how much he tries to pick it loose with the supplies he has, nothing really is the same as a comb or a pick, which is why he'd gone at the sign.

His hair is long enough to curl around his ears now, and probably looks a mess. Which is why he's wearing the hat and standing there looking sheepish. "Do you do washes? Not cuts?"

[ombranera]

"But of course." He flicks his razor blade shut, motioning his bearded friend into the seat. "Washing, trimming, oiling, combing, styling. I've some pomade as well to help the curl set-"

By the texture of his beard? It looked as though there might be some curl to his hair.

"And perhaps I might clean up the edges of your beard, even it out? Leave it thick and lux but tided?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez steps forward, sitting in the seat and letting his legs sprawl out as he takes off his hat to show off the damage of tangles, sticks, and small twigs in the curls. "Good, because sleeping in nature for a week in a wolf's clothing didn't do so well for my hair," he quips.

The beard, though, he's not so sure that he wants anything other than a comb and some oil. "Tidy it, but no cutting," he says. "I need it for the winter, to stay as warm as I can."

The Barber

[ataashihunter]

The promise of getting to be clean, properly clean is like catnip to Qunari. It is something the value, something that separates them from the wild. And Bull loves it. And it is a chance to get pampered which is a win. Bull sinks into the chair with a happy sigh. "I am going to owe you for this."

[ombranera]

"Oh? A handsome man in my debt. I'll have to take my time to consider how I'll wish to be repaid." He's all warm laughter, hands already slick with fragrant oil as he begins to massage Bull's neck and shoulders. "I think I may have a brush that will work for your horns, Toro."

Fire Dancing

[vidal]

It’s a not-too-frigid day, which means Reyes is out on one of his daily walks. He used to do this constantly back home, idle reconnaissance and keeping tabs on things, sidling through the market and bars and underworld — but in lieu of that, he’ll take a village green and fountain park.

So far, the most common thing has been passing villagers on their tasks and errands, but today there’s something new on display. Pyrokinesis. The sight of it gives him a bit of a jolt — it’s his first glimpse of biotics here, or magic, or whatever your world calls it, and he thought there wasn’t any of that on the island — but it quickly catches his attention and draws him in for the spectacle. He’s leaning against the wall of the inn, admiring the view. Zevran, the assassin. Reyes had eventually managed to put a face to the network name, as he continued mentally cataloguing the inhabitants of the town.

During an opportune break between whirling flames and having seen Zevran dunk the occasional flaming stick, he calls out, curious: “And what if someone comes up through the fountain, right this very moment?”

[ombranera]

"They would be dazzled by my skills- honestly, if anyone rose up they would be far too soaked to catch fire. Have you ever tired lighting someone soaked to the bone aflame?" Zevran has and it is not easy. It is, in fact, quite difficult without the aid of perhaps oils or alcohol or some manner of magic- and while this is some manner of magic he has no true desire to set anyone on fire. In fact he's attempting to learn how to not set someone on fire on accident.

Which ought to be points in his favor, truly.

He shrugs, little flicks and licks of flame rolling from shoulder to palm before vanishing in a puff of smoke. All the flash and flare, none of the danger of possession. How fun is this? "No simple task, that."