sixthiterationlogs | [ OPEN ] Il Sogno Va Nel Tempo

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[ OPEN ] Il Sogno Va Nel Tempo

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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."

He is beauty, he is grace, he folds a jacket nicely and isn't entirely helpless in the kitchen. Zevran's heart, such as it is, may be all aflutter. At least in a joking sense. He waves Shiro closer, pouring himself a mug of steeped, spiced tea. Better not to get into his cups if he is to be shaving anyone this day. "Idle hands are a demon's plaything, or so the saying goes. I like to keep myself busy. Our jailers were so kind as to provide me with some comforts and I see fit to share them."

After all: what is the point of so very many pretty people if they do not take care of their hair and skin? It's terribly unfortunate that it is so dry here. "Do you require a shave or trim? I could clean your hair up a bit, give you a scalp massage. It's an excellent way to start the day."

Shiro finishes the skewers quickly, en route to taking the seat. They're really very good.

"Mmn," he hesitates, giving himself time to answer, scrubbing his now-free hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, which is actually getting a little shaggy. It's a sudden impulse, but with the opportunity in front of him, what's the harm? He's felt so distant from himself, so ill-fitting in his own skin, maybe it would help.

"...actually," he says, with only a little hesitation. Even with Zevran offering and clearly looking for his own ways to keep busy, Shiro feels like accepting would be an imposition.

"Ah-" He holds a hand up, beckoning Shiro closer. "I know that look. That is the look of 'oh, but I do not want to trouble Zevran, surely he has better things to do' and I assure you, it will be no trouble at all. I cannot think of a better way to start my morning than being able to make an already handsome man feel all the more so."

Like cooking, like sketching and dancing and singing, there is a certain validation, a simple pleasure that comes from someone enjoying his work. This skill is far more marketable than the hunting and the slaying of men.

"Come, sit, let me pour you some wine or make you a cup of spiced tea." A beat, and he inclines his head, smirk growing mischievous. "Let me trim you up and I shall tell you how I made the fried fish."

He concedes with a huff of quiet laughter, setting his coat down on an empty part of the table before sitting where the set up implies he should.

"Spiced tea, a hair cut, and more cooking lessons. This is some pretty luxurious downtime I've found myself with." However unwillingly it was.

"There is precious little of it to be found in this place but I am skilled in making much of nothing." A chair by the fire, a kettle of hot water, a teapot he fills with black tea leaves and spices- clove, cinnimon, rind of an orange he found, anise, set to steep? It feels a little more like home.

He rests a hand on Shiro's shoulder, combing his fingers through his hair as he considers the length. "How is it you usually have it cut?"

Shiro's attention is so caught by the amazing smell of the tea that he actually forgets for a moment that haircuts require contact. If the touch startles, Shiro only lets it show for a fraction of an instant. Other than a comforting hand on a shoulder, a reassuring or grateful embrace between friends, or the violence that came with captivity, Shiro realizes his life has been more or less devoid of touch for going on years, now.

"I guess like this," he says, not wincing in part because if Zevran cringes in response, he doesn't want to miss it.

"It's just getting a little long. I used to shave it, up to about here," he gestures, fingertips lifting to graze back along his parietal ridge, "and keep it cropped pretty close above that. Except this," he adds, pointing to what his Garrison friends had ignominiously referred to as his floof on more than one occasion.

"That's always just been like that."

"Mhmm- I think I have seen this style once or twice. Do you keep the shave even from nape to here, or is it more of a gradual fade?" Either way it is something he can manage- half a thought goes to the rest of how such things are done and he slips his hand to cup the back of Shiro's skull, thumb sweeping to get a feel of the spring. And, perhaps, to help him get used to the contact.

"You are terribly tense, my friend. Should I throw in a quick massage as well? Your shoulders, neck, and scalp. As fine a figure as you cut winding yourself in knots for want of action only causes stress." Perhaps it is the travel, perhaps it is loneliness, or perhaps it is this place. Zevran cannot guess as to the cause just yet. He leans down for a moment, voice low and warm, as soothing as he can manage (which is quite soothing, or so he has been told). "There is a thing would see others do with their hair that is similar, they would have barbers razor in patterns, geometric designs in the shorn portion of their hair. It is quite fashionable, perhaps I might offer you that?"

His mouth hitches up at one corner, just one self-conscious fraction shy of being shy.

"Even, mostly. Pretty, uh, utilitarian. I think patterns might be a little extravagant for me."

He doesn't say no to the massage, though.

"Utilitarian it is." He offers no judgement, patting Shiro's shoulder as he sets about the first step in the process: the massage. Shoulders, nape, and scalp to relax him so the rest of the shaving goes easily. Holding still while tense? Leads to trembling, leads to razors skimmed too close to the skin.

This is not a throat he wants to cut.

Applying firm pressure he rolls his thumbs along Shiro's spine upward to the base of his skull, down again along the tendons of either side of his throat. Seeking out tension to work it loose.

The noise that slips out of Shiro is so low and cuts out so quickly it might not have happened at all. His head tips easily forward with the push of Zevran's fingers and his eyes almost close.

It's barely anything, and it's amazing. There's a little pain - his shoulders do not want to give - but it's good.

"That- okay. That's. Mnh," he intones, words failing. Not that they're necessary, he doesn't imagine. Zevran seems to be entirely aware of how skilled he is at... well, everything Shiro's seen him do, so far.

Bodes well for the hair cut.

"Breathe." Like Shiro needs the reminder. Scalp and neck- loosening, but his shoulders? That will take a little more work. "...May I tug your shirt away enough to reach the skin? My hands shall not wander below your collarbones, you have my word- but there is this knot right-"

He presses gently, thumb rocking against the tension in, to no surprise at all, Shiro's shoulder that does not have the rest of the limb attached. There were one or two crows with similar issues- skilled enough to be worth the risk of their being recognized. Skilled enough to survive and still kill without a hand, an arm, a leg. "Here."

There is certainly something right there, and Shiro sucks in a breath through his teeth, nose crinkling in recognition of the very specific pain before he forces the breath out in a gasp. Still wincing, but also smiling wryly, he glances barely over his shoulder.

"I trust you with my virtue."

"You are a far braver man than most." Zevran huffs a quiet laugh, winking before leaning away long enough to collect a small measure of fragrant oil to smooth his hands, something rich that smells of cloves and vanilla. With great care he slides his hands under the hem of Shiro's shirt, working around the tension in slow passes, teasing at the edges until it slowly begins to unknot. "There we go. I think there are some stretches I might show you that would prevent this from happening again."

"Mnhmn," Shiro answers, which isn't one. There's a diffuse warmth through him, making his limbs - well, limb - feel heavy. It's like drowsiness, and the fire and the tea and Zevran's keen, methodical touch are lulling and stimulating at once, and his mind is wonderfully blank. His head doesn't, for the first time in waking memory, ache.

"Hmn. Mnh?" Zevran said actual words, something helpful, and he focuses, with only a glimmer of a throb pulsing behind his temple.

"Oh. You've worked with- amputees, before?"

It is, Zevran decides, a good look for Shiro. He has not known the man long enough to take his measure beyond the fact that he is handsome, somewhat awkward, and kind. That he is lonesome in the way that those are surrounded by strangeness tend to be, that he misses something much in the way that everyone in the village misses their home. Their purpose.

These are not things he can mend, not things he truly has any interest in mending. You adapt or you die. But- small creature comforts, the tending of an aching body this? This he can do. Voice low, almost lazy in comparison with his earlier cheerful bustling, he answers. "A precious few."

Little by little he works the knot loose, smoothing his fingers over the tenderness left behind. "In my line of work they usually do not last terribly long- but those that do? Need help from time to time with the aches and pains. I would often offer my assistance in return for a favor or two."

"...I've never had to do anything, without my - an - arm," Shiro confesses.

"When it was removed, it was replaced with a prosthetic as part of the same procedure." His voice is steady when he says it, completely empty of any emotion that might be telling of the circumstances under which the procedure was done. The massage makes it easy to stay mellow, and he doesn't want to let that feeling go, besides.

"I just learned how to cook a little, but I don't know what other skills I even have to offer, here, really. If you think of a favor, I'll be happy to pay it."

"...There will be an adjustment period." Which is terribly clinical but- it is what he has heard said to those that survived the loss of the limb and needed to heal before attempting to attach anything to what remained. "And you can be quite creative with what you use to replace it. I knew of one lovely woman, enjoyed dancing, lost most of her left leg due to an ill placed snare and acid trap."

All this is offered in the same low, soothing voice, light and conversational as he moves to Shiro's other shoulder. "She had one of our smiths build her a foot with a hidden switchblade- and was balanced well enough that she could still take a turn about the ballroom."

Silver linings! Joy of joys. "Well...there is, of course, the obvious."

His thumb brushes along the side of Shiro's throat, his voice warm with promise, the air weighty with intent for all of a moment, perhaps two- "You are quite tall and I am, alas, terribly short. When I need assistance reaching things on high shelves, perhaps I might call you?"

Edited (i can spell i swear) 2018-12-06 07:44 (UTC)

Must have been a hell of a smith, Shiro thinks. What would even be worth replacing his arm with, here? Something hooked, maybe, something that would at least make him useful for carrying things for Watney, or- anything, really.

Then Zevran's thumb gliding along his pulse makes it slow, and thud a little harder in his ears for a moment; makes his lashes dip lower with a different heaviness than the massage had. Just for a moment.

Maybe two.

But when it startles out of him, his laugh is easy and warm, if a little husky, and he ducks his head not to avoid the touch but in an involuntary show of genuine mirth.

"I'll do my best to be available, when you have need of me," he says, still smiling when he quiets.

"...So... mercenary?" he asks, voice pitching up just enough to imply he doesn't think he's landed on the quite the correct title, but asking someone flat out if they were, perhaps, someone who was extremely skilled at killing people for money seems ungracious in the extreme.

A weighty moment full of promise, potential- and an offer unspoken. Teasing seems to be safe enough and that is where he ought to remain with most people in the village.

Safe.

For all that he truly- as Shiro so delicately attempts to ask- isn't.

"Assassin. A member of the Antivan Crows, House Arainai, Third Talon- or perhaps to be more accurate, a former member. Defector? I have parted ways with the guild a little over a year ago. The pay can be excellent but the retirement package is garbage, Cucciolo-" He tugs gently on Shiro's earlobe to show it is an endearment, something to tease as he resumes the massage. "But those are not skills that see much use in a place like this, yes? Better to offer my less lethal abilities."

"Well, you'd hope not," Shiro agrees, curious at the interjection - nickname? - but easing back into Zevran's hands again with no resistance or hesitation.

"I was a soldier, technically, but lucky enough to live in peaceful times, for most of my life. There are definitely skills I'm looking forward to not using, here. I think that might be true for a disproportionate amount of the population, actually."

"A village full to the brim of warriors, men of action, and tragic souls- given peace. And it is an uneasy one at that. Too much time to think, too much to do but too few tools with which to see it done." He sighs, finishing the massage with one last rub of Shiro's shoulders and neck before he fetches his clippers.

"It is a wonder no one has set anything on fire as of yet, just for the change of pace."

"...well," Shiro says, considering the towering inferno he'd come across by the bank of the river a day earlier.

"That... might not last. But hopefully nobody's boredom gets out of hand."

As for peace, he's not sure this counts. Technically, perhaps, but the sleepless nights and constant uneasiness aren't his idea of peaceful. Still, he takes Zevran's meaning.

"Did you defect to go do something else, pursue another path? Or just to get out?"

The Barber of Antiva

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