sixthiterationlogs | [ OPEN ] Il Sogno Va Nel Tempo

Entry tags:

[ 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

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?"

"Considering a great many of the people in this village are wound tightly as you- if not more so? It is a matter of time. Why they decided to give us all the ability to control fire is beyond me." How long it will last, how much good it will do? He cannot say.

With a careful and steady hand, Zevran begins to run the clippers through Shiro's hair to cut it down, a towel laid across the back of his neck and over his shoulders to catch stray hairs. "Funny story, that- I was fulfilling my latest mission from them to slay some Grey Wardens, it means nothing to anyone not of my world but suffice to say they are reputed to be warriors beyond compare. The best of the best. Burdened with killing darkspawn and ending Blights should they occur. We were in the midst of such a one but I was contracted to see them dead- and I failed to do so. In the Crows? Failure means death. But the wardens did not kill me."

"You failed to do so," Shiro repeats, voice simultaneously devoid of judgement yet extremely skeptical. It was a tone he'd developed over time and used to great effect as a leader, especially with the other paladins, who were almost always instantly compelled to clarify, with a great deal more detail. Zevran is miles away in experience and composure from Shiro's team, though. Which really only adds to the skepticism.

"Well, that was... big of them?"

"It was I and a handful of mercenaries for hire that were not worth the coin I paid them to assist me against two Wardens- again I must remind you they are warriors beyond reproach, the last bastion between the good, living people of Thedas and the crawling taint that is the Darkspawn horde- a Qunari- have you seen the Iron Bull? One of those. With a sword as long as I am tall, a war hound the size of a small horse, a witch of the wilds with the ability to change into a bear, and an Orlesian Bard- which are similar in scope to the Crows but less involuntary in their services. So you see. I was quite outmatched." Alas. Alack. How terrible it was for poor, poor Zevran to try for so great a contract and fail so horribly.

He ruffles his fingers through Shiro's hair, going in with a careful hand and the razor to neaten up the edges. "They wished information- which I was not paid to withhold. To that end I told them all they wished to know and as they needed all the help they could get- they allowed me to swear my loyalty to them in return for my life. Or perhaps they found me too pretty to kill."

It's a very good story, however briefly relayed. Coran would go absolutely nuts for it, Shiro knows that much. Like he knows he should take the hint from the glibness in Zevran's tone and let the story be the end of it, but one word catches so hard in his ears that, though the tension in his frame doesn't come back, a true testament to Zevran's skills, his brows tug into a small, tight frown.

"Involuntary." It's almost a question.

"From what I understand, yes. To be a Crow or to be a Bard is a great honor- but one does not make a business or a guild of training people in the hunting and killing of men without well deserved reputation for ruthlessness. Bards, at least, volunteer their services to the cause- to learn and train and be a part of Orlais grand game of politics, intrigue, and death. It is much more...romanticized, I suppose, and there are supposedly rules about what is and is not allowed but honestly? I do not think anyone plays by rules that are not of their own making." He nudges Shiro's jaw to one side, working at the fine hair behind his left ear.

"Antiva has no need of a standing army because of the Crows. Who would be so foolish as to attack a country with the largest, deadliest guild of Assassins in the world? But you do not become the largest Guild of Assassins by taking only volunteers." Steady with the blade he shaves down Shiro's hair, hand curled about his shoulder, fingers resting against his pulse. "I believe I was seven when they purchased me- for three sovereigns. A considerable price as I did not know the pointy end of a dagger from the pommel at the time."

The tension in Shiro's frame is immediate, and he nearly leans into the blade.

Seven.

The wood of his seat actually creaks under the sudden pressure of his hand where it's gripped, curled over the edge, and though a muscle in the corner of his jaw jumps with the effort, he forces himself to stay still, not to dislodge Zevran's hands.

He doesn't say, purchased?. He doesn't need to. There's no clarification required. Whatever understanding he might have of the situation, it pales in comparison to an entire life lived that way. The mere idea of it makes him see red, but it's not anger he has a right to, and Zevran certainly doesn't need him to perform the right kind of indignation or horror for his sake.

"I'm glad you got out," is all he says, after a prolonged moment's terse silence.

"Ch- per l'amor del cielo, Shrio I have just finished working out your knots." This, of course, only cements the soft heart he'd observed in Shiro. A tenderness, a kindness unsuited, perhaps, to the sharper, venom drenched edges of Zevran's life. the rest of his story he shall keep to himself, he decides, setting his razor aside to reapply the oil to his palms and work again at Shiro's neck and shoulders.

"Breathe, Bello, sip your tea, relax. I am here now, am I not? Alive, well, very pretty and quite pleased to be free of my former employers. I survived." Some of the glibness falls away for the last word, hand resting warm against Shiro's spine. "Is that not all we can do? Make the most of what we are given, endure to see another day. I am even, apparently, known to be something of a hero? there are a few others in the Village from my world, about a decade or so past my own time and- I am known. How strange is that, to be known? Infamous, surely, rumored? I expect that. But known as a hero. That is ridiculously awesome, wouldn't you say?"

Shiro almost protests, but the return of Zevran's hands are too good a gift to be turned away, and after what he's just been told, Shiro doesn't imagine Zevran actually does anything he doesn't want to do. He hopes not, anyway.

He breathes, he lifts the still-warm cup and turns it in his hand, on top of his thigh. He listens and lets the tension seep out, again, and doesn't look too closely at the sudden, yawning hollowness Zevran's words seem to open up in his chest.

There's no point. There's no use for it. Better to focus on what may be the closest thing to a real happy ending he's heard of in some time, one that's plainly well deserved. Shiro smiles faintly, and nods once, a fraction of a gesture.

"I would say."

"...Shiro." He stops long enough to bring a hand around and, well, perhaps it is dipping past the collar bone to rest one long fingered hand against his sternum, over his heart. Perhaps it is breaching the sense of polite albeit detached intimacy this service he's offering has established to catch his chin with his thumb and forefinger and direct his gaze back to meet his eyes. "There are far worse fates than mine and- if I may be so bold to assume, yours. It does not make our bullshit less frustrating but- we are somewhere it no longer matters. We arrived with no baggage save for the pack they gave us when we dragged ourselves from the fountain."

And that must count for something.

He holds the serious gaze, the serious moment for just that, a moment before he finishes massaging Shrio's tension away and once again takes up his razor to clean and even out the back of Shiro's hair, the sides near his temples, behind his ears. "Who's idea was that? 'I know, we shall pluck up different sorts from all manners of time and space, worlds with and without magic, and we shall put them together in the most boring village possible! and when they arrive we shall dunk them in water!' Feh."

For the duration of his mocking diatribe Zevran mimic's a thick, Orlesian accent, all posh and overstuffed, self important.

Zevran is, of course, right, and Shiro knows it, wants to tell him he knows it, but settles for meeting his gaze with a clear, attentive one of his own, and letting Zevran move him as he sees fit.

"I'd like to know who assigns the colors we show up in, because head to toe magenta was never really my look."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject