Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antivanleather) wrote2013-04-09 09:44 pm
antivanleather) wrote2013-04-09 09:44 pm
Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]
plans.
His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart. No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head. No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back. No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh. Katniss. She'd seen. He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood. Alive. He is alive. It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent. He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes. But he lives.
And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve. If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad. All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet. Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death
When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home. There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back. Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes. Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival. From there, it's home. Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.
At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee. If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.
His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart. No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head. No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back. No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh. Katniss. She'd seen. He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood. Alive. He is alive. It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent. He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes. But he lives.
And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve. If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad. All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet. Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death
When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home. There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back. Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes. Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival. From there, it's home. Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.
At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee. If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.
action
You already have.
[Either too tired or unwilling to pursue this train of thought, though, he lets it be and shifts his attentions on the answer given, stowing away pieces of information. The house. Zevran must be lodging elsewhere since he had stumbled across him, ill, in December. Paranoia in the wake of the cruel trick might have been a reason to move, but had it been enough of one?]
Indeed... I should certainly hope so. [He studies the blade in hand, jagged edge gleaming in the light as he turns it slowly, thoughtfully.] I was given one’s word that it would remain in your possession alone... and I’m afraid I do not take kindly to vows being unkept. Should that be the case.
action
[He frowns. Sighs. Drops his head against Isaac's shoulder and grumbles something low and inarticulate in Antivan as he sorts out his thoughts.]
...I thought I heard Katniss. Just at the end. She saw?
OKAY NO MORE EDITS FROM ME, gosh
Of course.
[He tongues the point of his canine, a faint, absent smirk flitting about his lips while he focuses his attentions on channeling Eferin's magic into the dagger, the heated blade steadily taking on a dull orange hue.]
She made quite a fuss, the foolish girl, clinging to your corpse like a fly. [Snorting softly.] ...Perhaps she feared I might feast upon your flesh and ruin her fine work.
[A laugh bubbles out of him, ghoulish and low. Grim jest aside, however, it is clear to him that Zevran mattered so very much to her. Perhaps she had meant to die there, guarding his body.]
ALL THE EDITS
[Ever practical, his Katniss. Even as strange as it is to discuss his body post expiration, it's best to level the matter now. He knows Isaac's temper well and would rather not have it leveled at Katniss for what was done or said in the midst of grief.]
I do not think I have yet thanked you for your mercy.
no subject
…And then pickle you quite nicely.
[He offers with a smirk curling his lips, not turning his head enough to meet Zevran’s gaze fully.
And then comes a gratitude, something he forever lacked the grace and kindness to handle masterfully, that is, without a flippant wave of the hand or a some sort of contemptuous scoff. He remembers the steel blade - the extension of his will - thudding powerfully into soft, weak flesh and burying more than halfway to the hilt; he remembers the trill of excitement passing through him at the raw intimacy of taking a life, and at close range, allowing him to watch Zevran's eyes glaze over. What could be regarded as an act of mercy from one perspective had also been an opportunity all too readily taken to achieve catharsis by a bloody, savagely satisfying means - and he imagined the elf was aware of this. He chuckles through his nose, testing the point of the hot knife with the tip of his finger.]
I shall find a way you can repay me.
[He drawls, as if preoccupied with filing his long fingernails into claws. Being the one to kill him is the only way he would have had it.]
...Though I would suggest that you start by lifting your hands from me.
no subject
[Stories. Stories were easy and comfortable and well known to him and a way for him to remind himself of normalcy. Especially when he considers the weight he's lost, the time he's lost, and the thing that is apparently taken from someone upon their revival. As he has all his limbs and senses and memories he cannot think of what it was that was taken from him. He'll sort it out later, perhaps, but he would rather not think of it at all. instead he wishes to sit and spin absurd tales with Isaac.
It was more familiar that death and dying. Safer.]
Mm. Perhaps I might prepare a meal for you? Or craft something of leather. Or perhaps I might make you some very fine poisons? I will have to check to see how the garden has transplanted in my absence but the nightshade and magebane should have taken quite well.
[The request? Ignored. Well. He does stop hugging Isaac. But not without combing his fingers through the man's hair with a cheeky smirk.]
There is shameless talk of asses in this tag. Tread carefully.
I favour an ass – [And not a beast of burden, he will have the elf know.] -- with far more… meat… to it. [He bares a hint of teeth in a wolfish smile.] More resistance, if you will.
[And less jiggly bounce, which brought to mind the living slime in the bowels of the castle.
Snickering follows his own choice of words. Though earning mild disapproval, that roguish, insubordinate smirk of Zevran’s becomes him, Isaac will admit; and, in the end, he does not object to fingers threading through his hair though knowing he was being toyed with. It’s a simple pleasure, one that has the nerves in his scalp prickling keenly.]
Magebane, is it? [Wolfsbane, he knows, but this is new and potentially of interest. Clearly it must have some value to the elf if he had thought to grow it.] I take that it is native to your world?
There's always asses involved with these two.
[He crackles a laugh, fingers combing and dragging along Isaac's scalp for a few friendly moments more before his hand drops away entirely.]
You like them lean and firm, don't you? I am quite aware of that.
Mhm. Magesbane. It is particularly effective against those that use magic in my world. I have yet to test it against anyone in this place so I have no way of knowing if it has the same effects, and I've no means of testing it.
*TW* for sex talk esp. 'cause Isaac sometimes has a terrible, terrible way of describing things.
[The fierce, hungry certainty with which he teasingly prepares others to receive him speaks volumes, making the only purpose of stating the obvious just to rob Zevran of some small sense of satisfaction he may be feeling.]
Of course… [He exhales, pausing.] …what rests between is of equal import. If I am to lie with a man about as tight from the start as that cloth sack you handed me, I had might as well take a woman’s company. [He wrinkles his nose, making a face while thinking on the remark as if this is a somewhat disappointing outcome.
Oh, right, they had been discussing magebane.]
…oh? [He cocks his head, an eyebrow perking suggestively.] Effective, how? Does it weaken one's spells partly or entirely, block the flow of magic within them, or lower one's resistance to magical attacks?
so classy, isaac
I am to understand it weakens one's connection to the fade- that from which mages draw their power in my world. It makes them more susceptible to physical attacks, lowers their resistance to magical attacks directed at them, and makes it more difficult for them to cast. A large enough dose can cut them off from their power entirely for some time.
Indeed!
Certainly.
[The pouch can be provided.]
…And the antidote? [Holding Zevran's gaze with a slyly playful, snake-like interest, he inclines his head, as if viewing him from another angle would make things clearer.]