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.
*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.]