Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]
[Action, locked to Isaac]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
Fondest regards,
Zevran
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
no subject
[Help her? No...it wouldn't be the right appoach...]
Oh...I'm sorry to disturb. I just can't help the feeling that we've...spoken before.
[It wouldn't be accurate to say that they actually met before.]
no subject
[He quirks a brow, waiting for...some manner of statement of intent. If this woman wished him dead, she would say so or act in a hostile manner. If she wished his company- she'd be sweeter.]
no subject
[Fortunately, she isn't one to wish someone dead. A KO would satisfy her far more than a kill. Let the opponent wake up and realize that they've lost so easily to a beautiful girl. She isn't even one to initiate random fights. She either lets the opponent make the first move, or schedules a duel with an opponent at a later time.]
[But none of that is on her agenda right now. For now, Karla studies Zevran once more. His voice definitely sounds familiar, but she still can't piece the puzzle together.]
Hmm...perhaps a name would help?
no subject
[Nothing in what he can recall includes this face, this voice. Coffee done and his study of the journal finished for the moment there is but one thing left for him to do-
to seek out that home he thinks he knows.
With a bit of a shrug he slides back from the table and stands, tucking the journal away in his armor.]
Perhaps you have me mistaken for another elf.
no subject
[So he doesn't care to hear her name? It's just as well, since it won't help her any.]
I meant perhaps hearing your name would help. I don't think I ever told you mine.
[Her face goes blank at his claim.]
...What's an elf?
no subject
[He deposits his cup on the counter, shoulders going straight and his jaw working at that innocuous question. All that he's endured this morning and had to sort through his own mind so far- he is in no mood to play teacher to some human girl.]
I'm certain there are books you might find that could tell you readily enough. Good day.
[Without so much as a word further he ducks out of the coffee house.]
no subject
[Isaac? And...?]
[Karla's eyes pop open as the name suddenly hits her.]
Zevran...
[Yes, she's certain that was the name. Satisfied for the moment, she sits at the table where Zevran had been sitting and turns back to her coffee, which is starting to get cold. There's no need to pursue any further. They'll cross paths again, she's certain.]