Zevran Arainai

He’d beat some group of human thugs there at Wicked Grace, deliciously, having taken a whole sack of gold as a reward. They’d been rather excitable about possibly stringing up a pretty little elf up for their own purposes that night, but unfortunately for them, Zevran always played to win. 

No matter. He would find a way.

“Hm, that sounds quite painful indeed. This leg,” He moves it slightly, feeling the pain to be bearable, for now. “It will do. It’s a leg saved by you, dear Lyrian, and for that I am grateful. Will you have to make off soon? I would miss you, of course. Very much, but I doubt you have all the time in the world to take care of a poor, injured, pretty little thing like me, all alone in the forest, do you?” 

It’s part guilt-tripping, part survival instincts. It could backfire on him, but worst case scenario, he’d be left to die by himself in the woods - if memory served him well, he was stranded well away from his closest recon personnel, who had been informed to await for news from him along the outskirts of Orlais.

Beyond the cozy little corner that he had slept in quite comfortably, the rain came pouring loudly, and Zevran’s gaze shifted out, beyond the thick vegetation, through tall trees that had stood for eons before him. It’s a strange feeling, being small, vulnerable and altogether too insignificant, and he’s not entirely sure if he hates or likes this odd ball of emotion that was slowly uncoiling within him. 

The next thing that catches his attention quite unwittingly is the sharp pain in his leg when he makes an attempt to move it. Attempt, because he doesn’t quite succeed in actually shifting himself much due to the pain - it’s less intense now. Still hurts, but his vision is clear and he doesn’t feel his head spinning with the dull ache at the back of his skull anymore, which is a sigh of relief, because he knows those to be signs of lyrium infection that he really doens’t need in his life.

He glances around, and spots Lyrian well enough close to him, and waves in quite the silly fashion at the other elf, looking a touch too happy for someone who had almost succumbed to red lyrium poisoning mere hours ago.

He’s not entirely sure what drives him to say this but as he watches Lyrian pull out crystal after crystal, he can’t help but simply blurt out the strange little phrase that he’s picked up from the Dalish that he’s met in his life - childish, honestly. A tourist, learning how to say a single phrase by spending two weeks in some city they will eventually forget. “ Ma serannas.” A lump is in his throat when he speaks, though the back of his mind rationalises that as nerves. He shoots said elf a charming little grin and  a wink that half-fails because he’s verging right into sleep’s territory. 

“I think I will have to sleep a little bit.” His head lolls to the side comically and he presses himself a little furhter back on the rock he’s leaned up against, obviously one step into dreamland.

“In the mean time. I hope I see your face in my dreams. Good night, Lyrian.” 

“Oh, it is often strange how some things never stop tasting terrible no matter how lovely the hands that they pass through.” Did that make sense? Was it alright not to make sense? Another throb of pain passes through his leg and his body visibly tenses, muscle tightening under sun-kissed skin, fingers grabbing onto the grassy ground beneath him.

“Though you are right, of course - I would imagine that my leg is feeling a bit neglected, so down this goes.”  

The Dalish can blush, Zevran denotes at the back of his head with a very satisfied smile; perhaps the situation is not so terrible afterall, considering that he’s stuck in a forest with a beautiful pale creature that warms him up after he nearly dies. 

Maybe it’s luck, or it’s deliriousness talking. Likely both. Whatever it is that Lyrian hands to him, it doesn’t taste nearly as bad as it looks, which is some sort of ... vegetation mash-up. He doesn’t question it’s medicinal properties because frankly, he’s way out of his element in unfamiliar grounds, and this is his best shot at surviving a red lyrium infection. He hands the bowl back, and stares at the injury for a moment, not quite feeling much until a while later, he realises that he isn’t feeling anything, not even the pain that’s supposed to be there in his open wound. 

“Oh. It does not hurt.” Luckily, common sense tells him not to go about touching red crystals of devastation as he blinks and readjusts himself.

“Very well, you have a point.”

It’s not easy to move when one has red lyrium coursing through their blood, now he knows this by experience. Gingerly, he shifts himself, left knee up and his right leg spread out straight. Red crystals had somehow managed to dissolve against his skin, and Zevran took a deep huff before straightening his back against the rock once more, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is there a … position? You would prefer me in?” It is so very, very difficult to be serious sometimes, even in the face of possible death and abomination.

“… and the Cirque De Luna is proud to present to you our special double act – the Curious Jamboree!”

The name didn’t even make sense, and Zevranrolled his eyes at the disappointment of a title that had been assigned to them, tugging his robes a little tighter and grabbing his daggers.

“I shall see you back here, tonight.”

Sunlight blinds him for a second when he does take a step out, and it truly hits him – this is Orlais, in all its gilded glory. The epitome of beauty, grace, and a dagger to your face. Or was it to your back? More likely the latter, these Orlesians, dressed in their finest clothes, did not seem the sort who would be nice enough to inform you directly of your death.

“Ladies, and gentlemen!” He calls for their attentions, with two sharp blades in both hands. “How is everybody today? Doing extraordinarily well, I hope? Even if you are not, fear not! For Zevran shall entertain you!” The sound of a lute strums behind him and he is happy to hear that the coachman had picked up his instrument to an oddly familiar tune that’s almost Antivan-like in structure. It helps. And he moves accordingly to the sound of strings strummed by a skilled hand, moving further out into the crowd until he spots an exit. Having spotted his way out, Zevran throws his daggers, and he hears the people gasp, the throng of Orlesians now visibly entranced by his performance. A path is paved onto the ground, forming a barrier of sorts out for the Iron Bull’s grand entrance.

“Nipardo… Mio caro…” Oh? Was he going to get lucky tonight? It had been a while since he last got hitched by anyone, though it’s more likely than not due to how shady Kirkwall was. Damn Alistair and his stupid little trips to the weirdest parts of Thedas. Meet in the Free Marches, he said. It would be a neutral zone, he said. Pfft. Neutral indeed, with Qunari waiting by the docks and a mage-templar situation that’s the worst he’s seen in a while. 

Maybe, maybe this guy won’t be bad enough for him to reject straight up.

“Si? Mi– you are not here to hook up, are you?” Because the man looks like the personification of death itself, and Zevran glances about quickly to see if anyone’s on his trail before hefting the stranger’s body up, brows knitted out of confusion.