Diplomacy

Send “STOP PRETENDING TO BE OK!” for my muse’s reaction to yours yelling this at them - [ ACCEPTING ]

                                                                               @cuervocanto

         ‘Why? What good would it do anyone if I stopped? What good would I be then? No one needs me to break down right now.’ Gren thought as shook his head, lowering it as he stared blankly into the fire. If he pretended well enough, perhaps he’d convince himself, but he doubted he could convince Zevran as well.

         “I’ll be fine, Zev,” He said, forcing himself to raise his head once again, to meet the assassin’s eyes and smile, even as his eyes began to sting. The weight of all his losses, of the cripplingly empty feeling in his chest, was getting to be too much for him, but he refused to bend to it. “Everything is fine.”

Super detailed questions about your OCs - [ ACCEPTING ]

                                                                          @thewardcn

1. What’s their full name? Why was that chosen? Does it mean anything?

Grenwick Gideon Cousland. The name Grenwick doesn’t really mean anything on it’s own, But the name “Gren” means “Branching Path” and “Wick” means “Village”. Gideon means “Great Warrior”. If you told Gren that, he would probably laugh at you. Either his parents liked the way the names sounded together or they had ridiculously high hopes for his potential.

7. Did they have lots of friends as a child? Did they keep any of their childhood friends into adulthood?

Gren made friends everywhere he went and was kind to just about everyone in Highever. He had friends among the servants, friends among the guard’s children. He even made a friends when his family paid visits to Denerim and Redcliffe. Of course, now they’ve all likely forgotten him, or in the case of his friends in Highever, they’re all dead.

16. Do they collect anything? What do they do with it? Where do they keep it?

Zevran rests his chin on an fist, lifting a smug eyebrow.

“Inviting me to your tent at night and asking me to use your name? My, my, what will your templar friend think?” 

He makes a production of stretching his arms up, then leaning back against a tentpole, hands folded behind his head. The smirk was ever-present and insufferable as always. 

“I should have warned you when you decided to spare my life that this would happen. It is only a matter of time.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie, either. Not entirely. That’s just what Zevran did, he told a few jokes, warmed a few beds, and was gone when morning came. Have sex often enough and that’s all people thought you were, and that’s all people thought they were to you. No one looked under the surface of his skin. No one bothered. And it bothered Zevran not at all. 

The more people underestimated him, the more they left him alone, the better. Less funerals. Maybe he could get out of this whole Blight thing unscathed, and unfriended. If he could be so lucky. Which only meant Gren’s comment raised a few more eyebrows.

“You know, I could kill you right now.” He very nearly purred. “No one would be the wiser until morning, and by then, I would be very hard to find.” 

Gren rolled his eyes, though his smile didn’t diminish.

        “Oh, yes, Maker forbid Alistair believes I’m interested in men. At least he wouldn’t be wrong. But that isn’t why I wanted you to stay or why I’d rather you use my name. Though I doubt you’re interested in the real reasons.” He laughed softly, raising an eyebrow at Zevran’s comment. While the idea certainly didn’t repulse him, Grenwick doubted that sleeping with Zevran would end well for him at this time. There was an archdemon to kill, after all, and It was better to see if he’d survive before making a decision like that. He had never bedded anyone before, and while he was not nearly as chaste and shy as a certain former Templar, the middle of a blight wasn’t exactly the ideal time to have his first.

Even so, he didn’t argue against Zevran’s comment, nor did he confirm it. He merely shrugged his shoulders with a noncommittal hum, his smile turning playful. “Shame on you for not giving me fair warning of your inevitable seduction, then.” He replied, without missing a beat.

The following statement caught him a bit off guard, though he covered it well. Zevran spoke of killing him in much the same tone as he had when speaking of bedding him. Not for the first time, Gren considered that he may be in over his head.

@grenwickcxusland

The path was familiar, and in the daytime, it was nearly safe. The resident’s of Darktown knew him; he kept their healer safe. And even if that knowledge hadn’t been enough, the hound trailing around him was a rather good deterrent for any unwanted attention.

The massive brindle beast trotted a few feet ahead and slowed to wait for his person to catch up, before he bounded in a circle around Hawke’s legs. He slowed down, lagging behind by a few yards, before he burst into a gallop, overtaking Hawke and taking the lead again. Hawke shook his head in good-natured exasperation.

Sirius only stopped dilly-dallying when he cocked his head in interest at some apparently fascinating smell, and took off at a sprint.

“What–Sirius!” Hawke bolted after him, but he had no chance of catching up. “You utter loon, get back here!”

No chance of catching up, or of preventing him from barreling straight into someone. Hawke cringed. Having taken a mabari to the chest before, he knew Sirius could hit like a lumber wagon. “Sorry!” Hawke called feebly, jogging to close the distance. “If you feel like you’re dying, I promise you’re not.” And Sirius looked so pleased with himself, as he drooled all over his new find.

Gren’s day had been much the same as the one before it. Wake up in the dirt of Darktown, pull his hood up over his head, and stumble off towards the docks. While there, he’d make what little money he could by carrying crates and loading cargo onto ships. It paid shit, but it was enough to eat at least once that day and no one asked questions. The former ‘hero’ couldn’t afford to be picky.

After that, he returned to Darktown and sit as far from the other refugees as he could. Seeing them played on his selfless nature. The last time he had been near another group of starving people, he had given them his day’s earnings. He’d gone hungry that night and it was agony to work the following day. He’d forced himself to avoid other people from then on.

Then, there was the matter of Anders. The mage had been one of the first warden recruits he had taken and a dear, trusted friend. But now, he knew he couldn’t face him. Couldn’t ask him for help. He felt the other warden in his mind the way he was sure Anders could sense him. But they were both avoiding their fellows, Gren out of guilt and Anders out of fear. He couldn’t burden his old friend by seeking him out.

So here he was, walking back from the lift to the little corner of the slums where he often slept, when the sound of barking, shouting and running feet reached his ears. He looked up, ready to move out of the way, but it was too late. All the weight of a fully grown Mabari barrelled right into his chest, knocking him off his feet and into the dust with a shocked yelp. The air was knocked right out of his lungs when his back hit the ground and the Mabari’s front paws on his chest were not much help. As if he didn’t ache enough already. His luck really was awful, wasn’t it?

Turning his head to avoid getting dog drool in his eyes, he almost flinched as a voice reached his ears. It had been a long long time since someone had addressed him directly and he was expecting something much worse than the apology he received.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the concerned gaze of the man who approached, the dog’s owner most likely.

Zevran held a glass of red wine for himself, swirling the dark liquor in the glass before taking a sip. 

“In the Crows, some of us called these parties killing floors.” He laughed to soften the blow. “Ahh, I suppose you would not think it is funny, but in Antiva, the crown is merely a puppet for the Crows. Any time our puppet is at an event like this, you can guarantee there are at least three assassins watching, waiting for someone to step out of line.” 

In Ferelden, it wasn’t so vastly different, Zevran mused with another drink. Though they were no assassin’s guild, a few of Ferelden’s nobles liked pulling strings. It gave Zevran some small comfort to know no matter where he went, The Game was played the same. 

“I am no longer a Crow, of course, but there is plenty of work if you know where to look. See that woman?”

Zevran tilted his chin towards a woman with a vast train of powder blue, and a mask that curled elegantly upwards in a swan’s neck. She was of stern complexion and even stricter body language, only gesturing when she could do so with vigor. In the distance, she pursed her lips to herself. 

“She would pay very good money to have that woman,” he gestured to another woman a few feet away, in a deep burgundy dress and an owl mask, “taken care of. The owl, she is her rival in both status and love. They both lust after that Bann, the one in the deer mask. You learn many things about people from simply watching, yes?” 

Grenwick’s smile turned nervous at the term that left his companion’s lips but he did not protest. He knew Zevran’s trade as well as the next man might, so he also knew he shouldn’t be surprised by phrases such as ‘killing floor’.

Taking a drink of his own wine, he adjusted the pale mask that hid the upper half of his face. Leliana had helped costume him for the evening, as she was an expert on this sort of thing and he was, admittedly, eager to dress up. It had been a long time since he had worn anything like this. It reminded him of better times, which carried a strange bittersweet taste not unlike the drink in his hand. Leliana had told him before they’d left that costumes based on birds were all the rage and, judging by the two women Zevran had indicated, she had been correct. His lovely bardic friend had dressed him as a dove, complete with pale feathers on his shoulders and in his braided hair.

“Peaceful and soft,” She had said. “Perfect for you.”

Gren couldn’t exactly argue.