call me beep me

[canavarum]

Who: Fenris [canavarum] and Zevran Arainai [bloodyantivan]
When: After this thread; Mid-afternoon.
Where: Thedaspartment, ninth sector.
Summary: If it were up to Fenris, he wouldn't ask anyone to help him write a thank-you note. But here he is, asking someone to help him write a thank-you note.
Warnings: Does Zevran Arainai count as a warning?


[Fenris is pacing. He's a bit nervous, and that's translating very quickly into agitation - mostly at himself, and a little at the wailing car alarm off in the distance. He needs something to do, but seeing as he cannot just go along with Hawke to fight some spiders or something, pacing will have to do.

He wonders if he can find a sparring partner, someone with an equally large sword. Hmm.

But, really, he has not told anyone of his particularly-- deficiency. No one other than Hawke, at least, and despite saying the Book of Shartan would have been a good start to learning, he never really did. He'd asked Sebastian for assistance occasionally, and he could make out letters. But that was about it.

He considers canceling, considers just going down to the Re-l's office and thank her personally. It's always been enough for him in the past, that particular expression of gratitude. But somehow it does not feel enough. He'd seen the price tags on furniture. The chair she had sent him - and just for him - surely cost a hefty amount of coin.

Dollars.

Whatever.

And so he waits. Pacing. Twitching.]

[ooc | Wasn't sure if you'd prefer action or prose bb so I just...did both kinda haha.]

Comments

[canavarum]

[He tries to loosen his grip, but ends up getting it too loose and thus not offering enough pressure for a stable print. He scowls, tries to adjust his hold once more.]

A sword is much easier to handle.

[bloodyantivan]

Here.

[Zevran does it without thinking. He closes his hand over Fenris's, adjusting the pencil and his grasp.]

You must give it room to breathe, freedom of movement. You must hold it lightly, so it may fly quickly, but not away from you.

I suppose it is more like a dagger than a sword.

[canavarum]

[Fenris is slowly acclimating to Zevran's touch. What's more important is the words that the pen forms, the shift of awkward to comfortable grips on the shaft. Of the pen.

He tries to memorize the feel of it, the exact pressure of his grip. And now this will never not sound sexual.]

I have never been one for daggers. It is too precise.

[He likes to just be able to swing his sword around and hit people.]

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran's fingers brush slowly across the back of Fenris's hand as he withdraws.]

Alas, writing is very precise. Some even elevate it to an art form. Once you learn the basics, you may learn to relish the ways you can make these letters and words all your own.

[It's something he's always liked: his signature is a flashy one, the Z and A sharp, deadly and elegant as blades.]

[canavarum]

Yes, I am beginning to understand that much.

[The skin in between the many lines of lyrium seems to jump at the other's lingering, rather purposeful touch. He's used to wearing his gauntlets, so the feel of someone else's skin against his hand is a completely strange and foreign one.

Has he really been so guarded?]

Who taught you?

[bloodyantivan]

One of the whores did her best to teach us our letters in the brothel, but I barely knew them when I was sold to the Crows at age seven. I only spoke Antivan, too, and such a low form as you would expect from an elf boy raised by whores. Reading and writing were part of my overall education with the Crows. Not only was it essential to blending in and maintaining contracts, but important in the mixing of poisons as well. To be honest, between the rigors of our other lessons children often fell asleep! I had one of my most memorable beatings after being discovered asleep on my slate, chalk on my face! [A warm chuckle. Good times, good times.]

[canavarum]

[Fenris is a bit surprised when he hears Zevran chuckling - it's not very empty or bitter, as his own might have been if he ever felt the need to bring up his own past punishments. He pauses in his writing, raising his eyes to meet Zevran's squarely.]

Slaves were not permitted to read. What need does property have for such a thing?

[There's a snarl in his voice, but delving into his own background isn't what he's interesting in.]

You sound fond of your punishment.

[bloodyantivan]

And why should I not have enjoyed it? I survived. I became one of the best. Shall I tell you what became of the boys who were not suitable material for the Crows? [There's a rather jagged edge to Zevran's voice, suddenly: a warning, sharp and deadly.

There are some stories that cannot be told with bravado. There are some stories that are so ugly even Zevran's charm can't cover it up.]

[canavarum]

No, I know what becomes of the useless.

[Starvation, perhaps? Whippings have still yet to go out of style. Beatings were frequent, and if you were under the service of a mage, torture through magic even more so. Intimate punishments. Perhaps even death? No. Most certainly death. He wondered if the Crows liked their deaths clean or if they preferred a show.

A moment, and he resumes writing. Zevran is free to continue the conversation or end it right here. It is his right, and thus his choice.]

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran falls silent. He paces the kitchen a little, eventually settling on the counter near the window. He doesn't like talking about his childhood years. It makes him want to drink too much fine wine and end the night in a naked heap, sandwiched between several whores. It makes him want to run, or fight, or even kill. It makes him want to do something to prove he's still alive.]

There are some things whoresons are good for. [He chuckles, and that does carry a familiar bitterness.]

[canavarum]

[For a moment, there is only the scratch of his pen. But once again he pauses.]

Such as passing on their hard-earned knowledge?

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran chuckles. It is wearier than before.]

The Crows would say that made me rather useless indeed. I'm supposedly sworn to secrecy about their techniques.

[canavarum]

Supposedly. Do you think it a foolish policy?

[It seems pretty reasonable to Fenris... from an assassin's point of view.]

[bloodyantivan]

I think the Crows guard their secrets to avoid competition. So long as they are the best, they run Antiva. Why would they change things if they have held the power this way this long? As for my opinion, well... [Zevran shrugs, like it's a little thing. Like Fenris is asking 'cake or pie?' or 'boys or girls?' Oh, that little matter?]

I can't say I'm particularly fond of the part where they enslave children and kill anyone who dares to leave - to protect their secrets, of course.

[canavarum]

Of course.

[The scratch of his pen becomes harsh for a second, a touch of anger.]

Leaving is not an option until someone is dead.

[bloodyantivan]

And yet here we are, very much alive. How about that.

[There's a sweetness to it, a satisfaction. Here, in some place far away, some world like the Fade that they can't escape from, they've achieved something they'd both spent their lives trying to do.

They no longer need to run.]

[canavarum]

Until when? We have no idea when we will return to Thedas. It could be tomorrow- it could be years.

[And Danarius will be right there waiting for him.]

Or perhaps they will come to us. Nothing is so certain.

[bloodyantivan]

You worry too much, my friend. When any of those things come to pass, we shall concern ourselves with it then. Until then, let us enjoy these moments for what they are.

[Beautiful in their own way, like beads of water sliding off blades of grass. Slippery. Shining. Inevitably splattering into the dirt, wasted if not enjoyed.

Zevran has come to realize, though slowly, that he values his life. He has to, living with death so closely.]

How is your hand? I think you may be ready to sign that letter.

[canavarum]

Is it not a valid concern?

[He mumbles that part to himself, mostly, as he regards his writing. The lines become sharper and neater and more practiced as the repetitions go on. He's very pleased. That's his name. Their shapes and curves - all of it are his.]

...yes. I think so.

[bloodyantivan]

Oh, of course. But worry does not look good on your face, my friend. I far prefer your smile.

[Zevran places the letter in front of Fenris, indicating the bottom of the letter.]

Sign your name right there, and I will make sure this letter gets to Re-l.

[canavarum]

[A snort and then a smirk.]

Flattery will get you nowhere.

[He copies down his name one last time, very careful and meticulous, very focused and concentrated, before he finally sets the pen down.]

I-- owe you a great deal, Zevran. Thank you for this.

[bloodyantivan]

It is a gift. [Zevran insists. There is a velvet fierceness to his voice.] One of the few that is within my power to give, unless you should want use of my other skills, or my body, which you have thus far snubbed. [Zevran adds a note of playful confusion to his voice, as if he cannot understand how Fenris can resist him.

He has a pretty good reason why, really, and he doesn't think it is because Fenris is uninterested in men. Most who are state it outright, and Zevran makes a noise of disappointment and... well, usually continues on in earnest just to annoy the man. But it's different.

While Zevran does not really know how to have a conversation without steering it toward sex occasionally, he's almost been enjoying the fact that Fenris never rises to his bait. And not that he wouldn't love for Fenris to rise to his bait at some point... this is good too. It's almost a relief not to have to perform all the time. Fenris expects little to nothing of him, and Zevran need not give anything he doesn't want.

It makes him want to give as much as he can.]

[canavarum]

[His smirk drops to something a bit more contemplative.]

It isn't you.

[He shakes his head and folds up the letter neatly into thirds, trying to give himself something to do.]

But that is another matter. Do you know where the police... station is located?

[bloodyantivan]

I make my business to know such things. The city guards do cut a certain figure in their uniforms. [Yes, he's canvassed the place. And ogled a few uniformed asses while he did it.] I can make sure she gets it - or would you prefer to deliver it yourself?

[canavarum]

[He rolls his eyes...before considering his question. Re-l had the chair delivered to him, but then again, it is much easier to deliver a letter in person than it is a chair.]

Perhaps...it would be more effective if I did so.