Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bloodyantivan) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-05-23 01:05 pm
bloodyantivan) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-05-23 01:05 pm
he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out
Date & Time: 5/23, evening
Location: Zevran's favorite hole-in-the-wall
Characters: Zevran Arainai (bloodyantivan), Vanadi (implying)
Summary: ELF PROBLEMS.
Warnings: ELF PROBLEMS.
[A pall has been cast over the city. It lingers like an ugly, bitter black smoke that chokes the lungs and attacks the health. Some are angry, snarling at each other on street corners for imagined slights. Others cry silently, their faces in their hands. Zevran sincerely hates this feeling. Now when the rain falls, there is utter certainty the sun will not return.
What little vitality remained among the Transports is bleeding away. And he is no better, truly, in a foul mood from witnessing the destruction of Madrid, a place so like his Antiva City he almost tasted it in the warm air. But instead his tongue came away coated with ash, and the life or two he might have saved is minuscule compared to the amount lost. This war is a blight in its own way, yet Alistair is not here and Elissa is no better equipped to fight it than he is.
It reminds him of the first time the Crow recruits were given knives and told to fight each other, the first time a child fell not at the hands of his or her master but at the hands of their fellow allies. The shock of it deadened the air just like this.
But all was not lost then, and it will not be now. Eventually, those who survived the training began to laugh and joke and smile again, they drank and made love and played games of gambling and sport. The best he can say about a mood like this is that it will lift through self-preservation alone. Torture recruits, force their hand, expose them to ugliness and suffering and some will be crushed to dust, gibbering messes for their brothers and sisters to clean up.
But the others will be fighters, survivors. The others will kill the parts of their hearts that love and fear too much. It will happen.
Zevran just isn't sure he wants it to.
He's been obsessively cleaning his weapons for an entire day. Finally, he makes use of the housing showers and dresses to go out: high boots, soft green shirt, gray hooded zip-up over that.
He doesn't wear red.
And after poking about at some of the shops, he ducks into his favorite tavern. The barmaid is already readying his brandy when he sees someone he met quite a long time ago. He looks different now, but not entirely unfamiliar.
He decides then and there that he is through with all of this solitary brooding.
Zevran sidles up to the other pointed-ear gentleman at the bar.]
Buy you a drink, my friend?
Location: Zevran's favorite hole-in-the-wall
Characters: Zevran Arainai (
bloodyantivan), Vanadi (implying)Summary: ELF PROBLEMS.
Warnings: ELF PROBLEMS.
[A pall has been cast over the city. It lingers like an ugly, bitter black smoke that chokes the lungs and attacks the health. Some are angry, snarling at each other on street corners for imagined slights. Others cry silently, their faces in their hands. Zevran sincerely hates this feeling. Now when the rain falls, there is utter certainty the sun will not return.
What little vitality remained among the Transports is bleeding away. And he is no better, truly, in a foul mood from witnessing the destruction of Madrid, a place so like his Antiva City he almost tasted it in the warm air. But instead his tongue came away coated with ash, and the life or two he might have saved is minuscule compared to the amount lost. This war is a blight in its own way, yet Alistair is not here and Elissa is no better equipped to fight it than he is.
It reminds him of the first time the Crow recruits were given knives and told to fight each other, the first time a child fell not at the hands of his or her master but at the hands of their fellow allies. The shock of it deadened the air just like this.
But all was not lost then, and it will not be now. Eventually, those who survived the training began to laugh and joke and smile again, they drank and made love and played games of gambling and sport. The best he can say about a mood like this is that it will lift through self-preservation alone. Torture recruits, force their hand, expose them to ugliness and suffering and some will be crushed to dust, gibbering messes for their brothers and sisters to clean up.
But the others will be fighters, survivors. The others will kill the parts of their hearts that love and fear too much. It will happen.
Zevran just isn't sure he wants it to.
He's been obsessively cleaning his weapons for an entire day. Finally, he makes use of the housing showers and dresses to go out: high boots, soft green shirt, gray hooded zip-up over that.
He doesn't wear red.
And after poking about at some of the shops, he ducks into his favorite tavern. The barmaid is already readying his brandy when he sees someone he met quite a long time ago. He looks different now, but not entirely unfamiliar.
He decides then and there that he is through with all of this solitary brooding.
Zevran sidles up to the other pointed-ear gentleman at the bar.]
Buy you a drink, my friend?
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