capeandcowllogs | in and out of stages

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in and out of stages

WHO: Zevran (

niceassassin) and OPEN.
WHERE: Around the City.
WHEN: The night of Saturday, May 14th.
WARNINGS: Terrible references to sex. Anything else on a case-by-case basis.
SUMMARY: Zevran goes out to try to make up for the lost time during kid week. Come help him out, join him, or try to foil his plans: whichever is your fancy.
FORMAT: Whatever you prefer!

By noon on Saturday, the memory of the past week is clearly stretched out in Zevran's mind like a poisoning victim, and by late afternoon, he can no longer tolerate it. It has been a very long time since that kind of vulnerability and sentimentality was so fresh in his recall. Oh, yes, moments of it escaped during his journeys with the Grey Warden, but they were mostly controlled. This, this is different and unwelcome.

Fortunately, by the time dark is falling and the artificial lights that seem so excessive to him are coming on around the City, business as usual has mostly picked up again--at least in some places. The denizens of the City, newly freed from the spell, will be seeking contact with other adults. So the most popular of social places are scrambling to be ready for them--be they parks or clubs. Zevran's usual haunts are still getting their feet back under them: the gaming stores, the fantasy bookshops, they remain closed for now. But he's determined to take a positive view of things (all the better to forget how frightened and deluded he was before the spell ended). This is an opportunity to try out new grounds, to find out if the less nerdy demographics in the City are just as willing to enjoy the company of an attractive elf with a foreign accent and a ready smile.

And so begins this night's adventure: drifting from bar to pub to club, idly attempting to seduce the bouncers outside the latter, investigating the people within. And maybe keeping an eye out for anyone interesting outside, as well. It is a moderately cool night; he has an excuse for a jacket. Which means he can bring his dagger along, just in case violence enters the equation. He is not averse to that.

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He has no idea why--but he can tell that she's disturbed by what he's said, and he can come up with a few guesses as to why. He may be many things, but he's not stupid. Zevran regards Terra in silence for a moment, then says, "There will be no more golems. The Warden destroyed the anvil on which they were made. And there, I have spoiled the end of another story for you."

She's not facing him then, trying to keep the sick sort of dread hanging round her neck from tightening; knowing that such at thing had been done to her was unfortunate, but Terra is free of it, and was the only one to have suffered so in her world. As far as she's aware, at any rate; the idea that an entire people had been controlled like that — created to be controlled like that — is almost too much to bear.

There's a tremble in her voice when she asks, "and the others?"

Edited 2011-05-17 08:23 (UTC)

He watches what he can of her--for once, with no lecherous intent. "Gone. Long since destroyed fighting the darkspawn, or in the final battle to take the anvil. The last of them, what was left of the man who created the anvil, he took his own life when freed from its power."

He does not speak to her of how there are other ways to control a person, and nothing can be smashed to stop them. He is ruthless, and a killer, but he isn't cruel.

Breath escapes like a puncture, and the hand that had covered her mouth slips up to brace against her forehead — blessedly bare. It's probably overreaction, she knows, and it's too emotional a display for a stranger, but there are few things more frightening than that loss of control and will.

With an inhale, her gaze drifts back to Zevran in the corner of her eye. "Sorry," she says, but she doesn't ease this with as much of a smile. "I ruined your story."

He responds easily, half a smile on his face. "And I ruined your night. I think we are even."

It's enough to crack one across her face as well. "It isn't your fault." The hand combs through bangs and falls once again to the wayside. "And it's not ruined." There was a pause. "It'd be ruined if you made the Anvil to begin with."

That, he can answer easily enough. "To hear the dwarves tell it, the Anvil of the Void was created many generations ago, and its secrets lost almost as long ago." He gives a slight shrug. "I don't know the details of the story. I am not a dwarf."

He also declines to mention that he argued in favor of keeping the Anvil and using it to make more golems to fight the darkspawn, because it was practical. Now doesn't seem like the best time.

Probably the worst time, if that reaction is anything to go by, but she seems to be feeling better. Or, at the very least, looking it. The heaviness isn't quite gone from her shoulders, but the disgust and near-hyperventilation are quite well put away.

This probably calls for more alcohol.

"What are you? Since you're obviously not a dwarf."

"I am an elf, my lady." He pauses. "And I'm not sure you even know what that means."

About here, he would normally make some crack about how she can discover what it means, but the mood isn't right, and even he knows that. So instead he says, "Do you want another drink?"

"Sure," she says to the last, for it's not in her nature to turn down many offers, and Terra takes the moment to think about the first. "I've met one of the 'night elves'..."

Her gaze is more attentive then, as she compares the man beside her to the Illidan she met as he once had been in his youth. There's some similarity if she looks for it, but elves are more like humans than espers; they're probably meant to be more similar than this.

"... But you don't feel like he does. What I know about them wouldn't match you."

He takes a moment to call the bartender over and order another drink--an appletini this time, so at most he can make some silly comment about it matching her hair--and resigns himself to making sure she gets home safely before he gets down to the brass tacks of what he's planning to do tonight (brass tacks may actually be involved). Being moderately considerate and ethical really sucks sometimes, but it's becoming a habit. He blames the Warden, really.

"I've never heard of night elves," he says. "One of those 'other world' things, no doubt..." He pauses. "I don't feel like he does?" It's a strange thing for someone to say to him. Well, someone who hasn't actually touched him, which narrows it down a bit.

"You don't..."

Her eyes close as she trails off, and there's movement to those green eyelashes as she continues. "...have the same presence. You don't have magic of your own, but... there's a... mistiness... to you."

From the curve of her mouth and the bend of her brow, it's obvious she's having difficulty putting this into words. Not for intoxication, that much is obvious. "Like fog, or smoke... I can't pin it down." Her eyes almost seem to flutter open, turning back to Zevran with an easier tone. "Illidan was more of a forest at night. Not dark, not light... but solid, almost earthen when he was younger. His usual self is more fire and ash."

He stares blankly at her for a moment before finally speaking. "You are a mage, then. Aren't you?"

"Yes... but not like the ones you described," she answers, and trying to keep the mood light, she smiles. "My power doesn't come from an external force."

Rather, she doesn't think it does. There's the whole matter with the sealed Goddesses being the originating force of all magic, and all espers having been granted their powers from such — and that the destruction of the former will annihilate all beings with magic. But that is something Terra may never find out, if she remains in this world.

"I've heard that mages in other worlds seek out power, or must be taught how to use it. That's not true for me."

He doesn't push her to explain. Instead, he lifts his hands in a shrug. "Some mages in my world do seek out power, and it's true they must be taught how to use it properly. But the talent is something they're born with." He doesn't go into how they're treated because of it--it's not something he particularly has an opinion on, so long as he avoids thinking about it too much, and he knows it would do nothing for the mood. Instead he just smiles and says, "I lack that particular talent, but I've no doubt I make up for it elsewhere."

His world sounds like a sort of half-way point between her own and Zelgadis's. In his, everyone is born with the talent, but must study and cultivate it by their own will; in hers, nobody save her has been born with it in hundreds of years, and even she can be counted as exception.

She shrugs a little, taking up the new drink with much less bewilderment to the taste as the prior. "Humans aren't born with the talent in my world, except me. But I'm only half."

"Hmmm. In my world, it's only dwarves who always lack the talent." He watches her with the drink, battling the sudden urge to make sure she doesn't have too much and hurt herself. Again with this caring about people in a protective and platonic manner! It's so weird to him. At least he can keep quiet about it. "Would it be prying if I asked what the other half is?"

In the worst case scenario, she can always cast curative magics on herself, so such concern is not entirely needed. "Esper," she says, her voice a little quieter. Part of her almost said monster, but that wasn't really true. It's the combination of the two that make her one, not either half alone.

Then a smile, echoing: "I'm not sure you would know what that means."

That would make Zevran's life easier if he knew. He'd just go on not caring and reassuring himself that he wouldn't care even if she could get hurt. Alas, he doesn't know, so he has to deal with this faint, flickering, indistinct feeling of inchoate protectiveness.

Fortunately for him, he's pretty good at pushing it to the side.

He shakes his head. "I've never heard the word. I'm guessing they are not so common in your world."

A nod here, her fingers playing once again with the glass before her. Perhaps it's a nervous habit, or merely to give her something else to focus on when she speaks. "They don't get along with humans," is a kind way of putting it. Describing a war and the abuses that had fallen the Espers at the hands of people was probably too much to go into. "So they went into hiding. Humans just about forgot they existed. But some doors don't stay locked forever...

"Espers are... hard to describe. They look like they could come from different species. Some look more human than others, and some look like beasts. What ties them together is their magic. They can't live without it."

"That's good for them," Zevran observes, his voice a little more neutral than before, a little cynical. "It's amazing how long a memory the humans in my world have." He waves a hand dismissively as if to push the subject away, then moves on. "For their sake, then, I hope the magic stays, yes?"

She looks up at that comment, a little startled. The idea of it leaving, it seems, is not one that she has thought about. "I don't think it can go. It can be taken from an Esper, but not from... all of them..."

Terra doesn't seem too sure about this, though.

He blinks. "Rest easy, my dear. I wasn't serious."

Of course, neither of them know.

And without intervention, neither will. In any case, there's not much Terra can do about it now. Not even dying sent her back to her own world, and each season has passed without journeying back; aside from Squall, who is a confusing manner all of his own, nobody has come here from her own world. She still misses the Moogle.

"Doesn't matter for now," she declares, shaking her head. "I can't change anything there... while I'm here."

And really, the more they talk about their own worlds, it seems, the more depressing the conversation. "Is there anything you like about this city?"

Transitions aren't her strong suit.

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