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There is music, a sort he has never heard, coming from a source he cannot find. Curious, that. Still, a tavern is a tavern, and if the Crows taught him one thing well, it was how to adapt. Yes, he has swords on his back, but daggers hidden away, and more than enough poisons tucked into his pouch to silence an entire room filled with Ferelden's finest.

As soon as he finds someone who fits that description, he will be sure to make note of it so that any future assassins will not have as difficult a time finding them.

This place, he notes, also has a curious lack of dwarves. Or other elves. Or familiar faces at all, but that is to be expected when one steals away from the expected path. At least there appear to be no undead.

What a relief. There will be no need to clean gore from his blades this evening, unless, of course, there is. And so it goes: one must always be prepared for battle, even as he hopes for a moment's rest. Perhaps he will find someone here to share with him that precious moment's rest.

Or not. One never knows quite what to make of life, do they.

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When Morrigan's eyes fall on an uncomfortably familiar spill of golden hair between twin blades she very much wants to think it impossible. She keeps her distance out of a desire to observe, watching for his profile to prove once and for all that it is indeed the same Antivan assassin she once traveled beside.

Once she has confirmed that much she still keeps her distance. It is Zevran, after all, and no good can come of his being here.

'Tis startling that from this distance he appears not to have aged at all.

It is remarkable, is it not, that out of all those he might have chanced to encounter, it would be someone he knows. Not as well as he might have liked, but life is filled with missed opportunities. Night after night, he watched her stand guard by her own personal fire doing whatever it is that witches -- beautiful witches -- do. And then she was gone, and that was that. Where she went, well, there are rumors, of course. Tall tales.

And here she is, across the tavern, acting as if she hopes he does not see her? Pity, that. He sees everything. It is the best way to stay alive, after all. Looking straight at her, he nods, then bows with a flourish of his hand.

They are old friends, are they not? Yet if she wishes not to speak to him, that is her right.

Zevran has always been prone to the theatric. When he bows so elegantly, his eye contact making it obvious that it is meant for no one else, she lets out a deep sigh. Of course she has been spotted. Zevran would no doubt spot her from across the entire Brecilian Forest.

She acknowledges him, no matter how reluctantly, with a nod. He may seem somewhat curious about his surroundings, but he does not seem especially confused. It is that more than anything else that finally makes her wander in his direction.

"I knew you would not be able to resist the lure of my presence." The grin on his face is prominent as he stands tall -- or, as tall as he can -- from the bow. "If it is not the lovely disappearing Morrigan. Or should I say the lovely disappearing and reappearing Morrigan. We missed you during the final battle."

She will know all there is to know about that by now, surely, and this is not the time to needle her about the loss of the Warden. He is well aware of their... friendship, he will call it that and cut his losses on the whole affair.

"Might I say that you look as lovely as ever. No, even more lovely than ever before."

He has questions and many of them, but he will ask them as time permits and when the moment is right. He seems to recall being flat on his back after a failed ambush with Morrigan being the most vocal about how he needed to be killed instantly. Yet here he is, still alive.

She cannot help bristling at the pointed mention of the battle she missed.

"I see you flatter yourself as much as ever."

He attempts to flatter her as well, of course, but she learned her lesson about that. The one time she thought to take his compliments seriously it was revealed to be a joke at her expense. She will not make the same foolish mistake twice.

"What brings you here?"

"No, no, my friend, it is you I flatter. Much to my eternal chagrin, but I find that I cannot help myself." His grin widens. "In Antiva, we say that every woman deserves complete adoration, and why not? You are certainly more graceful, more beautiful, more spirited, and scented more like tropical flowers than we males. From sunup to nightfall, you should be put on a pedestal. After that... well, I can think of better places for such a perfect specimen."

Some of it is genuine, an equal amount rehearsed, but tease though he does, there is no denying that Morrigan's beauty is worth praise. He has an eye for these sorts of things.

The gesture he makes to the room around them ends in a shrug. "As far as what brings me here, I must confess that it is pure happenstance. As you know, I am no longer welcome in Antiva, and with no compelling reason to remain in Denerim, I have wandered. Let us just say I am gathering the resources I need to go back to Antiva and settle things there once and for all. A man can only be truly free when the ties that bind him are left in the dust, do you not agree?"

To be hunted for the rest of his days? Not what he has in mind.

"If that brings me to new and somewhat strange places, so much the better. I live for adventure."

As they have a great many times before, her eyes roll skyward. He would have people believe he has a wealth of sexual experience, and yet she does not see how anyone is so moved by the excessive honey that drips from his tongue.

Perhaps it would make sense if his tongue is more talented in other matters, as terrible as that thought is. She will certainly never think it again as long as she lives.

"I marvel that you yet live, truly."

Despite her dry tone, it is quite true. So unreservedly true that the only way he can take it as any kind of flattery is by first taking it as an insult.

For her troubles, or perhaps for her acerbic wit, she gets a bow from him. "Now, now. I still live because I am as slippery as a snake in the forest, and as skilled at a good backstab as my friend Isabela."

Oh, for those days, racing naked across the rooftops with angry husbands in pursuit. He won't be doing that sort of thing again for quite some time. Once was practically enough, and the poor man liked him even less than Morrigan does, it seems.

He is used to being disliked. As an assassin for hire, he's used to the reaction and lets it roll off his shoulders, although he holds onto the way it hurts to examine at another time. "But indulge me with a question, my friend. Do you suppose we are measured by the company we keep?"

"And because one particular Grey Warden had reason to believe you would be more valuable as an ally."

'Tis not an issue she wishes so speak on at length, to be sure. She loved the man in her own way, but they obviously did not always see eye to eye.

"I suppose we are measured by many things, including the company we keep." She has shared a camp with a furious golem, a ravenous mabari, a drunken dwarf, a cookie-stealing Qunari, and an overly flirtatious assassin; there have been times when she nearly judged herself by the company she kept. "Why do you ask?"

"Why? Because I wanted to know what you would say." Thoughtfully, at least as far as appearances go, he strokes his chin. "We have been through much together, you and I. Like it or not, some would even say we are friends. Companions." He holds up one hand in protest. "I do not say I am the one to call us that. What I will confess is that after you left, I found myself thinking of you often. Yes, the Archdemon was slain, but at a great cost, and not one that you nor I could have prevented. Still, it was a loss that was felt, no? And deeply so."

He could do with a glass of Antivan brandy, or perhaps with an entire bottle.

"Not that I choose to dwell on the past. It is simply a matter of curiosity, from time to time. And so I thought of you, and wondered who you traveled with if anyone, and if they were as worthy as some of the people you and I traveled with in the past."

She is fine with saying that they were companions. That, she thinks, is the most accurate term: they were not friends, but by necessity they fought side-by-side, patched one another's wounds, shared meals, saw the same horrors, slept around the same fires.

While she has had time to lick her wounds, she is no more eager to discuss the bitter taste of loss with him now than she would have been when she first heard people celebrating news of the Archdemon's death.

"I travel with as few as possible these days. 'Tis easier that way. Would you not agree?"

She is guarded, Morrigan. As guarded as always. The exact opposite of him: he will talk and talk, be as open a book to her as to anybody with the exception of those few secrets he holds far too closely to share. Does he have guilt? Of course. No one alive can say they do not. Does he think about those buried wounds constantly?

No. Nor is he looking for someone to confess to. He had his chance with the Guardian at the Gauntlet. If he refused to unburden himself then to an actual disciple of Andraste, why would he choose to do it with anybody else?

"Easier, yes. Much easier. Lonely, though, no?" Before she can protest and claim he is back up to his old ways, he raises hand. "Not that I am looking for travel companions. Particularly one who would rather I had been turned into no more than a bloodstain on the road." He likes adventure, yes, but prefers not to have to sleep with one eye open every night.

"I have a son." It may come as quite a surprise indeed, but she has no reason to hide it from him. "I am not as lonely as you might imagine."

In fact, she would say she does not feel lonely at all, although there are times when she craves the company of other adults.

She arches an eyebrow. "But worry not. You have little to fear from me."

So long as he is not asking to pillow his head on any part of her that may remain true.

Well. There is an opening he simply cannot resist.

"And he look like me yes?"

It is pure gall that leads him to say the words, but he finds he cannot resist. She is so much fun to tease.

"Come, come, my friend. When he is older, I will teach him to be an assassin, yes?" More questions, honest ones, burn but first things first.

"You are disgusting."

Her hand rises, magic flickering in her palm, and flame immediately licks at his armor. If he is so determined to make her a liar, she will not be the one to feel regret over it.

Ah, yes, the burn of the witch's irritation, taken physical form. It is good to know he can still get a reaction from her. Caution would indicate that he back away from her, her anger, and her flame, but since when has he been the cautious sort? He merely sidesteps, although it does little good.

"I see you aimed straight for my heart, as always, my friend." He inspects his armor for singes and burns. "The next time, perhaps I will keep my fantasy to myself."

Of course he will not. It's a never-ending game of cat and mouse, but he likes the spark that rises in her eyes at his inane suggestions. He is quite certain that if he and Morrigan had ever become intimate, it is something he would most definitely remember... and never joke about.

But they have not, so she is fair game. "Belately, though, congratulations are in order. Might I ask how old he is?" Only too well, he knows what it is to grow up fatherless, which is an assumption here that is perhaps unfair to make. Still, though, he sees no son with her now and she has made no mention of the boy's father. "And might I also ask if the two of you are faring well?"

His armor is still heated from her flame, but that is his just reward for flippancy and the sort of punishment he can well handle.

The heat in her palm has not yet disappeared. She has begun to step back from him, ready to turn away, but she does not yet dismiss the possibility of setting him on fire. "He is well. There is nothing more you need to know about him."

In fact, now Zevran knows even more than he needs. There is no one here to whom she owes any explanations.

"That, I am glad to hear." Has he overstepped his bounds? It is what he does; it is what the Crows trained him to do. To test the limits of tolerance is an important step in understanding what sort of nonsense one can get away with, faced with another's displeasure.

He pushes. It is as natural to him as breathing or laughing.

"I am happy for you." Not that she will care a silver's worth how he feels. She never has, and some things never change. Still, his feelings are his to express as he pleases. "If you or he are ever in need, say the word. I will do what I can."

That offer will likely earn him another blast of arcane fire, but he means it. He does what he can for the people he cares about, even if he does it in his own way.

She bears Zevran no particular love. They always got along best when killing darkspawn or needling Alistair. Without either in the vicinity and no heroic Warden around to prod them into uniting for a common goal, there is little to draw them together but curiosity.

And her own curiosity has almost entirely washed away.

"I will remember your offer."

There are not many she is close to, and despite Zevran's innumerable faults he is loyal, liberal, at times even generous with those who fight beside him. If she has her way she will absolutely never need his aid, but if she ever does she will benefit from not having burned this damnable bridge.

Turning away, she looks over her shoulder. "In the meantime I suggest you try harder not to get killed."

When he chooses, he can be as heartfelt and serious as the next rogue, mage, or warrior. That it is his nature to tease and poke at another's inconsistencies is merely self-preservation. These things keep him from having to admit that from time to time, things hurt deeply. He has come to expect that things will wound him to the core, and those things he cares far more about than wounds of the flesh.

Morrigan seemingly has little patience for him, but did she ever? No. They have been at odds since he found himself flat on his back in the countryside, ready and waiting for the elusive Grey Warden to put an end to him. So he talked his way out of that one -- the attempt was a last gasp, one at which he truly did not expect to succeed -- only to find himself on a journey he never intended to take. Indebted yet again, but to a new master. Well, he is done with being owned.

To Morrigan, he flashes his best smile. If she is leaving, then there is no need to prolong the conversation for any reason.

"It is my burning quest, to try harder not to get killed. So far I have been successful. If you do the same, perhaps we will meet again at some point, my friend."

He uses the word lightly, and yet he never uses the word lightly. It is, of course, of little matter. They owe each other nothing, and it will likely ever be the same.

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