ididwhatwithwho | (no subject)

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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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.