[ Not permanently. Only long enough to experiment with shoe-tying—but Dalish, right, no shoes. Mothers, though, supposedly. He's heard. And he knows that Clan Ashara is full of orphans, but, whatever, he's an orphan, too. He's allowed to take that risk to joke. ]
You don't write you mother? I write mine every week.
[ He doesn't turn or prop up—Zevran is probably here somewhere, hopefully asleep, not in need of unnecessary jostling—but he does twist his head to look back as best he can. ]
[ Unfortunately for Alistair, his current roommate is one of two in Clan Ashara who had a mother, and the only one who really knew her mother. She just has a lot of mommy issues. Whoops. But instead of explaining to Alistair all these conflicting emotions, she just starts with something light. ]
The last time I wrote a letter to my Mother, she sent it back with my spelling and grammar corrected--
[ And then, whoops. Zevran is awake. Beleth leans up a little more to look over at him. ]
I mean, Zevran's absolutely right. Keepers are called Keepers because they're the gardeners who keep us watered and weeded.
...
Triplets and oil sounds so messy. Like, were there towels involved in your dreams, too? Leather can't soak up a lot of oil. And it sounds like there would be a lot of slipping around. How would you walk if the floor had oil on it? Or did the leather help you walk?
[ She glances at Alistair quizzically. Maybe he knows more about leather and oil on the floor. ]
My mother does that, too, [ Alistair says, in a wondering sort of tone, and also the tone of a transparent and terrible liar. ] Maybe they're related.
[ —good morning, Zevran. Good night. Something. ]
That... doesn't sound completely impossible.
[ He doesn't believe it, of course, but if he were going to believe Dalish weren't born the usual way, that would be a good alternative. Triplets, oil, and an obscene amount of leather, on the other hand—he laughs, with a mildly panicked edge of the sort he gets whenever he's harmlessly uncomfortable, and reaches his far arm over to muss Zevran's hair, which is clearly the best way to make him stop being grumpy. Clearly. ]
Yes, Zevran, please tell Beleth if the leather helps you walk.
It is true. I helped plant a few when we were in the Brecilian forest. [ Too late. He's up, he's grumpy and grumbling, propping himself up on Alistair, curled against his side like a cat and peering through the dim light to Beleth. There is just enough from the dull glow of the brazier in the corner to cause them to light up like a cat's. Enjoy that visual, Alistair. ]
The slipping is part of the fun, the leather is what we were wearing- or at least what some of us were wearing. Have you ever had a good oiling, Beleth? I know Alistair here is long overdue- feel his elbows- they are all ashy and dry.
Could it be that you're half-Dalish, Alistair? I knew you were reasonable to be completely human.
[ She makes a face at Zevran because that sounds dirty, but she has a sneaking suspicion that was on purpose. Like everything else he says. She shifts to peer at Zevran over Alistair, giving Alistair, surely the luckiest man in Thedas, twin pairs of shining eyes in the dimness of the room. ]
...I guess slipping around could be fun if you were careful not to hit your head. Maybe if you made a ramp and slid down it...? That would be pretty--
[ The word 'oiling' is met with a strangled sound of disgust, because she has never heard someone ask if she's ever done anything that sounded less appealing in her life. Her expression would have been just as well suited if Zevran had asked her if she liked to take a dip in a vat of glue. Alistair is given the same expression when he's mentioned, like this is his fault, somehow. ]
Ugh--I--By the Dread Wolf, no. And leave Alistair alone, his elbows are just fine.
My elbows are just fine, [ Alistair repeats, emphatically, like see there. Two against one.
Meanwhile he's looking between the two of them and their glinting eyes, and after a pause for consideration he lifts both hands and covers both of their faces—Zevran's directly, palm to face, and Beleth's more politely, with his hand held in the air between them like a shield. Better. ]
[ Beleth is momentarily distracted by a hand in front of her face. She's a bit confused, though she does appreciate Alistair not just dropping his hand right on her face. Thanks, Alistair. After blinking at the hand a moment, she continues talking, since that's what Zevran seems to feel is the appropriate response. ]
A soak? I bathe, Zevran. Are you saying you think that we don't bathe? Do we smell bad?
And please don't talk about oiling anyone. It sounds so.
I probably smell bad, [ Alistair says, fairly and cheerfully, without lowering his hands. He probably really does. A little. In an earthy way. Take the boy out of the stables but not the stables out of the boy, etc.
Dirty makes him snicker. As if he has the right. As if he wouldn't be saying exactly the same thing if he were a little younger and a little less accustomed to Zevran. ]
I am saying you do not tend to your skin and your heels are cracked and if you keep rubbing your feet on me while we share the same bed I am permitted to have opinions on your lack of self care.
[ He snorts, eyebrows emoting under Alistair's hand. Beleth couldn't see it- but Alistair can feel it. ]
My heels are calloused because shoes are confining and uncomfortable. If I started lathering them in oil, then it'd start to hurt when I walked outside. I'll wear socks in bed from now on.
[ Shoes are for the WEAK. If she wore shoes people would start to think she was adapting to shemlen culture. First shoes, then the next thing you know, you're praising Andraste. A slippery slope. ]
But thank you for not being deliciously filthy. Or disgustingly filthy. Or any variation thereof.
[ She moves her head up enough to peer at Alistair over his hand. ]
I think you smell fine. In a...manly way...?
[ She glances at Zevran. Is that complimentary--Oh, he can't even see her. She sticks her tongue out at him. ]
[ All of this talk about skin care and shoes is fine, great; the conversation puts him far closer to falling asleep than silence does, anymore, just like it's easier for him to sleep in the mornings when he can eat the birds and people moving around than in the dead of night. He laughs, but he's drooping a little, until Beleth peers over his hand and he says, ] Aaaahhh, [ a very calm approximation of alarm. He's fine. ] I can't see in the dark as well as you. It's just your eyes, floating there. You look like deepstalkers.
You are going to freeze your toes off when we reach Emprise du Lion. I will find you a proper pair of boots and you will wear them so you do not get frostbite.
[ It's all about the right pair of boots, really. Though the peering earns a quirked brow. ]
May I have my eyes back, then? Or am I to live the rest of my days with your hand over my face- because that will likely trouble a few of my lovers.
I'll remember that I'm technically helping Orlesians, and burning hatred will keep me toasty warm.
[ She turns to Alistair--Oh. He seems a bit sleepy. And apparently startled by her creepy glowy purple eyes. Go figure. ]
Maybe I am a deepstalker. Grr, or whatever noise they make.
[ When that, she closes her eyes and flops down next to Alistair, leaning in against him in what might seem like a gesture of affection, but is actually a ploy to leech his body heat like a pointy-eared parasite. She does open an eye to look at Zevran. ]
Orlesian peasants. [ Important distinction. Worth piping up over. The peasantry is charming and makes good bread. The nobility is scary and--he's heard--once displayed his grandmother's head on a pike. ] That's not so bad. Just don't help anyone in a mask.
[ He also corrects her deepstalker noise to something more snarly, if sleepy-sounding, before turning his head tot look at Zevran and cautiously lower his hand until his eyes are visible over the top of it. He doesn't really mind. He's spent enough time in the dark with elves and dwarves, on occasion much less platonically than this, to be over it. ]
You may, [ he says, ] but only because I'm closing mine.
Hatred is not so warming a thing as you may think. Spite, however...
[ Spite can work wonders. Though, honestly, the deepstalker noises from them both are horrendous.
Zevran rolls his eyes and props his arms up on Alistair's chest, peering across at Beleth before making a rather snarly, gravely accurate imitation of a deepstalker's call. there wasn't anything to do in the deep roads other than imitate noises to watch Oghren jump. It amused him. ]
Good. It is far past your bedtime, you should sleep more.
Peasants are still prone to get stabby with Dalish. Just saying. I'll spite them for that.
...I'll try the boots, though.
[ She figures it's the least she can do. And she makes an attempt to copy both attempts at deepstalker noises, before making a face. And reaching across Alistair to poke Zevran in the nose. ]
The scariest deepstalker I've ever seen. Look at that face. Terrifying.
...It's past your bedtime too, you're both too old to stay up so late.
[ He cracks his eyes back open to look at Zevran's face when Beleth suggests it, considers how terrifying it is, and puts a heavy hand on the back of Zevran's head to drag him down against his chest where he can't scare anyone. ]
We are very old. [ Past his bedtime, past everyone's bed time, he and Zevran are ancient, Beleth is a youthful and beautiful flower. ] But I can't sleep without a story.
Mmm. [ He settles against Alistair's chest without blinking, reaching across him to rub Beleth's shoulder. For a moment he's somewhere else, some-when else, another pair of bodies in another bed, lounging after making love instead of simply to rest.
It passes. ]
Would you like the one where I bamboozle an Antivan Merchant Prince into proposing simply so I might steal his family's most prized possession- or the one where I had to spend three months as a seer in some obscure temple? Or perhaps the time I earned money as 'dragon bait', that was fun.
[ Her mouth twitches. He's right, but she also has an entire exalted march to feel heated about, and the fact that those Orlesian peasants are still settled in the Dales, the lands rightfully her people's. But she doubts that the story Alistair wants is an angry Dalish rant. ]
--Have a funny accent.
[ This matter settled, she turns to watch Zevran, blinking slowly. She's not tired. She's a youthful and beautiful flower. ]
...I vote for the seer. But I want an Antivan Merchant Prince to propose to me. Then I'd be a princess. Do you think he's still single?
Still smitten with Zevran, I'd bet, [ Alistair drawls. He's already falling asleep. If they keep talking he'll manage it quickly. ] Do the seer one. I don't think I've heard it.
He's dead. [ a beat. ] I didn't actually kill him. He choked on a scallop a year or so ago, alas. He did love his shellfish.
[ Zevran stretches a hand up to comb through Alistair's hair, a soothing gesture as he began to outline how it was he'd been painted and primed as a seer.
There were goats and literal paint involved- as well as a lot of drugged dancing wherein he had to behave like an elf possessed without being possessed and while stone cold sober. ]
[ But she quiets down as Zevran tells the story, trying to keep one eye open. But, before the story ends, both eyes shut, and her breathing is slow and even.
And she might be drooling on Alistair. Sorry bro. ]
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I don't have shoes. And I don't write my mother. And I have fingers.
[ Are you saying she doesn't need fingers, Alistair. ]
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You don't write you mother? I write mine every week.
[ He doesn't turn or prop up—Zevran is probably here somewhere, hopefully asleep, not in need of unnecessary jostling—but he does twist his head to look back as best he can. ]
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[ Zev rolls over enough to squint at them both. Really. This is what they talk about when they can't sleep.
Really. ]
I was woken from a dream involving triplets, oil, and an obscene amount of leather to hear of nug feet. [ Why. Why is this his life. ]
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The last time I wrote a letter to my Mother, she sent it back with my spelling and grammar corrected--
[ And then, whoops. Zevran is awake. Beleth leans up a little more to look over at him. ]
I mean, Zevran's absolutely right. Keepers are called Keepers because they're the gardeners who keep us watered and weeded.
...
Triplets and oil sounds so messy. Like, were there towels involved in your dreams, too? Leather can't soak up a lot of oil. And it sounds like there would be a lot of slipping around. How would you walk if the floor had oil on it? Or did the leather help you walk?
[ She glances at Alistair quizzically. Maybe he knows more about leather and oil on the floor. ]
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[ —good morning, Zevran. Good night. Something. ]
That... doesn't sound completely impossible.
[ He doesn't believe it, of course, but if he were going to believe Dalish weren't born the usual way, that would be a good alternative. Triplets, oil, and an obscene amount of leather, on the other hand—he laughs, with a mildly panicked edge of the sort he gets whenever he's harmlessly uncomfortable, and reaches his far arm over to muss Zevran's hair, which is clearly the best way to make him stop being grumpy. Clearly. ]
Yes, Zevran, please tell Beleth if the leather helps you walk.
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The slipping is part of the fun, the leather is what we were wearing- or at least what some of us were wearing. Have you ever had a good oiling, Beleth? I know Alistair here is long overdue- feel his elbows- they are all ashy and dry.
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[ She makes a face at Zevran because that sounds dirty, but she has a sneaking suspicion that was on purpose. Like everything else he says. She shifts to peer at Zevran over Alistair, giving Alistair, surely the luckiest man in Thedas, twin pairs of shining eyes in the dimness of the room. ]
...I guess slipping around could be fun if you were careful not to hit your head. Maybe if you made a ramp and slid down it...? That would be pretty--
[ The word 'oiling' is met with a strangled sound of disgust, because she has never heard someone ask if she's ever done anything that sounded less appealing in her life. Her expression would have been just as well suited if Zevran had asked her if she liked to take a dip in a vat of glue. Alistair is given the same expression when he's mentioned, like this is his fault, somehow. ]
Ugh--I--By the Dread Wolf, no. And leave Alistair alone, his elbows are just fine.
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Meanwhile he's looking between the two of them and their glinting eyes, and after a pause for consideration he lifts both hands and covers both of their faces—Zevran's directly, palm to face, and Beleth's more politely, with his hand held in the air between them like a shield. Better. ]
No one is oiling me. But I like that ramp idea.
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[ So sad. If only he had a bosom on which to rest his head.
When the hand comes he doesn't miss a beat, continuing to speak as though there were nothing on his face at all. ]
I will see this thing done for the good of Thedas.
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A soak? I bathe, Zevran. Are you saying you think that we don't bathe? Do we smell bad?
And please don't talk about oiling anyone. It sounds so.
[ Nose wrinkle. ]
Dirty.
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Dirty makes him snicker. As if he has the right. As if he wouldn't be saying exactly the same thing if he were a little younger and a little less accustomed to Zevran. ]
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[ He snorts, eyebrows emoting under Alistair's hand. Beleth couldn't see it- but Alistair can feel it. ]
It can be deliciously filthy- but with you? No.
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[ Shoes are for the WEAK. If she wore shoes people would start to think she was adapting to shemlen culture. First shoes, then the next thing you know, you're praising Andraste. A slippery slope. ]
But thank you for not being deliciously filthy. Or disgustingly filthy. Or any variation thereof.
[ She moves her head up enough to peer at Alistair over his hand. ]
I think you smell fine. In a...manly way...?
[ She glances at Zevran. Is that complimentary--Oh, he can't even see her. She sticks her tongue out at him. ]
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[ It's all about the right pair of boots, really. Though the peering earns a quirked brow. ]
May I have my eyes back, then? Or am I to live the rest of my days with your hand over my face- because that will likely trouble a few of my lovers.
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[ She turns to Alistair--Oh. He seems a bit sleepy. And apparently startled by her creepy glowy purple eyes. Go figure. ]
Maybe I am a deepstalker. Grr, or whatever noise they make.
[ When that, she closes her eyes and flops down next to Alistair, leaning in against him in what might seem like a gesture of affection, but is actually a ploy to leech his body heat like a pointy-eared parasite. She does open an eye to look at Zevran. ]
...I'd pay to see that, honestly.
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[ He also corrects her deepstalker noise to something more snarly, if sleepy-sounding, before turning his head tot look at Zevran and cautiously lower his hand until his eyes are visible over the top of it. He doesn't really mind. He's spent enough time in the dark with elves and dwarves, on occasion much less platonically than this, to be over it. ]
You may, [ he says, ] but only because I'm closing mine.
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[ Spite can work wonders. Though, honestly, the deepstalker noises from them both are horrendous.
Zevran rolls his eyes and props his arms up on Alistair's chest, peering across at Beleth before making a rather snarly, gravely accurate imitation of a deepstalker's call. there wasn't anything to do in the deep roads other than imitate noises to watch Oghren jump. It amused him. ]
Good. It is far past your bedtime, you should sleep more.
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...I'll try the boots, though.
[ She figures it's the least she can do. And she makes an attempt to copy both attempts at deepstalker noises, before making a face. And reaching across Alistair to poke Zevran in the nose. ]
The scariest deepstalker I've ever seen. Look at that face. Terrifying.
...It's past your bedtime too, you're both too old to stay up so late.
[ Old. Oooold. ]
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[ He cracks his eyes back open to look at Zevran's face when Beleth suggests it, considers how terrifying it is, and puts a heavy hand on the back of Zevran's head to drag him down against his chest where he can't scare anyone. ]
We are very old. [ Past his bedtime, past everyone's bed time, he and Zevran are ancient, Beleth is a youthful and beautiful flower. ] But I can't sleep without a story.
[ Not really. But on the other hand: really. ]
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It passes. ]
Would you like the one where I bamboozle an Antivan Merchant Prince into proposing simply so I might steal his family's most prized possession- or the one where I had to spend three months as a seer in some obscure temple? Or perhaps the time I earned money as 'dragon bait', that was fun.
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[ Her mouth twitches. He's right, but she also has an entire exalted march to feel heated about, and the fact that those Orlesian peasants are still settled in the Dales, the lands rightfully her people's. But she doubts that the story Alistair wants is an angry Dalish rant. ]
--Have a funny accent.
[ This matter settled, she turns to watch Zevran, blinking slowly. She's not tired. She's a youthful and beautiful flower. ]
...I vote for the seer. But I want an Antivan Merchant Prince to propose to me. Then I'd be a princess. Do you think he's still single?
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[ Zevran stretches a hand up to comb through Alistair's hair, a soothing gesture as he began to outline how it was he'd been painted and primed as a seer.
There were goats and literal paint involved- as well as a lot of drugged dancing wherein he had to behave like an elf possessed without being possessed and while stone cold sober. ]
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[ But she quiets down as Zevran tells the story, trying to keep one eye open. But, before the story ends, both eyes shut, and her breathing is slow and even.
And she might be drooling on Alistair. Sorry bro. ]