bakerstreet | the i n s o m n i a meme

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the i n s o m n i a meme

the i n s o m n i a meme

It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?

i n s t r u c t i o n s

• Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject).
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• Have fun!

o p t i o n s

01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario.

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The assassin's touch is warm, and gentle, and there's something about the careful way he handles Lasulahn's hand that's... comforting, almost. Pleasant, at the very least. When Zevran releases his wrist he tucks his hands back inside his cloak and away from the cold.

His eyes alight at the options the other presents him with- at least until the last, and no cast of firelight, however red it may be, can explain the color of the Inquisitor's cheeks (or how wide his eyes get before he remembers himself).

"I- ah-" His tongue seems to forget speech entirely for a moment. "I've-" Oh, Evanuris have mercy. He clears his throat a little to try and regain his composure. It works - somewhat. "Varric tells me I'm hopeless at Wicked Grace, so I might be poor sport. Getting out of this wind sounds lovely to start, though and we'll... go from there?" There's a higher pitched uptick in his soft voice, equal parts nervous and hopeful. He hardly wants to offend the Inquisition's guest, especially a friend of Leliana and a man who has thus far been quite nice to him. Everything Zevran had mentioned sounded fun. Even massage oils sound like they might be... nice, admittedly, but a little more intimate than Lasulahn would expect.

Maybe it's an Antivan thing?

Lasulahn can't say he's heard of it, learning what little he had of the language and custom, but that didn't mean much.

"Ah, he blushes!" Zevran cannot help a soft cackle, hands liting as though to profess his nonexistent innocence. "I mean no disrespect. The offer is open to take however you like."

As much or as little as is desired. Overstepping boundaries isn't something he does deliberately in malice- well. Not with people he likes. And while they've only had a brief association Zevran thinks he can, perhaps, like Lasulahn. He's politic, patient, charming, and above all? Doing his best. That is admirable enough considering all the shit this particular role has thrown at him.

"My room is just down this way-" He gestures for the Inquisitor to follow. Normally he would sweep a bow, offer his arm, kiss the knuckles of whomever he is guiding about but this is not to be that manner of midnight rendezvous. The stone is cold and the night dark, but he has brought some pieces of home along with him. The coal brazier in the corner dabbed with fragrant oil, a plate of spiced dried sausages waiting on the writing desk littered with bottles of powders and poisons and, true to his word? A mandolin propped in one corner. "It is not much but, for now, it is my home away from home."

Lasulahn unfolds his hands from his cloak to prod lightly at his own cheeks, as though to either verify Zevran's claim or hide his embarrassment. He can't help a quiet laugh of his own, though, sheepish as it is. Whether the offer is customary or not, Lasulahn doesn't get the feeling that Zevran meant any disrespect. And the rogue is right- this role weighs heavy, and it is difficult.

He's glad it's late enough that there are none out to see him save the occasional guard. Going through the main hall to his room would be far more conspicuous, even at this hour, and Lasulahn dreads to think of the rumors that would follow. Zevran's room up here, where few venture, is much preferred. Before he does follow, he lifts a hand to the flame, and it recedes to a more normal torchlight.

Lasulahn marvels at the touches added to the room, and shows particular delight at the mandolin in it's corner- though the myriad bottles on the table clearly claim his attention as well. "You've made it quite comfortable." Far more than Lasulahn has done in his own room, save for a single plush fur rug before the fireplace. It had taken many offers to procure Lasulahn some comforts of his own before he had finally relented. Seeing Zevran's room makes him briefly consider asking for something else.

"It smells nice, too." He wonders too late if that's an odd thing to say.

"When living more or less on the run, one learns to keep the comforts of home available." He laughs, shrugging out of his coat as he stirs the coals to life. It is not much, this little room, but for now it is his and that? Is enough. "Ah, that? Oil of clove and amber."

On occasion, he combs it through his hair when he is feeling safe enough to have a signature scent drifting about. In skyhold, should he remain? He may very well resume the habit. After all the likelihood of the Crows tracking him here to do him in is slim to none. Not without Leliana noticing.

Humming quietly under his breath Zevran divests himself of his protective layers, the leather armor, the quilted doublet for the sake of warmth, the bracers- and several daggers strapped to his person set along the writing desk for future work. Down to his silk shirt and leather trousers- he perches on the edge of his bed, leaning to grasp the neck o the mandolin set nearby. It is all very-

He cannot help knowing how to hold himself, how to stand, how to turn in the light to allow others to see him and think him lovely. It's burned in bone-deep to hold himself just so his hair might all over his shoulder and drape along the line of his throat, might call attention to the curl of black ink along his collar where the neck of his shirt splays open. Alistair, once upon a time, called it 'Crowing'.

"Have you any favored songs, ballads? I know a fair many."

"It's lovely."

One of the few treats Lasulahn allows himself, even as Inquisitor, is an Orlesian hair oil that Josephine had recommended. It's become part of his routine, something he enjoys.

He removes the heavy wool cloak shrouding his figure, and a cowl about his neck beneath that, folding the articles into his lap as he sits in the chair by the table. He takes particular care not to bump the table, eyeing the delicate looking bottles as he adjusts himself. Turning his attention back to his charming host, Lasulahn shakes his head.

Zevran is beautiful, and it's hard not to notice with the way he holds himself. His sort of attractiveness seems far more natural than the posturing of Orlais' noble folk.

"I'd like to hear some of your favorites, if that's alright." He knows the songs his clan knows, but that seems strange to ask, and certainly Maryden's songs have gotten stuck in his head (Sera may find the ditty attributed to her creepy, but Lasulahn finds it quite catchy, despite himself). Outside of that, though, the Inquisitor has little knowledge of music. To know Zevran's favorites seems a good opportunity, though, both to learn of more songs, and to learn more of the assassin himself.

"Ah?" He blinks, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. "That is not so common a request-"

As he speaks his fingers pluck and twist, tuning the mandolin's strings as he considers his options. There are racy tales aplenty, ballads and operas and folk tunes that he has performed while on contracts, hummed to himself in the deep roads for a reminder of a warmer life, played for Isabela when she was homesick but for himself?

He did not often have cause to sing for himself. "When I've my druthers I tend to simply play, rather than play and sing. Let me see..."

Once tuned he picks through a few scales before recalling something heartfelt and easy, something light that doesn't touch the usual themes of love lost and betrayal. Something that is not quintessentially Antivan in theme if no entirely Antivan in attitude. He hums under his breath as his fingers find the melody singing along in a lilting tenor in Antivan. He does not expect to be understood but, the light and breezy tune should be warm enough on so cold a night.

Lasulahn can only smile in response to that. It doesn't surprise him perhaps, that Zevran doesn't often have requests to play what he knows. He seems like a performer, in some way Lasulahn can't quite put his finger on. Maybe it's just his easy charm and welcoming persona.

His eyes close, and he sways a little to the music, focusing on the words. He knows a little Antivan, mostly from a book he once purchased, some from the occasional trader that would humor him, and some from Josephine. When the last chords fade, he claps quietly. A broad smile lights his expression.

"Beautiful! I don't know enough Antivan to have picked out everything, but I got most of it, I think." He's still working on recognizing words in different accents. His travels in the Inquisition have tested his (very) lacking Orlesian far more than his more conversational Antivan or Nevarran. "You're very talented."

"Something I would sing to myself often in the Deep Roads." When sun and life and light are so far from reach, so far from one's mind that it could be maddening. Between the tune, Alistair's awful jokes, and the mabari? Zevran thinks he managed to make it out relatively unscathed.

He sits back, hands idly strumming this bit or that, for every conversation is better with a little music. "You are learning Antivan? Marvelous. It feels to me as though many pick up Common and consider themselves well finished- which is surprising with the lack of nuance Common has. Only one word for friend? Ha. As though that is enough."

Not when there are so many layers and levels of association and intimacy in Antiva. "Thank you, it helped, in the Crows, to be able to play. Who minds the musicians hired for a feast, mm? Hardly anyone."

"It sounds like a good song for that, from what I know of the Deep Roads." He hasn't heard much, but he's heard enough to know it's a miserable place.

"I'm not very good," he admits. "I'd like to get better. Josephine has been teaching me a little." The cadence of his voice, accustomed to Common and Elvhen, translates well enough to the flow of Antivan, but the accent is a lot more bold than Lasulahn is accustomed to. Josephine has been kind about it, at least.

"Was it much like the Orlesian bards, then? Being in the Crows, I mean."

"From what I understand of them-" Zevran's tone becomes deliberately light, for it is difficult to speak of such dark things with full seriousness if he wishes to endure the entirety of the conversation. "Bards choose to be bards, and bards do so when they are of an age to know their own mind. Crows are often kidnapped, stolen, or purchased when they are young and hand-raised into a life where they know nothing but murder. So there is a significant difference."

A few chords, a little riff, just as bright and easy as the earlier song. "Bards are allowed their mistakes as they train, as a Crow? If you fail, you die. And the retirement package is garbage, let me tell you."

That was not the answer Lasulahn was expecting. His eyes widen momentarily, before his expression crumples into something akin to both sadness and disappointment.

Was there no corner of the land where people - specifically their people - were safe to be themselves?

The Inquisitor wonders if the Crows are all elves, then, or if they subject humans to such cruelty, too. It seems untoward to ask that, particularly when Zevran has kept the tone so light. "I'm sorry," he says softly instead, then offers a somewhat sad smile. "That you have come so far is a testament to your strength." And while remaining so outwardly cheery, no less.

Zevran drops his eyes to his mandolin strings when he sees the beginning of that expression. It is a difficult thing to hear and he'd truly rather not run through the usual song and dance of 'oh how awful, oh you poor dear, oh have you learned to do nothing else with your life' etc etc.

And then Lasulahn surprises him with soft compassion and...compliments?

Startled into momentary stillness, the music pausing for but a breath before his hands remember what it is they are meant to do and his eyes focus on the Inquisitor, he considers him. For a long moment, he considers the sincerity in his eyes and finds nothing wanting. "I suppose. I always thought it was luck that saw me through, luck enough to survive the crows, to impress the warden, so on and so forth."

The Inquisitor's smile softens into something gentler, warmer. "Perhaps some." He lofts the hand with the Anchor, palm towards Zevran as though to indicate his point. "But I've found we elves have little and less luck, particularly in the affairs of humans."

At the very least, Lasulahn's own luck seems cursed. Certainly the elf had survived the explosion at the conclave by some mercy, but the cost of such was already great, and the toll only continued to mount. He has wondered more than once if surviving meant only a short delay of the inevitable, rather than a true second chance at life.

"Fortunate enough to survive- unfortunate enough to become entangled with humans and their troubles." Zevran lifts a shoulder, his smirk going a little crooked. "I do wonder if they'll carve a statue of you when this is all over."

A few picked notes, a flourished strum. "And if they'll round the ears off once they do."

The savior of Thedas, a Dalish Mage? Oh how the Chantry would, is, shitting it's collective drawers. "I have noticed you've other elven companions, though..."

Sera is Sera and like himself, not Dalish. Solas is...something else entirely he cannot quite put his finger on. "None like you would know back home, yes?"

"That's rather it, isn't it?" Perfectly said. Lasulahn's expression shifts to a brief grimace - an unpoised expression that slips in private company, though he covers it quickly. "I hope not," he says, waving a hand. "Perhaps just... one of Andraste." Or it might be like the sign to the Herald's Rest - a generic sort of figure shrouded in cloth with only the Anchor blazing an indication of identity.

"Sera, and Solas, yes."

Lasulahn smiles, but there's something wrong with the expression; the corners of his mouth are tight and there's sorrow in his eyes instead of their usual warmth. "I- yes, that's right. I had two friends who traveled with me to the conclave, but..." He shakes his head. He should speak of lighter things. "I've met other Dalish, though- the one who goes by Dalish, in the Iron Bull's company, and a clan in the Exalted Plains."

Ah, that is a familiar shade of mask. Covering pain with a polite countenance so the other party will not feel obligated to speak on such terribly sad things. In practice? Zevran has no issues with such tactics as he does much the same nigh constantly.

Here in private, it seems...it is not his place, truly, to pry such comforting walls away. "But you were the lone survivor. You have my condolences."

For whatever it is worth. Empty words do not heal the ache of lives lost, nor does it bring loved ones back fro the Fade. "But they are not the same, yes? Each clan, I've noticed, lives, breathes, and learns a different way. Leaving them is difficult and one can never truly return home again, once you've gone. Though foolish attempts can be made, I, ah-"

He laughs at himself, attempting to lighten the subject matter somewhat. "When I was young I thought I could rejoin my mother's Clan. She was Dalish, or so I was told. As she had left the clan and I was born in Antiva City they had little love for me."

"Thank you."

The idea that he cannot return home causes a sinking sensation, uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. He fears just that- that he is so changed, so tainted by taking on this role of the humans' Herald, that he is unfit to return to his clan. Worse, that his high profile might bring them harm. He swallows thickly, eyes somewhere just below Zevran's gaze before finally meeting his.

"Each clan is different, yes, but we are still Dalish. My friend, Eirlana, was from a different clan, sent to us at Arlathvhen." He rubs at his arm idly, gaze dropping again. "It's... a difficult thing. I'm sorry they did not welcome you. I could not imagine their reasons."

"The Dalish of Antiva are more defensive and violent than those I have met elsewhere, largely due to various cells of Crows raiding camps for coin, for children, or for a contract by a Merchant Prince who found their existence abhorrent." He scowls into the middle distance for a moment. "Taking contracts against said princes, in turn, brought me quite a bit of satisfaction."

The rare moments when he allowed himself to linger on his heritage. It does not happen often but- when it does? He leans in a little.

"When the world is cruel it is easy to become hard in the heart, to bite back before your throat is cut, yes? But I have learned there is value in compassion. Especially when at the head of a movement such as this. Burdensome as it may be- you find yourself in a position where you may do much good for your people. That must be worth some comfort."

Lasulahn's expression softens once more as he listens, and he nods in agreement.

"Crows, Templars, slavers... there is always someone. There is a place for anger, and we should be allowed that." How scarcely they are allowed, though.

"I worry about doing enough," he confesses, finding that he leans in a little when Zevran does. His own clan has been attacked by mercenaries lately, and allowing his advisors to send aid in his stead has been a trying matter. "It is difficult to balance expectations with doing enough good." Particularly when everyone had different ideas about what was 'good'. Lasulahn has had to rely heavily on his advisors, human culture is so vastly different from his own.

He manages another smile, lighter than the last. "It's a far cry from brokering trades with villages and towns, to be certain."

"Ah, yes, This I remember. It seemed everyone has their own opinions as to how things ought to be done, and their personal tender feelings ought to supersede the tender feelings of others in your merry little band, for clearly their desires and points of view are of the most import nevermind there is a blighted army on the rise or, in your case, an undead magister trying to rend the world to bits." Zevran snorts derisively, plucking an unhappy tune for a moment. "I never understood why everyone took such things so personally. When you put someone in charge? When you put that weight upon their shoulders? Who are you to question the very responsibilities you offered up, mm?"

It seems all the more difficult in this instance, too many kingdoms, too many opinions, and too many voices drowning out a man's certainty. It'd be unbearable if it were him, he cannot imagine the difficulties navigating this Lasulahn must-have.

"But- if there is one thing I recall from my time watching another struggle with similar, if not quite so grave circumstances? When in doubt- bribery." His idle picking becomes something a little more upbeat. "Kind words and gift-giving, to soothe bruised egos and assure your fellows that you are listening, but the tasks, they are so weighty, surely they must understand, yes? It works marvelously well if you look appropriately sincere."

Lasulahn seems to take great pains to choose his words carefully, hands nervously fidgeting with his cloak. "Many I think just want what's best for them... but no one has the same needs. It's hard to look past yourself, or your family, or your community." But the Herald, the Inquisitor, cannot be blinkered by such narrow considerations. And for a man who has been prepared his whole life to think of his clan and only his clan, that is difficult.

He does try, though, for what it may be worth.

The mention of bribery startles a laugh out of him. "Josephine handles most of that, thankfully- she's quite good at what she does. I shall keep that in mind, though. There's a looming invitation to the Winter Palace, and I am painfully unprepared to deal with 'the Game', so any advice is welcome."

"Considering the world is a large, frightening prospect. So they put the task to others and focus on their family, their people, the scale that they can think of without going mad. I still do not see how that is fair to you and those they put the weight upon but-" He shrugs, a false little sliver of a smile on his lips, eyes bright. "It is not my place to question such things, yes? Who am I to judge?"

No one, of course. But a whisper of Shadow in the nightmares of the Grandmasters in Antiva. No hero he, no politician, he has never had to bear the weight of expectation and diplomacy has never been his to carry.

"Ah, Orlais. If you've need of an extra dagger at your back I'd be happy to oblige. Free of charge, in fact, as a favor to a fellow elf." As difficult as it is dealing with the rest of Thedas? Attempting to route the civil war in Orlais as an elf will be a particular bitch. "Let them think you simple, make yourself small, smile sweetly with empty eyes and they will forget you are there. And once forgotten? They will say all manner of incriminating things. It's quite useful if I do say so myself."

Lasulahn is quick to shake his head. "No less one to judge than I," he insists. Fortune, or fate, or maybe Andraste herself saw fit to put the Anchor on him, and humans saw fit to give him the title of Inquisitor. But, Herald as some may think him, the elf has no delusions that he is above anyone else, or that he is any more fit than someone else at deciding the fate of so many things.

His brows raise, and there's a certain hope he can't really hide in his expression. "That- I mean, I wouldn't want to presume, I know you have your own affairs to attend to..." He smooths out a nonexistent wrinkle in his cloak. "But you are welcome to attend. It would be a comfort to have someone like you there." Whether a fellow elf, or someone with Zevran's particular knowledge or temperament or skillset, he doesn't say.

"I suppose it would not be difficult to make them think I'm simple." Many already hold that belief; some more openly than others.

"Ah, all I have to work on in Antiva is the slaying of more Crows and the rooting out of Venatori- Leliana already has agents acting on the latter, the former is a more...personal pursuit. I have found that if I leave them to twist in the wind long enough? Occasionally they will do my work for me." With the imagined horrors he might visit upon them, as though he were ever as sadistic as they grew to be. No. He is and ever shall be an assassin first. Make the kills quick and clean.

Still, it is not as though they know this.

His idle strumming turns to a more upbeat tune, a tarantella, cheerful and buoyant and proper for dancing. "To that end, sticking around may do me more favors, yes? Besides. I'm certain I could pick up a contract or two, or prevent a few assassinations as I know what to mind, were I to accompany you."

Zevran's life sounds fascinating - though undoubtedly perilous. Lasulahn listens intently, at least until the cheery music causes his attention to stray just a little, hand tapping silently along to the beat despite himself.

"I'm sure it could, yes." And he's not entirely speaking on personal preference for having the charming rogue around a little longer (though perhaps it does influence him a little).

"You might be cautious, though-" There's a little conspiratorial grin that turns the corners of his mouth upwards, playful despite the earlier mood. "Leliana undoubtedly has plenty of work she could use you for." The pay is decent, at least.

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took forever to find something for him to play whoops

oh but it's such a good choice

Thank you kindly.

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