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 'double game' seems to be how Orlais operates, regardless." Leliana and Josephine both seem to hold fondness, or at least admiration, for the Game. Lasulahn cannot claim to understand it.

"I should be grateful for any advice, really."

He glances down towards his feet, a look of displeasure flitting across his expression. "Unfortunately. They will be soft leather, but boots nonetheless." He doesn't like the idea of 'relearning footwork', but he can't argue with Zevran's assessment, either. The times he had worn boots felt strange, as though he were walking on something other than the earth.

"Mm. Even the thinnest leather provides it's own challenge. Thin enough to accurately gauge the ground through? And you've no traction." He's made a point of studying footwear and its relationship with the Dalish since he's had the time to explore, on his own terms, his heritage. "Perhaps in the morning, you might try on whatever boots they will have you wearing and we shall see how you handle yourself, yes? More than the running, the sneaking, the fighting and the casting- you will need to be able to dance as well."

Which, ah, that is its own nostalgia.

"You'll have more offers and requests than you expect. Orlesians do so adore a novelty."

He huffs a soft chuckle, a bit self-conscious. "I'm worried about the dancing perhaps more than anything, boots or not."

Though he might try to hide it with a lighter tone, there is a decided edge to his voice when he speaks again. "I have been called 'rabbit' enough times here alone to surmise that much." He hates the term 'rabbit' more than 'knife ear'. At least if someone called him knife ear, they were earnest about their bigotry. The coo of 'rabbit', as though he were some sort of pet... the elf hates it.

But returning to the prospect of Zevran helping him lightens his spirits, and he nods once more. "If it's no trouble, I'd like that."

"Mmm. I suppose my usual response of threatening to cut out their tongues should they say so a second time wouldn't be very useful for you." There are no good, satisfying ripostes for such callous bigotry for elves, not if they mean to sit at the table and fight for their own slices of policy and power.

It is a bullshit situation, all told.

"But I can at least teach you more than enough fancy steps in the dancing. I know all the court dances- they especially do not know what to do if you attempt to lead." A beat. "So I'll be teaching you how to lead."

"Direct threats of violence are usually frowned upon, it seems." Veiled threats are risque and worthy of gossip, or so it appears to Lasulahn.

"I'll have to find some unused corner so no one else can see how abysmal I'll be. I apologize in advance for what will undoubtedly be me stepping on your feet several times. I'll try not to, at least." Despite his self-deprecation, there's a glitter to his green eyes that suggests the Inquisitor is excited at the prospect of Zevran teaching him to dance.

"Then we shall have to train you up on indirect threats as well as the dancing. You'll be half Antivan by the time I am finished with you." He and Josephine can prepare him well enough, Leliana can manage planting spies among the palace and Zevran? Shall join him to make certain no daggers find their way into Lasulahn's lovely back.

A triple threat and a triple win, one that the Orlesian Bards shant be expecting.

"I had to teach Alistair how to waltz for some event or another-" He snorts. "Trust me, you will not step on my toes anymore than he did, and you'll be a far better student, I assure you."

Lasulahn's eyebrows loft in surprise- ah, but Alistair was among the Hero of Ferelden's party, so it shouldn't be surprising. He laughs. "I'm rather smaller than he so, hopefully it won't hurt as much, at the very least."

With Zevran's offer, and Josephine and Leliana's coaching already underway, the Inquisitor feels a little more comfortable with the quickly approaching event. Less can be said for their actual goal - stopping the attempt on the Empress' life, but little can be done for that.

His expression softens into a warm smile then. "It's very kind of you to offer this. I appreciate it."

"Think nothing of it. If people here knew of my generous disposition they'd be asking me for help with all manner of tasks. I cannot truly continue playing the mysterious scoundrel if they know I have a soft spot for green eyes, mm?" And he does, for so many reasons if not those that most might expect, none he feels ready to divulge.

He picks through a new tune, low and lazy and lilting, winding through the warmth of the room and the evening, idle, half-remembered snatches of songs from home that shift into something of the cadence and tempo of Dalish songs he'd heard during his travels. "It will make for a marvelous tale when it is done. And after you shall be able to walk away, knowing you bested the game."

Warmth creeps into his cheeks again, easily flustered by the playful flirtatiousness- though it is hardly unwelcome.

His eyes close briefly, as the notes of the mandolin drift towards something Dalish. It reminds him of home, of his friends and his mother and his Keeper. It reminds him of lighter days; a welcome respite in this cold and inhospitable climate and time. A few moments later, his gaze returns to the other elf. He smiles at that. "Yes, let's hope it's a marvelous tale for me to tell, rather than someone else laughing at my clumsiness. That said, I feel rather more confident with your help along with Josephine and Leliana's."

"When I am through with you, Bello, you shall be the most graceful and desirable bachelor at the ball." He lists back, leaning against the wall, lounging in truth as he picks through the tune. The words he does recall but-

His accent is rubbish. He'll not insult Lasulahn by attempting to sing along.

"And no one shall have an ill-thought or word to spare you."

"I'll take you at your word," he answers with a quiet, lilting laugh.

He hums along for a few moments, before catching himself and sitting up a little straighter. "I've heard this one- or something very much like it. It's been a long time. It reminds me of home." Lasulahn watches his new companion a moment, then ventures tentatively: "Do you ever play to remind yourself of home?"

"It is important to keep these reminders about, especially so high in the mountains. If I can convince Josephine to have proper Antivan wine brought in? Then we shall be in business." But it is so long a journey the odds are slim. A nice thought none the less, this. Zevran weaves and wanders his way through the Dalish song as far as his memory might guide him, fingers stilling as he considers the question.

Remind him of home?

"Every Antivan tune is a little bit of home but...in the way that you mean? Not often." Slow to start he picks something that seems fairly forlorn till the melody and tempo picks up- something he heard while young outside a tavern. A modest place but light spilled from the windows and everyone inside seemed to have such joy in the playing and the dancing. In living despite their circumstances. "...But when I do, it is something like this."

"There's a bottle labeled 'Antivan Sip-Sip' here, we found it in Crestwood. I've no idea what spirits might be in it, though." They've run across a few corked bottles in their journey, and somehow, all of them thus far have seemed to end up at Skyhold. It had started with a bottle kept by a Warden, and now seemed to encompass strange and unique spirits, as well.

It's easy, listening to Zevran's playing, to recall what others have told him of Antiva. Perhaps one day he would visit, if everything (somehow) turned out alright. It's a surprisingly sobering thought, giving form to the doubts and worries that have been mounting the longer this goes on. Still, if the closest he ever gets to Antiva is Zevran's music, he can't complain. "It's very lively, isn't it?"

"A cruel blend of spice and sweet that will knock most on their ass if they are not careful! And a sort I tend to avoid, so powerful the flavor it is far, far too easy to hide the taste of poisons." Though it is great fun when he knows for certain the bottle has not been tampered with.

He'll inspect it later, perhaps, and make certain it is safe for consumption. And oh what a night he shall have afterward.

"A traditional dance most often heard in the taverns and inns of Lower Antiva, among the people and not so much the merchant nobility." His fingers dance and pick along the strings, a softer, more honest smile gracing his lips as he speaks with warmth of his home. "It is a marvelous, dangerous city, my home. The Jewel of Thedas- once you've the time? I shall take you. You have my word on that."

Easier to make a promise than wonder 'if'. He's learned that over the years.

"I've found most spirits I've encountered since leaving the Free Marches... inordinately strong." He admits this almost shyly, as if he's confessing something embarrassing. Certainly Varric and Bull have playfully teased the Inquisitor of his 'low tolerance'. It's true enough, but Lasulahn prefers sweeter drinks besides. The ones passed around the campfires always seem to burn terribly, or taste of lamp oil.

He can't help a smile as he listens to the other elf talk of his home. The softer look suits him, in a way. "You certainly make it sound worth the visit. I eagerly await it." It's nicer to look forward to the trip, instead of thinking 'if'.

"There are some lighter meads I know of that are fashionable in Orlais, their wine is garbage so do not bother with it. While I am out and about I will see what I can find for you, yes?" Not everyone enjoys a burn with their beverage, and delicate palates are, in fact, a thing. He shouldn't be surprised if the dwarf and qunari have opinions as to how much one ought to be able to take.

"In fact...I think there is a bottle of this lovely rose cordial in one of my packs. Light, sweet, perfect for sipping on a cool night to remind oneself of warmer days." He sets his mandolin aside and rises, passing the inquisitor to pick through his pack until he hefts aloft a gilded bottle with a victorious 'a-ha!'.

His expression lifts at the idea of mead, but a soft laugh follows. "I have heard Josephine mention Antivan wine with fondness." He turns in his chair, rearranging his cloak in his lap, to watch Zevran rummage through his things.

"Oh! I'm not sure I've ever tried cordial. Mead I like very much." Lasulahn can't help but smile at the exclamation.

"I am certain I've glasses somewhere..." Another moment's rummaging about until he finds two small silver cups from somewhere within his pack before returning. A flick of the wrist and a flash of a smile before he pours them each a small measure- just a nip- before offering Lasulahn one. "This should not burn half so much."

"You're prepared for everything," Lasulahn marvels, and laughs softly. He accepts the silver cup carefully with a murmured thanks. As he peers at the liquid, he remarks, "It's a very pretty color."

Politely he waits for his host to drink, before sipping at the cordial. His brows lift in surprise. "It's delicious." This sort of alcohol he could get used to.

"It pays to have the basic building blocks of a party on hand. Food, drink, music, massage oil-" He shrugs, perching a respectable distance away. Not so far as to be aloof but not so close as to take liberties. He sips from his own glass, tongue darting out to whet his lips. "Mm. A little of this mixed with sparkling wine? Ah, it is quite marvelous. But on it's own it is a good way to finish a trying day, yes?"

For the day, every day, must be trying for Lasulahn.

While he wouldn't wish the daunting task his inner circle has on anyone, Lasulahn can't help but think having Zevran around might make things a little more tolerable sometimes. Things weren't always bad, of course, but the bickering and awkward silences sometimes seemed to come almost as often as the lighthearted jokes and companionable quiet. Theirs is a stressful quest, he knows, and yet...

"I should take pointers from you, our party could certainly benefit. If only I'd the skill for music." He can sing, but rarely does so in front of others- and most of what he knows is Dalish, besides.

"It is, yes. Drink isn't something I often indulge in, but it's nice. ...Is this very difficult to find?" He might be considering asking Josephine to procure some alongside the standard fare that the Herald's Rest is stocked with.

"Mandolin lessons are but a silver a week." Zevran quips easily, settling with his back against the wall, lounging on his bed. He'd had a feeling that this particular brew would be to Lasulahn's liking, and being correct? Is pleasing.

"This bottle? It is not so difficult to find in Orlais or Antiva, but in Skyhold? I certainly wouldn't find it in the Herald's rest. But...I've a few bottles of Antivan Brandy to tide me over for the time being. If you wish to keep that bottle? It is yours." And it is, aside from the pour he'd made for each of them and a little more, perhaps a single glass's worth? Quite full. "For your sleepless nights when there aren't handsome Antivan Elves to distract you with music. Or to celebrate a particularly rousing success. Whichever comes first."

"Perhaps one day."

He sips again at the cordial, and runs a finger idly along the rim. Zevran's offer seems to startle him. "Oh, no, I couldn't. You've been more than kind already. I'll enjoy this glass."

The Inquisitor's smile fades a little. "Most nights are sleepless," he answers absently, then sits up a little straighter as though remembering himself. "Ah, that was rather somber, wasn't it? We've had some successes so far, so perhaps more soon." The loss of Haven had been painful, and looms over his head. Between the corrupted Red Templars, and the memory of the future he had experienced with Dorian, Lasulahn has had little reason to celebrate, and much to keep him awake at night - aside from the miserable cold and closed-in stone walls.

"Call it a gift." Zevran waves his hand dismissively. "You are stuck here or sent off wherever need be and I am something of a free-roaming agent. It will be easier for me to find more for myself."

And, well, as mentioned earlier most of his frame of reference for friendship and the establishing of bonds came from the Warden, who often gave gifts. He has nothing any of the Inquisitor's fellows might enjoy-

Well that isn't entirely true but what he does have isn't entirely relevant. They have no need of him or his goods. The Inquisitor? Could use... someone worrying about them, perhaps.

"And yet it was honest, mm? This is war. A commander that sleeps well is a commander no one should truly be following."

Well... in that case. "Thank you," he says earnestly, and with a bright and warm smile. He will certainly enjoy this while the others pass around their ale and firewater.

"I suppose that's true enough." He wonders quite often if anyone should be following him anyway, but Cassandra and the others were adamant - and wouldn't really take no for an answer, either. "There's a lot still to learn, and not really the time to learn it, but I'm... doing what I can." He takes another sip, licking a drop of the pink cordial from his lips absently. As stressful as the title of Inquisitor is, and as much as he feels he's unsuited, the elf tries not to succumb to despair and hopelessness. As more than one person has pointed out, much of Thedas looks to him now. What use was a leader paralyzed by fear?

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