Skyhold was a busy place.
There was always something or other going on at the keep itself: nobles swanning about, mages swarming the library, the Ambassador showing around a distinguished guest, meals and drinks being laid out, hushed and discreet reports to the Spymaster -- and all of them happening usually at once. The bustle spilled out the great doors and down to more humble places like the tavern, the kitchens, the stables. Very few, of course, cared to come up to the battlements unless they needed to, whether it was for fresh air or for duty.
Generally, it was for duty. As such Zevran was largely undisturbed as he watched the soldiers train, having convinced the scouts on duty to leave him alone for good by preemptively sharing with them the generous bounty of peaches he’d sneaked from the kitchens. Judging by the movements, it seemed that Cullen had finally managed to drill in that bit about the shields into their heads since the last time he’d watched them train.
A subtle shift in their ranks made the elf blink, then turn his eyes to the source of the movement. A dark figure made his way along the periphery of the training grounds, the sunlight on his hair marking him out easily even at this distance as a speck of stark white against the muted colours of the castle and its soldiers; Zevran doesn’t need to see the red band tied around his wrist to recognize him.
Ah, yes.
Fenris.
He hadn’t been there personally, of course, but he -- like everyone else -- had heard about what happened at Adamant. A supposed Archdemon, blood magic, enthralled Grey Wardens, the Inquisitor dropping into the Fade --
And Hawke, left behind.
The assassin couldn’t claim that he’d known the Champion very well; their paths might have crossed, they might have fought at each other’s side, had some drinks -- but camaraderie only went so far. But while he might not grieve for their loss, watching Fenris methodically destroy a training dummy awoke something inside him, a small hollow part of him that he’d thought he’d made peace with. Each swing, each splintering strike, each crack that snapped through the air echoed uncomfortably in his chest in heavy thuds, closing around him--
He wiped off his hands, pulled his gloves on, then made his way down from the battlements in easy, loping steps. By the time Fenris was through with the training dummy Zevran had made his way along the wall, past the soldiers -- who all seemed very focused on their training as he glanced at them -- and stopped a safe distance behind Fenris.
“You seem very intent on dismantling that dummy.”
