Zevran let out a low, throaty groan. It was not the fun kind, the kind that one released involuntarily during the throes of passion. Instead, it was only a groan rather than a sob, because of how dry and hoarse his throat was from all the sea-water he had just swallowed. Well, he thought to himself, at least it was merely water from the docks, and not from the canals. He mentally shuddered at the thought, the muscles of his body too exhausted to perform even such a simple movement.

Slowly, torturously, Zevran dragged himself further from the mouth of the sea, despite the additional effort that his clothes, heavy with water, required. Once he reached a distance that he deemed to be far enough to be safe from high-tide, he collapsed, face planting into a crumbling sand dune. He did not move for the rest of the night. Nor did he move for the day after, and the night that followed.

He did not move until the moon had turned twice, and the dawn had turned into day. He only awoke when he felt a seagull pecking at his cheek. In one fluid movement, he swatted the pest away and turned from his stomach to his back. However, the harshness of the Antivan sun beating upon his brow forced him to throw an arm over his face in an attempt to shield his eyes. He could hear footsteps in the sand approaching him, but he could not bring himself to care.

He could not even bring himself to pay attention to what they were saying. Despite the sensitivity of his elven ears, all that he registered was that there were at least three separate voices, and judging by the timbre and pitch, they belonged to undercity urchins. His ears twitched as they twittered amongst themselves, arguing in hushed voices, their whispers wafting on the wind over to Zevran.

Whether he truly did not care about their approach, or simply pretended not to, the children did not know. In fact, up until he swatted the bird away and rolled over, they had thought him dead. It was not an uncommon sight in Antiva City, for a cadaver to float like flotsam and jetsam, and wash ashore. It was this revelation that caused the urchins' unrest. They had planned to pick his pockets like the seagull was planning to pick his eye socket.

One of the urchins had remembered seeing the elf with the three strange lines on his face with one of the big merchants of the city, and had told his friends, figuring that he might be a worthy quarry. There was a faint tlot-tlot in the distance, signalling to the urchins that it was now or never, and that soon they wouldn't be alone. Even though they were partially obscured under a derelict bridge, and on part of the beach that was commonly abandoned, they were still worried about being caught red-handed.

Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath, the youngest of them quickly scurried across the sands to where Zevran lay, and dipped his hand into Zevran's pockets to fish around for valuables. His form required practice, Zevran would later muse to himself, though Zevran did not show any indication of being aware of what was occurring. The ever encroaching tlot-tlot scared the urchin away before he could discover any of Zevrans many knives hidden upon his person, however. As the sounds of their scampering receded, Zevran was left alone.

Or at least, Zevran had thought so up until he accidentally punched another stranger. It was completely accidental, Zevran would swear when the two would joke about it later. Zevran had swung his arm from his brow and sat up, stretching languorously, his clenched fist inadvertently meeting the stranger's nethers. And once again, not in the fun way.

The stranger offered his hand to Zevran, and helped the small elf up. He was large and imposing, or, well, at least to Zevran. He was especially small even as far as elves go. He was also standing upon the crumbling sand dune on which Zevran had face-planted two turns of the moon prior, leaning over the small elf.


No words were exchanged between them, yet somehow Zevran found himself laughing over a bottle of fine Antivan brandy in front of a roaring fire with the stranger from the beach. The stranger had sneezed as he took a swig directly from the bottle, spraying his mouthful at the fire. The high alcohol content of the brandy had caused it to promptly ignite. The sputtering flames caught the hem of Zevran's breeches that were hanging by the fire to dry.

Before long, Zevran's breeches were completely engulfed and charred bits began to fall to the floor, dancing on the small air currents produced by the flickering larger fire. One of the charred remnants landed on Zevran's foot, but the unseasonably cold night air had sapped all warmth from it. He reached over to pick it up, his hand shaking with his laughter. He brought the ruined scrap of cloth to his face, and held it up with both hands over his eyes as though a mask.

His drinking companion let out a derisive snort and rolled his eyes bemusedly before taking another swig of brandy. This time was far more successful, and he felt the brandy coat his tongue and the sides of his mouth before leaving a blazing trail down his throat upon its descent. He extended his arm to Zevran, gesturing for the elf to also take a sip. Zevran dropped his hands, allowing the makeshift mask to fall once again to the floor and reached across to the proffered bottle.

Unlike the stranger with whom he found himself enjoying it with, Zevran was far more accustomed to the strength of Antivan brandy and had the ability to take several gulps of the harsh alcohol before feeling the burn. Even when he did begin to feel the burn, Zevran persisted, swallowing more and more of the viscous liquid. With each sip, nay, quaff, his companion's eyebrow raised ever higher until it was obscured by his fringe. Only when the bottle felt light in his hands and no more liquid spilled forth from the neck did Zevran set it down.

In response to his companion's unspoken question, Zevran shrugged noncommittally. The movement also shook his head, and he felt the room spin. Zevran grimaced inwardly. He never was a lightweight, but even the most seasoned of drinkers should never drink on an empty stomach as he had just done. He did not remember the last time that his belly had been filled with something substantial. On his most recent assignment he had not had the time for more than hard tack and jerky, the only proper meal being provided by his courteous host and quarry, and he had not eaten since then.

As if sensing Zevran's plight, the stranger stood up and wandered over to his knapsack in the corner of the ramshackle room before rummaging around. He let out a small grunt of triumph when he found what he was looking for. He forcefully thrust the waterskin into Zevran's hands before turning and sauntering out the door to descend the stairs to the main part of the inn. Zevran looked at it warily before shrugging once more and taking a long drink, the cold water quenching the fire of the brandy sitting heavy in his belly.

His companion returned shortly with a bowl of hearty stew and a hunk of tough bread, but Zevran expressed his gratitude for the charity nonetheless. With a full belly, and a warm fire, Zevran fell asleep in the hard chair clad only in his smallclothes. When he would awaken in the morning, Zevran would muse to himself that he had awoken in stranger, and more dire, circumstances in the past, and the for rest of the day until he met the crows, he would have a small spring in his step.