A sweet siren call of sleep beckoned to Carver. Every muscle of his body begging to let that sleep overtake him. Quietly, ever so quietly, he let himself into the room. The dim light of the full moon filtering in through the window, washing everything in a pale glow.
Still half blind to everything around him, Carver staggered forward fingers fumbling around with his armor. He picked, pulled, and grasped at the myriad of irritating straps and buckles. While a habit, it was a tedious one. One that required entirely too much effort for the energy levels he possessed. Or lacked, depending on how one looked at it.
The events of the day began to play on repeat. Sweeps made over the Winter Palace and the surrounding area to ensure no demons escaped the rift the Inquisitor had closed. None. But of course the Commander didn't seem convinced the first three times. Next time, Carver told himself, next time I draw a line. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he kicked his boots off.
Of one thing he was immeasurably grateful. The rooms the Empress had agreed to allow the Inquisition soldiers to stay up in were incredible. Carver never pictured himself enjoying anything to do with Orlesians or Orlais, but if the bed was as soft as it looked… well. Getting up in the morning would certainly pose an issue. But another problem for another time.
A long, deep sigh escaped his lips as he yanked his tunic over his head. Tossing it aside with little care, he bent down to pull his socks off. One foot, then the other… then bed. Sleep. It continued to call to him as he went through the motions. Finally, socks removed, he shuffled forward a large smile brightening his features as he allowed himself to flop forward.
Everything was right and perfect with the world until an ungodly shriek pierced the air. Oh no. Oh Maker no. Carver's eyes popped open, head lifting to look in the direction the sound had originated from. All the good, warm, and happy feelings immediately drained from his body. Along with all the color in his face. A cursing heap on the floor on the opposite side of the bed left him cringing. Rolling to look over that side of the bed he was met with very angry, glowing elf eyes.
Shit. Shit shit shit. "Nathra?" he asked, carefully. He swallowed, trying to will away the lump forming in his throat.
"Fenedhis!" she snapped.
Her glare sent a shiver down his spine as he struggled to get himself out of the bed to help her up. By the time he was able to offer, however, she was up and waving him off.
"Are you all right?" he asked, coughing lightly.
Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing as she seated herself on the bed. He fidgeted a moment before dropping down next to her on the bed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, sheepishly.
"You owe me a drink," she said after a long moment. "And you will carry me to a healer in the morning."
Carver's brow furrowed until he caught a tiny smirk forming on her lips. A frown creased his own lips.
"You're not going to let me forget this, are you?"
"Not a chance."