[ The door opens a creak- barely enough for Anders to slip inside. The room is a study in organized chaos- the luxurious fabrics and coals and litter of the tools of his profession all locked away somewhere else. There are blankets and throws and lines half full strung across the room covered with shirts and rags-
Zevran himself is harried, hair a mess knotted at the base of his skull, shadows under his eyes dark and bruised, voice rough and ragged from lack of sleep. There is a stain of vomit on one shoulder of his shirt and a rumpled chaos to the clothing he wears. ]
He won't stop- [ Zevran gestures to the bed where a bundled lump of elven infant, all tanned skin and blonde curls whines, coughs, and hiccups in irregular intervals. This is actually a lull- there'd been shrieking sobs earlier. ] I do not know what is wrong.
no subject
Zevran himself is harried, hair a mess knotted at the base of his skull, shadows under his eyes dark and bruised, voice rough and ragged from lack of sleep. There is a stain of vomit on one shoulder of his shirt and a rumpled chaos to the clothing he wears. ]
He won't stop- [ Zevran gestures to the bed where a bundled lump of elven infant, all tanned skin and blonde curls whines, coughs, and hiccups in irregular intervals. This is actually a lull- there'd been shrieking sobs earlier. ] I do not know what is wrong.