My entree for Brynee Cousland began at 4:30 ended at 5:35 edited until 5:47
payroo wrote...
All right, I've finally got something!
Prompt: Consolation
Every
origin has a sort of crisis point in DAO, where they confront the
troubles of their past (think returning to Orzammar for dwarven Wardens,
Redcliffe for mages, etc.) In the game the PC doesn't get to talk to
the companions much about his/her personal problems, but that's what
fandom is for!
How would Zevran console the Warden?
Time Limit: 3 hours
Deadline: Tuesday April 12th
Prize: a sketch of whatever you want
Brynee Cousland stared in horrified disgust at the gurgling prostrate form of the former Arl. He wheezed loudly, blood frothing on his lips as he inched backwards.
"I-" He coughed, bloody sputem spraying the front of his armor. Her nose curled in disgust, her entire body trembling with barely suppressed rage.
"deserved-" Here he slipped off his elbow, and weakly attempted to right himself, "more!" And with a final malevolent glare he collapsed in a dead and bloody heap.
"No." She mutterred, a whispered breath, a disbelieving exhalation, a muted prayer. Her eyes were locked on the still corpse, wide, disbelieving, furious. Zevran tentatively reached for her. Alistair took a step towards her, Leiliana uncocked her bow, concern creasing her brow even as she turned to survey the hall from whence they had come.
"No!" Brynee screamed. Darkness. Fury. Hate. Blades drawn, skin ashen, heart pounding, she fell upon his corpse with such energy and violence that at first no one reacted. "No! No! No! No!" Her voice scraped from her throat like metal on stone, her daggers sank deep into unprotesting flesh, over and over she stabbed, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, her blades violating his corpse in a bloody macabre rhythym, punctuated by her harsh cries.
Blood, sprayed and pooled until Howe was nothing more than a hunk of unrecognizable dead meat on a boned frame and it happened so quickly but seemed to endure for an eternity as the team stared in horror at their leader, their steadfast rock of support, the one who looked for the best, hoped for the best, cheered them on to be their best, yet now fell upon the dead arl with an animals ferocity, yeilding herself up to the very worst demons of her nature.
Her cries became incoherant; wild, feral whines mostly-- .pouring from a throat wounded by a grief so profound the collective souls of all shivered in response to their mournful cadence.
As her stabbing motion slowed but her grief showed no sign of abatement Zevran reached for her. The moment he touched her she dropped her daggers and buried her face into his chest and wept. Great gulping sobs.
Alistair's eyes met Zevran's over Brynee's head, It was obvious to the former templar that the Antivan had not a clue how to comfort the Warden. He had one hand lightly gripping her upper arm and his other hanging awkwardly at his side. And why should he know how to offer comfort to another when such comfort had never been offerred to him? Zevran knew how to play a part, to fake a role, to manipulate a mark into believing he felt something he did not feel could never feel. Yet now, as he held the weeping and trembling warden whose bed he had shared for over a year, whose touch he gloried in and whose cries of passion he heard in his dreams, he realized what he felt now was real. And as such he had no clue what to do because anything he would have done when an assassin would have been a ruse and he wanted to offer real comfort not a cheap trick of his trade. And as all of this went through his mind in the span of several heartbeats all Alistair saw was a growing look of panic.
The former templar flushed. There had been a time- however briefly, when he would have loved to have been the one she turned to for comfort, even now, he could not still the smallest twinge of envy he felt toward the assassin who halfheartedly embraced the sobbing warden. Still it was not he his sister-warden had chosen, whatever she saw in that oily elf, it brought a light to her eyes she had been missing and Alistair had not even known it should be there until Zevran had joined them. It was not a light he would see die, regardless of its cause.
As Alistair tiptoed past the two, he gently but firmly grabbed Zevrans hanging arm by the wrist and laid it on top of her hair. with his hand atop Zevrans, atop her hair, Alistair couldn't resist pressing his own awkward comfort on her crown before walking away. As he joined Leiliana at the door Alistair turned to see Zevran's amber-eyed gaze had followed him but he had made no change in movement. Sighing heavily, rolling his eyes heavenward Alistair pulled Leiliana into his arms, ignoring her surprised squeak. with one hand he rubbed her hair and with the other he held her tight. Understanding flashed in his eyes, Zevran gave a small nod of thanks to the templar before turning his attention to the warden.
Leiliana smiled beguilingly into Alistairs eyes as he released her. Blushing furiously Alistair tried to whisper an apology, but the bard waved him off.
Zevran could feel her tears drenching the front of his armor but as his hands found a rhythymn that seemed to ease her suffering he found himself experiencing a very strange and awkward feeling. It had nothing to do with sex and yet everything to do with the woman in his arms. It was so foreign to him that he could not even put a name to it. Eventually he stopped trying but in the back of his mind he felt a vague sense of unease, a faint twinge of disturbance.
When at last they parted it was she who broke the embrace. Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand and red facedly wiping her nose on the sleeve of her armor Brynee found herself unable to look at the assassin, instead her eyes locked upon the corpse of the fallen Arl.
"I still hate him." She rasped.
"I know." Zevran said.
"I wanted more." She grunted, tears welling up. "I deserved----" She choked on her words. Her eyes shooting to Zevran's in horror.
Fingers, weatherworn and sunbronzed reached out to move a sticky wet lock of hair from her face as his eyes, so full of understanding, laced with shared pain, locked with hers.
"I know." He whispered.
Brynee inhaled shakily letting her gaze linger within his before she moved to retrieve her daggers. Her lips curled in disgust as she wope them clean on the armor of a nearby corpse. As the two moved to leave the room, she paused to look on Howe for a final time. He represented everything she had lost, her past, her family, her home.
"I still hate him! He's dead, he's so dead and I still hate him." Her voice, strained scratch of sound, full of bewildered despair and spent rage tugged at a part of him Zevran was not aware of until that moment and he placed a warm palm against the small of her back, nudging her away from the carnage.
Brynee's eyes left the fallen form of her enemy to connect with the arm of her elven lover. Howe was her past, he was everything that hurt her, everything that broke her, he was destruction and pain and betrayal and hate. Here was her future. He was a part of everything that helped her, everything that healed her, he was passion and comfort and strength and joy.
Brynee Cousland did not look back again.
Modifié par frostajulie, 06 avril 2011 - 09:48 .
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:crying:
)
Looks like you're having fun with the PS!
Lots of that. The scenery isn't bad though.
