soignee wrote...
Prompt: Friendship.
Even as a friend, Zevran tells you he'll go to "the Black City" itself to help you. I'd love to see the theme of friendship explored this week, and how you think Zevran is as a friend and what the word means to him.
Visual reference: Irini Cousland. She's had that non-hairstyle since she turned seventeen or so; it's not the result of trauma and is not a source of angst. Rather the opposite...
Trust
22 minutes
It was a morning ritual, kept religiously. The warm water would be there, waiting, brought from the kitchens. She would be awake, dressed only in undertunic and trousers; the uniform for the day, be it of brocade or of drakeskin, would be laid out nearby, an empty shell of the Warden-Commander waiting to be filled. But Irini Cousland required something first, this small vanity, this touchstone of normalcy.
He would have his kit with him, the soap and the brush and the blade. The warm scent of sandalwood would escape from the soap tin, pushing aside the Vigil's ever-present odor of woodsmoke and wet dog. She would settle into her chair, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, as he swept the brush over the small cake, raising a fine, dense lather. Then, with practised, gentle strokes, he would paint her head with it, covering the dark bristles that had sprung up since yestermorn with a cap of snowy white that reflected the pink and gold of the dawning day.
They might pass a few words, then, about her Wardens, or the news from Denerim, or the dead. And eventually, he would interrupt, saying, "It is time," and reaching for the razor, long and thin and keen. And she, whom few in the Vigil would dare interrupt, would check herself and sit back again, ready for his ministrations.
And he would marvel, each time, at her closed eyes and exposed throat, lain unhesitatingly under the sharp blade in his hand.
That was the measure of their friendship.
Modifié par Corker, 12 octobre 2010 - 12:30 .





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