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[BloodsongVengeance]

Greetings!

(Bloodsong is going to talk and explain everything to death.  To get to the good stuff, skip to the next post.)


     In the constant search for adoring fans, I present this... well:  a commercial, a sampler, a trailer, teasers -- whatever you like to call it.  As an enticement for those who might like to read a huge long story about two rogue elves.

     Bannon is a Denerim elf, a clever thief and a conniving liar.  Zevran is an Antivan Crow, and... you know all about him, I'm sure.  :X    Together... they just drive everyone nuts.  The entire saga contains hilarity, drama, and pathos.  And yes, they get together, if that's your thing.  Or if it isn't.  It ain't smooth sailing, though!

     This collection will contain snippets without spoilers to the story.  Other excerpts or teasers may be released that do contain spoilers, and I'll post links here.

    
   The story is being simultaneously published on my blog, a forum, and fanfiction.net.  I highly recommend the Bannon & Zevran forum, both for the text formatting, and because it has the most goodies.  I started in August of 2011, so it is not very far along yet.  There are at least five "Books" planned, so hopefully, this will keep me occupied for a couple of years.  (But lord, not take FOREVER to do!)

Enjoy!

[BloodsongVengeance]

The Lyrium Potion
----------------------------

CONTENTS:

Flavor: humor
Language: none
Violence: none
Sex: Zevran gets some special alone time in his tent (thankfully off camera!)
Book: I Origins
Era:  Partners in Crime

----------------------------


     "You drink it."
     "I'm not going to drink it -- you drink it!"
     The little glass vial sat innocuously on the ground between the two elves.  In the late afternoon shade, it cast a faint bluish glow on the blades of grass.
     "It is poisonous, is it not?" Zevran said.
     "Well, you're the one used to working with poisons.  Haven't you built up some sort of resistance?"
     The assassin shrugged.  "Well, of course, but this is lyrium.  It is different."
     "Alistair said the Templars drink it."
     "Then you drink it.  One of us should just watch, in case the other passes out or dies or something dramatic."
     "Yeah," Bannon said pointedly, "and Wynne trusts me more, so I should be the one to go and get her if you start convulsing."
     Zevran looked up from the vial and gave the other elf a flat look through narrowed eyes.  "It was your idea, you drink it."
     "Don't you want to know what it does?"
     "You can tell me."
     "All right, fine."  Bannon snatched up the vial.  He held it confidently between two fingers and his thumb.  He looked at the blue liquid, gently sloshing back and forth, faintly illuminated from within.  Then he looked at the assassin.
     The assassin just looked back at him.
     "So you just want me to drink this, while you watch," Bannon confirmed.
     "Mm hm."
     "Fine."  He looked dubiously at the lyrium again.  "Maybe I should just sip it."
     "Oh, please," Zevran scoffed.  "You want to see what it does, chug it!"
     "You chug it!"
     "You said you'd drink it first!"
     "Oh, well, if you're scared."  Bannon waited a beat, looking expectantly at the assassin.
     Again, the assassin just looked back at him.  Damn, Zevran was learning not to get played.  Well, hell, Bannon thought; he'd drunk worse.  So he shrugged, flipped the cork out of the vial with his thumb, and took a drink.  He gulped it gamely, but only downed about half.  It had a faint taste, somewhere between sweet berry and sharp mint.
     Zevran watched him anxiously.  Bannon licked his lips.  Then he looked over and shrugged.  He handed the vial to the assassin.
     "Are you sure you drank enough?" the Antivan looked at the vial dubiously.
     "Give it a minute.  Wait...."  Bannon's stomach was doing weird things.  He clutched at it.
     Zevran scooted back.  "Are you going to be sick?"
     "No... no, it feels... tingly."  Tiny firefly sparks were floating around inside him.  The sensation spread to his limbs.  It tickled up his spine like so many playful fingers.  And then... "Whoa," he breathed in awe, looking around.
     "What?"
     "Things... are glowing!"  Bannon stood up and looked around.  The dull brass and copper light of the lowering sun had turned to liquid gold.  Shadows ran a deeper, cooler blue.  And everywhere, the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass, things were glowing with an inner light.  "You have got to see this!"
     Zevran frowned.  "Are you having me on again?"
     "No, seriously!  Do mages see everything like this all the time?"  Bannon looked down at his hand.  His eyes widened.  "Oh, wow!  That is amazing!"  He grinned like a fool because he could see blue lines glowing inside his hand.  He waved it slowly, and the light undulated before him.
     Zevran quickly gulped down the rest of the lyrium.  "I don't see anything," he complained.
     "Give it a-- whoa!"  Bannon just stared at the Antivan.  The elf was a shining knotwork of bright lines.
     "What are you staring at?"  Zevran bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet, waiting for the potion to take effect.
     Alistair came around the tents looking for them.  "Guys!  Hey, it's time t-- um... guys?"  The two elves turned and stared at him with wide, unfocussed eyes.
     "Wow!" Zevran exclaimed.  "Alistair!?"  The elf moved closer to the Templar, and was disconcertingly staring at something under Alistair's belt.
     Even worse, Bannon started staring there, too.  "Whoa, Alistair...."
     "What?!"  The knight threw his hands down to cover himself, even though he was fully clothed.  He hadn't even taken his armor off yet!  "What are you--?  Wait..."  He stepped closer to Bannon and peeled the elf's eyelid up with his thumb.  He gripped Bannon's head, not ungently, and turned it away from the light.  "Your eyes are glowing.  Did you drink lyrium?" Alistair asked incredulously.  "Don't you know how addictive that is!"
     Bannon nodded.  "Yeah...."  Then he started shaking his hand rapidly, staring at it and grinning like a child.  "Hey, look at this!"  Flecks of blue energy flew off his hand like drops of water.
     Zevran goggled.  "Oh!  I wonder-- Ooh, I have to go try something!"  He scurried off and disappeared inside his tent.
     Alistair threw up his hands in despair.  "Wynne!" he yelled. "Wynne!"  He grabbed Bannon by the arm and dragged the loopy elf into the center of camp.
     The matron mage hurried up to them.  "What's wrong?"
     "Where are your potions?"
     "In my pack, why?"
     The Templar heaved a sigh.  "You might consider locking them up in a small chest or something."  He jerked a thumb at Bannon, who was staring around like a wonderstruck kid.
     Wynne's eyes widened.  "He didn't drink--?"  She rounded on Bannon, not even having to finish the question before she could figure out the answer.  "How much did you have?" she demanded of the elf.
     He turned to her and gaped.  "Wynne?  Whoa...."  He stared through her, then looked up slowly.  "That's... wow."  Wynne glowed like a candle, with a huge flame rising above and behind her.
     "What is?" Alistair asked, though he should have known better.  The fool elf was just staring into space over Wynne's head.
     "It's huge," the elf breathed in awe.
     "Never mind that," the mage snapped.  She shook Bannon so he looked at her again.  "How much lyrium did you drink?"
     He frowned in thought a moment, then raised his hand, holding out forefinger and thumb to indicate an amount.  He closed them together, then moved them apart, staring at the stretchy band of energy between them.  He kept moving his fingertip and thumb together and apart, clearly having forgotten the mage's question, let alone her existance.  Suddenly, he pinched the energy in his fingers then flicked his hand out to throw the glowing string away.  "Hey!  Did you see that?" he crowed.  "I did magic!"
     "You did not," Alistair grumbled, annoyed.
     Wynne said, "Didn't you warn him not to try drinking lyrium?"
     "Me?" the knight yelped.  "How is this my fault?  I wasn't even there!"
     The mage bit her lip, another scary thought coming to her.  "Where's his 'partner in crime'?"
     "Oh, he went into his tent," Alistair said.  "No, wait!" he sputtered quickly as Wynne started marching over there.  Bannon came out of his reverie enough to add his voice to the "No, no, no!  Wynne, don't!"
     With a huff, she turned on them.  "What?  He might be sick!"
     Suddenly, they heard Zevran's voice clearly from inside the tent.  "Oooh, yeah!  YEAH!  Wheeeeeee!"  His giddy laughter pealed out.
     Wynne dropped her head, burying her face in her hand.  "Maker's Sweet Infinite Mercy, I am way too old for this!"  She turned back.
     Morrigan marched over, drawn by the commotion.  "What is going on?"
     "Oh, the elves got into the potions, and now they're lyrium-addled."  Alistair rolled his eyes, tapping his temple with one finger.
     "Lyrium potions," Morrigan scoffed.  "Those are for the weak and foolish."  She caught Bannon staring moonily at her.  "Oh, of course."  She threw up her hands and stalked off.  "How could I possibly be surprised?"
     Bannon grinned dopily and flicked his fingers after the retreating witch.  "Hah!" he bragged loudly.  "Got her!  Right in the a--!"
     "She can hear you, you know," Alistair cut him off, hopefully rescuing him from a magical duel that would leave him a greasy, smoking smear on the ground.
     Zevran came up on Bannon's other side, his face ruddy and flushed, grinning ear to pointy ear.  "Now I know why they insist Templars be chaste!  You have got to try this!"  He grabbed for Bannon's arm, but the Denerim elf dodged.
     "Don't be touching me!"
     "Well, fine, but come try it!"
     "Not with you!"
     "But I want to see!"
     Wynne tried to interrupt. "Zevran!"
     The Antivan elf goggled at her.  And above her.  "What is that?"
     "Oh, that's just Wynne."
     "It's huge!"
     Alistair just stared between the elves and the empty space above Wynne.  For her part, the mage tried to get Zevran's attention again, but Bannon interrupted her.
     "Look at this!  I can do magic!"  He flicked another spark of energy from his finger tips.
     "That? Pfft," Zevran scoffed.  "I can shoot giant rainbows out of my --"
     "ZEVRAN!" Wynne shouted.  "Bannon!  You two are grounded!  You're on latrine-digging duty for a week!"
     "Two weeks!" Alistair added.
     The incensed mage continued.  "And if I ever catch you anywhere near my lyrium potions again, I will make you regret it!"  She shook a finger at them.  "Do you understand me?"  They both nodded, but that could have been because they were watching the lights drawing contrails from her fingertip.  "Oh, go sit down!  Alistair, you watch them."
     "Me?  Why me?"
     Zevran perked.  "Yes, come watch!  I want Bannon to try this!"
     "No!  I'm not watching... that!" Alistair sputtered.  He looked at Bannon, who was actually staring at himself speculatively.  Alistair bit his lip in panic.  "Wynne!  How much longer are they going to be like this?"
     "I don't know, hang on."  Wynne crouched down by her pack.  "Let me see if I can tell which one they took.  Pray to the Maker it was a small one!"
     "I am, believe me!" Alistair called back.  He risked another glance at Bannon.  The elf was still... contemplating his navel.  "Leliana, quick!  Come sing something!"
     "Alistair, I'm busy preparing dinner."
     "This is an emergency!"
     The bard sighed and pulled the pot off the fire.  She wiped her hands on a towel tucked into her belt, then turned to fetch her lute.  Meanwhile, Alistair herded the elves closer to the fire and got them sitting on the stump camp chairs.  As Leliana walked towards them, both elves stared and said, "Oooooh" in harmony.  She plucked the strings of her lute and they 'Ooooh'ed again.
     "What shall I play?" Leliana asked calmly, sitting on the ground as her audience remained magically enraptured.
     "Something soothing," Alistair ventured hopefully.  "You do that, and I'll finish making dinner."  He almost escaped.
     Leliana stopped him.  "As addled as they are, you could sit here and play this lute --" she strummed the strings in demonstration, and the two elves grinned and giggled as they watched invisible fireflies swirl into the air-- "and I could finish cooking.  Then we wouldn't have to-- I mean --" she flushed slightly, and strummed the lute again.  "I mean, you wouldn't have to cook again."
     Alistair nodded knowingly.  "You mean, we all won't have to suffer from my horrid cooking."  The bard blushed again.  "You can come out and say it; it's true.  But Leliana, I have to be honest.  I really do think I can cook better than I can play a lute."
     "I don't think they'd notice."  She plucked the strings, and the elves continued to stare, big-eyed.
     "But I wouldn't want to ruin our appetites," Alistair insisted.  He smiled.  "How about you tell me exactly what to do?  Then it will be like you cooked it.  Oh, and Wynne will help me.  Won't you, Wynne?" he asked like a begging puppy.
     The older mage rejoined them with a sigh.  "Yes, I'll help."  She glared at the two elves.  "I hope you two get a horrid lyrium headache after this!"  They stared at her (or actually, above her) blankly.  "And I wish you'd stop doing that," she grumbled.
     "Any idea when they'll snap out of it?" Alistair asked her.
     "Well, I think they got ahold of a small potion.  Hopefully it was only one, and they shared it."  She shook her head and shrugged.  "But I don't know, and them being elves....  Hopefully not all night."
     "Not again," Alistair agreed glumly.



     Bannon slowly woke up, with the odd sensation that he hadn't actually been asleep.  His hands were going numb and he had a crick in his neck.  The next thing he noticed was that he wasn't even lying down, but sitting cross-legged before the campfire, his hands tied behind him, and his head lolling to one side, leaking drool out of his mouth.  He straightened his head slowly, feeling a bit dizzy.  "Wha....?"
     "Are you back among us now?" Wynne asked him, her voice sharp with annoyance.
     "Wha....?" he said again.  His tongue didn't want to work right.  He blinked blearily and looked around.  Wynne, Leliana, Morrigan, and Alistair sat around the fire watching him expectantly.  Sten loomed somewhere in the darkness beyond.  To his right Zevran sat slumped over, with his hands folded in his lap.  "Heyyy...."
     The assassin stirred and straightened slowly, moving his head and shoulders in a spiral to get upright.  "Wha...?"
     "Brilliant," Morrigan said.  "They're the same stupid as before."
     Wynne got up off her camp stool and came over before them.  She knelt down and waved her finger before their faces.  "Focus!"  The two elves stared at her finger, heads weaving side to side drunkenly.  "Do you know where you are?"
     "Uhhhh...," Bannon ventured.  "Camp?"  He was pretty sure that's where they were.  "Why am I tied up?"
     Alistair replied helpfully, "Zevran nearly talked you into, um, doing something with your hands.  That was really best not done in public."
     Bannon frowned in puzzlement.  He looked to the assassin by his side.  Then (slowly, so as not to topple himself over with the dizzying movement) back at Alistair.  "How come his hands aren't tied?"
     "That'd be because he hasn't washed them yet," the Templar answered.
     Zevran stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes trying to look at it.  Having thus found it, he put it back in his mouth and carefully asked, "What happened?"
     Morrigan said, "You two made perfect fools out of yourselves."
     "We did?"
     Wynne sighed in exasperation.  "Look at me!"  When she had their attention, and peered into their eyes to make sure they were in control of their senses once more, she told them firmly, "You drank lyrium and became completely addle-pated.  Don't you ever do that again!  The lyrium could damage your brains permanantly!  In fact, we're not sure it hasn't already done something to you."
     "Like what?" Zevran asked.
     Wynne frowned at him.  "It could make you impotent, for one thing!"  Zevran flinched.  Bannon wondered if that were true, or of the crafty old woman just said that to keep the Antivan in line.  She continued, "You could lose your balance, or your memories.  You might forget how to fight, or how to hold a spoon.  Anything could happen if your mind is damaged."  She sat back on her heels and huffed.  "Have I made myself perfectly clear?  And in case you forgot my warning earlier, if either of you so much as looks at a lyrium potion again...!"  She glowered threateningly.  The elves cringed.  "Are we perfectly clear about this, gentlemen?"
     "Yes, madame mage," they chorused.
     "Can somebody untie me now?"  Bannon asked.  "I can't feel my hands."  Alistair got up and moved to do so.
     Zevran said, "When is dinner?"
     "You ate," Alistair said, freeing the knots in Bannon's restraints.  The elf rubbed his hands, and wiped at the drool on his chin.
     "We did?"
     "Don't you remember?  I had to practically spoon-feed you." Alistair said.  "What do you remember?"
     "Uhm...."  Bannon gave it some thought.  "I had a crazy dream about doing magic.  And things glowing."
     Zevran added, "I seem to recall having some form of amazing sexual prowess."
     "I think you always have that delusion," Bannon told him.
     "Well, in that case, I have suffered no permanant damage."
     Alistair stood up and tugged at Bannon's arm.  "Up, up," he commanded the elves.  "You can't just sit around now.  In the Templar training, we learned that only a good, long sweat will work the lyrium fully out of your system."  He prodded the prostesting elves.  "You don't want it to linger.  I think about twenty laps around the camp should do it.  If you don't, it could still cause some damage to your brains."
     "Not that anyone would notice," Morrigan sniffed.
     Grumbling and groaning, the elves shoved at each other and broke into a shuffling trot.  "Top speed, now!" Alistair called out like a drill seargeant.  "Sweat it out!  Think of it as a race."  The two stumbled along faster, and then faster still as each tried to get ahead of the other.  "First one to do twenty can have dessert!"  Alistair sat back down on his seat, grinning.
     Morrigan stared suspiciously at him.  "Did you just make that up?"
     "Me?  Make up something fiendishly clever to punish those two?"  Alistair raised his brows high.  He touched his chest, giving her a look of mock surprise.  "Morrigan!  I'm astonished!"   He looked over at Wynne.  "Make sure they don't forget about the two weeks of latrine-digging duty, either."
     "Don't worry about that," all three women answered at once.  They looked at each other, then broke into chuckles and light laughter.

[Klidi]

LOL I can imagine why they stared under Alistair's belt, but why did they see above Wynne's head? xD
And who would think Alidstair is such meanie. Twenty laps, ouch. Good thing they love to compete with each other. Though I half expected Zev to suggest other way of sweating it. One that would prove that there was no damage done ;o)

Well... they ARE having fun, so... both me and Air approve +100

[BloodsongVengeance]

oh, alistair learns. ::nods sagely:: i can't tell you what they see above wynne's head; that'd be a spoiler. :X

in the 'partners in crime' era, they're just good friends. bannon isn't interested in doing those things with zevran. he likes girls. (not, of course, that that stops zevran from chasing after him. :X )

good, now that evil airam is appeased, my brain can go forward with the saw project. ::rubs paws together evilly::

[Tryynity]

Those two are so funny with their antics - I can totally believe them doing Lyrium together just for kicks.

You always paint them like a couple of rowdy kids LOL - like they are now grounded and Alistair had got them doing laps hahaha

I would not want those two as sons - OMG I feel a headache coming on just thinking about it

[BloodsongVengeance]

i have found that bannon and zevran are most often acting like 7-year-old brats or 17-year-old juvenile delinquents. it's always somewhat of a shock when they turn around and reveal just how ruthless and cold-blooded they can be.

wynne knows EXACTLY what you mean :X :X :X

[BloodsongVengeance]

Zevran Prompt Entry:  Decisions, Decisions


Oops
--------------------------------------------

Contents:

Flavor:  humor
Language:  none
Violence:  none
Sex:  Zevran has vague kinky thoughts
Book: I Origins
Era:  Partners in Crime

----------------------------------------------


     Zevran was eager to get back into town.  To be sure, it was a dull little town full of dull little people, somewhere in the frozen armpit of Ferelden.  It was so dull, there had to be something truly, sinisterly dirty going on underneath, somewhere.  Or so the Antivan fervently hoped.  All he had to do was find it.  A coven of virgins, perchance?  Who needed rescuing!  By a dashing rogue... wait!  A blond dashing rogue!  Yes!  Not one of those cute brown-haired ones with the gorgeous eyes.
   The blond dashing rogue's musings were interrupted by a sudden eclipse.  Oh, wait, that was just Sten, looming in his path.  The qunari looked pensive.  Not that he seemed to have a great range of facial expression.  Zevran was surprised when the giant spoke to him.
     "Has any battle ever been won by retreating from it?"
     Zevran pursed his lips.  Was this a qunari riddle?  He shrugged.  "No, I can't see how that would work."  He leaned his weight back on one leg, affecting a casual posture, just so he didn't have to look awkward while he craned his head to look up at Sten.
     "We should attack our enemy directly.  Do you not agree?"
     "Loghain?  No, he is far too protected in his den in the capitol."
     "Not Loghain," Sten snorted derisively.  "The archdemon."
     "You wish to attack the archdemon?"  Sten had some stones, that was for sure.  Zevran grinned ****ily.  "The  foes we have encountered so far are too small for your tastes?  I agree!  We have not been seriously challenged in our endeavors."
     "Do you not also agree," the qunari asked, "that defeating this Blight is taking entirely too long?"
     "Oh ho, yes!"  Zevran nodded.  "It is taking forever!  Especially," he added to himself, "when I'm not getting laid."   How long had it been now?  Months!  Months for Maker's sake!  It was unheard of!
     "Very well," Sten pronounced, turning away.  "I am taking over command."
     Zevran barely heard him, caught up as he was in his own problems.  If only one of those Grey Wardens would unbend, just enough to... well, to get bent.  Maybe that was their problem?  Zevran frowned in thought.  Yes, yes; that was it!  They were entirely too straight.  They needed a little kink in their lives!  Zevran chewed gently on his  thumb, speculating.  Maybe if he got them drunk... convinced them to play a game of cards with clothing items for stakes... there in Alistair's tent.  Mmmm... the possibilities.....
     A dark cloud intruded on Zevran's fantasy, some portent of dread.  He frowned slowly.  Then he blinked.  "Wait," he said to the qunari, who wasn't even there any more.  "You're going to what?"  He whirled around.  Too late!  Sten was accosting Bannon.  Oops!


  

Modifié par BloodsongVengeance, 20 décembre 2011 - 12:27 .

[Klidi]

Lol this was briliant!

Tsk, tsk. So greedy, Zevran. A coven of virgins, and he's not willing to share with his partner in crime. xD
And see what it caused? You think you'll have more fun with Sten? Yeah. I can so see Sten rescuing the covent of virgins. Silly assassin!

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Pfffffttt. I could totally 'hear' Zevran's voice in that. Nice one.

[Tryynity]

Thats exactly the kind of thing I believe constantly flows through Zevs thought - haha well done.

I also loved the part -

" The blond dashing rogue's musings were interrupted by a sudden
eclipse. Oh, wait, that was just Sten, looming in his path."

You bullseyed my sense of humour with that one LOL

[BloodsongVengeance]

sorry about the whacky formatting. i was so happy, too, when it converted the italics automatically :/ and then it bleeped me, too :X

no no no, he couldn't possibly introduce a coven of virgins to bannon. bannon might sweet talk all of them away from zevran! not... you know... that bannon is anywhere NEAR as attractive or alluring or as downright irresistible as zevran is! no no no. it's just... you know... a precaution.

hearing zevran's voice in your head isn't that hard. it's getting him to shut up that's the trick.

zevran: HEY!

see what i mean?

tryyn, you're always picking out the winning quotes

[DreGregoire]

You seem to be having a rip roaring fun time fanfiction writing for Bannon, Zevran, and party. I enjoyed the creativity of your videos and am happy to see it in your writing to. I look forward to reading more.

Modifié par DreGregoire, 20 décembre 2011 - 12:45 .

[Tryynity]

Everytime I watch Lion King now I think of those two idiots LOL that was awesome casting on your part Bloodsong...

Modifié par Tryynity, 01 janvier 2012 - 09:16 .

[BloodsongVengeance]

dre; i wanted to thank you for your kind support and encouragement. but i didn't want to, you know, frivolously bump my thread. i'll blame tryyn for that.

tryyn: you're a nut. ::flips through the pile of storyboards:: there's something freaky about the lion king and dragon age. i have like 3 more videos of crossover 'mixed-up fairytales' between them. and i SWEAR the next post over on the main story has NOTHING to do with any scene from the lion king.

[BloodsongVengeance]

The Candy Incident
---------------------------

CONTENT:

Rating: Teen
Flavor: Humor
Language: mild
Violence: not really (some brawling)
Nudity: naked drawings
Sex: none
Other:  alcohol use

Author's Notes:
     This takes place before "The Lyrium Potion."  If you were wondering why Alistair and Wynne were saying 'not again;' this is the incident they were referring to.
     This happens right after the Circle Tower story arc, during the Wolf in the Fold chapter.
     When this gets posted to the story, there will be more content.  But for now, for your amusment....
-----------------------------


     Those of the elven race make ideal slaves.  They can subsist on very little food while making up for it in more hours of sleep.  Therefore, it is recommended their rations be halved during the fallow season.
     Food will never be wasted on elven slaves, for they do not run to fat.  Instead, all they eat will be converted into energy.   A small ration of rich or sugary food will go a long way to producing longer work hours from an elf.

-- Tevinter Treatise on the Races of Thedas

     Some elves from the city have an over-developed sweet tooth.  Note -- giving sugar to a city elf may be hazardous to your health.   -- BG

(A note scribbled in the margin)

     "Hey!"  Bannon stopmed over to the assassin and swiped a bag out of his hand.  "What do you think you're doing?"
     "Eating," Zevran replied with his mouth full.
     With an angry frown, Bannon peered into the bag.  "How many of these did you eat?"
     "Not quite a whole dozen," the other elf replied.  He chewed a bit more, swallowed, then made a swipe at the bag. 
     Bannon jerked it out of his reach.  "Oh, that's it!  You are standing watch tonight!"
     Alistair came over from where he and Leliana had been getting Wynne settled in with her supplies and tent arrangements.  "He can't stand watch," the Templar said nervously.  "What if he kills us all in our sleep?"
     "He ate half this bag of candy --"
     "--Barely one third!--"
     "Do you have any idea what that much sugar does to an elf?" Bannon finished, ignoring the assassin, and shaking the bag meaningfully at Alistair.
     "Uh... he'll get a tummy-ache?" the human guessed.
     "We should be so lucky!"  Bannon threw his hands up in a frustrated gesture.  "He'll be awake for three days straight!"
     Over by the fire, Wynne gave Leliana a worried look.  "What's going on?  Why would that young man kill you?"
     "Zevran is a Crow Assassin," the Chantry sister explained calmly.  "He was hired to kill the Grey Wardens."
     "But he's here, now?"  Wynne turned to look at the elves, her brow creased in puzzlement.
     "That is a long story.  I can tell it to you while we prepare the stew, yes?"  Leliana went to fetch some carrots and a leg of mutton from their stores.  Wynne followed hesitantly, stepping backwards as she watched the drama unfolding between the two elves and the Templar.
     Zevran's ears perked up at the mention of food.  "Dinner?  Splendid!"  He turned to offer his assistance -- but Bannon collared him.
     "Not a chance!"
     "But a handful of candy is not a proper meal!  My mother used to tell me so all the time!"  He yanked himself free from Bannon's grip.
     The Denerim elf growled.  "First my pie, now my candy!  That's for emergencies!"
     "Your pie?" the Antivan sputtered.  "It was everybody's pie!  We share."
     "No, sharing is when everybody gets a piece!  Not when somebody steals somebody else's piece to get two!"
     Alistair knew when he was in over his head.  Throwing his hands up in surrender, he walked over to give the women a hand.  Sten just watched stoically from his usual post.  Leliana gave Alistair the meat, and he busied himself shredding bits of it into the stewpot.   She handed Wynne a basket of peas for shelling, and she herself set about cutting up some carrots and a turnip.
     The bard then began to relate the tale.  "You recall that Loghain retreated at Ostagar, leaving the King and all the Grey Wardens to be slain by the darkspawn."
     "Yes," Wynne said quietly.  "I was there.  But the mages were evacuated before the troops pulled out."
     "More of Loghain's machinations, no doubt," Alistair growled bitterly.
     Wynne looked up with a curious tilt to her head.  Leliana stepped in to explain.  "It is Alistair's belief that Loghain planned this desertion, and is a traitor to his King and country."
     The mage's jaw dropped in shock.  "But why?  Why would he do such a thing?"
     "Well, he has claimed power in Ferelden, yes?"  Leliana explained, her voice ever calm and soothing, like a cool stream.  "Whether he planned to usurp this power or not, the fact remains he has benefited from the King's death.  It is also true, as told to us by Zevran himself, that Loghain and a man named Rendon Howe hired the Crow Assassins to finish off any surviving Grey Wardens."
     "That makes no sense!" Wynne insisted.
     The bard paused in her cutting to meet Wynne's eyes with her own frank, blue-green gaze.  "Perhaps not to us, who believe this is a true Blight.  But many folk believe in Loghain and follow him."  She returned to her cutting, and her story, ignoring the raised voices of the aruging elves a few feet away.  "Zevran ambushed us on the road outside of Redcliffe.  We fought him and his mercenaries, and we had thought Alistair and Bannon had killed him and his apostate mage.  However, it turns out he was only knocked unconscious.  When we were interrogating him, he explained how he was a slave to the Crows and wished to join us in order to be free of them."
     Wynne twisted her head again to look in the elves' direction.  "And you believed him?" she asked incredulously.
     "Not even Alistair is that stupid," Morrigan supplied, carrying up another cut tree stump to serve as a stool near the fire.  She handed Leliana a few small packets of spices, and the bard added them to the stew.
     "No one in their right mind would believe such a story," Lelian a said smoothly, "coming from an assassin hired to kill them, who was in imminent danger of losing his own life.  But freeing someone from slavery, that is a deed blessed by the great Andraste herself, yes?"
     Just then the two elves came up to the campfire.  Zevran was saying, "After all this time, you still do not trust me?"
     "Three days!" Bannon interrupted.  "It's been three days!"
     "Four, actually."
     "Three and a half!" the Denerim elf conceded.
     "Am I not part of your group?  Have I not proven myself?" the assassin insisted, spreading his hands, his brows raised in disbelief at this unfair treatment.  "After all this, do I not deserve the same status and consideration as anyone else here?"  He looked around, beseeching the others to see his side.  They looked skeptical.  "Well, Sten there trusts me.  Do you not, Sten?"
     "No."
     The assassin let his hands drop to slap against his legs in defeat.  Bannon  went around to the supplies and pulled out the spade.  "Here," he said, handing it to the fuming Antivan.  "Go do your job, Ser I-want-to-be-a-part-of-the-team."
     "My job!?  How is this my job, yet again?"  Zevran's voice spiraled up in outraged disbelief.  "Surely it is someone else's turn!"
     "It's your turn."
     "How do you figure that?"
     "Because I said so!"
     Stubbornly, Zevran folded his arms, tucking the spade under one bicep.  "And who put your in charge?"
     "Alistair!" Bannon yelled, gesturing at the Templar.
     The Antivan rolled his eyes over to the indicated Warden.  He gave a sniff of disdain.  "Well, who died and made you King of Ferelden?"
     Suddenly, almost all the noise in the camp stopped.  Only the fire crackled quietly, and Wynne stopped shucking peas a moment later, looking up at everyone else.  They stared at Zevran.  Alistair's face slowly fell, like a great mountainside sucumbing to an avalanche.  Without a word, he tossed down the shank of mutton, stood, and walked off.
     "What?"  Zevran looked around, bewildered.  "What did I say?"  The only answer he got was a reproving look from Leliana.  He shrugged back at her.
     Bannon shook his head.  "Just go dig the latrines!"  He went off after Alistair.
     "Fine, fine," the assassin grumbled.  He walked off in the other direction.
     Wynne looked at Leliana.  "What was that all about?"
     "That's another story, entirely."  Leliana tipped her cutting board over the pot and carefully shoved the cut carrots into the stew.  "So far," she said, returning to her original thread, "Zevran seems sincere in his pledge to aid us.  He has given no indication he wishes to do otherwise."
     "Just like the viper that wants to ride in your coat while it's cold out," Morrigan said.  "Then bites you when you get it to where it needs to go."  She shot a glance towards the object of conversation, then shot to her feet with a huff of irritation.  "Not there!" she yelled, striding towards the elf digging with the spade.  "That's much too close to the camp."
     The Antivan pitched a spadeful of dirt viciously at the ground.  "You want me to go further away, witch?" he snapped.  "See if I come back!"  He turned and stalked off further.
     Wynne winced.  "Do I want to ask about that, or is this another story for later?"
     "Morrigan styles herself a Witch of the Wilds, like her mother before her."  Leliana began paring a large turnip with her knife, without the slightest bit of concern.  Wynne, however, looked at her with alarm.
     "I am an apostate," Morrigan said, returning to their company.  She gave Wynne a scathing golden glare.  "All you need concern yourself with, Circle Mage," -- she sneered the title-- "is that I, too, am here aiding the Grey Wardens.  And believe me, they can't be picky about the company they keep."
     Wynne turned yet again to look towards the departed Crow assassin.  "I see what you mean," she said.  Shaking her head, she scooped up the shelled peas and handed them into the stewpot.  She moved around to Alistair's vacated spot and saw to rescuing the mutton from the dirt.
     The former Templar came back into earshot, walking with Bannon.  He seemed recovered from whatever had shocked him, though his demeanor was much subdued.  "Well," he was telling the elf, "eat the rest of the candy.  You said you'd watch him." 
     Bannon groaned.  "All right, but after some real dinner first."  He sank down onto one of the stumps.
     "Oh, here," Alistair said, hurrying to assist Wynne.  "Let me get that.  Sorry about that."
     "It's all right," the mage said gently.  They fussed a minute over the discarded meat.  They got the salvageable bits into the stewpot along with the turnip slices from Leliana.  The bard took up the long spoon and stirred. 
     As Wynne settled back into her spot, Bannon asked her, "How is everything?  Settling in okay?"
     "Oh yes," she said with a smile.  "I feel like the little girl in the story, who's gone amongst mad people."  Bannon and Leliana chuckled, and Alistair even cracked a grin.  "Don't worry," she assured them; "I love that story."
     "Do I want to ask where Zevran went?" the elf said.
     Morrigan replied, "I told him to go dig the latrines further afield, and he threatened to run off."
     "We should be so lucky," Bannon muttered.
     "Are you seriously going to stay awake all night?" Wynne asked him.
     He nodded.  "It's an elf thing."
     "And you won't be tired in the morning?" Alistair added.
     "Nope."
     "Man, I wish I could do that."  He got a speculative look on his face.  "Do you think if I ate half that candy, that I cou--"
     "Not a chance!"  Bannon's hands shot protectively to the pouch containing the precious candy.
     "Well, I could try," the Templar grumbled underbreath.
     "Get your own candy," the elf growled back.


     The assassin did return.  Alas.  He whined so badly about being hungry, Bannon gave him half his stew.  The Denerim elf finished his meal by munching on the rest of the candy, shooting the Antivan dirty looks all the while.  Zevran, for his part, didn't seem to mind.
     "Just leave the dishes and the pot," Bannon told the others.  "We'll take care of cleaning up."
     Alistair grinned.  "Bonus!"
     Zevran frowned at his patron.  "What do you mean, we have to do work?"
     "I don't want to be bored out of my skull all night," Bannon growled back at him.  "We need something to do."
     The Antivan smiled dreamily.  "I can think of a great many things to do with a handsome fellow such as yourself."
     Bannon shared an uneasy glance with Alistair.  Then he said firmly, "I like girls."
     "I like girls, too," the irrepressible assassin retorted.  "Do you see any volunteering to stay awake and entertain us?"  He fanned his hand towards the women.  Morrigan rolled her eyes.  Leliana was used to the lewdness and didn't even bat an eyelash.  Wynne had that look again, like she had landed amongst mad people.  Zevran grinned wickedly at her, mainly because the other two were learning to ignore him.
     Bannon put a hand to his face, slowly drawing his fingers down.  "This is going to be a long night...."


     Chores didn't really last that long.  They washed the dishes and the stewpot.  They swept and raked around the camp.  Soon the others turned in, and such activity was too noisy to continue.  And so the industrious elves had to figure out other entertainments.  Such as...


First Hour:

     "Are you alive or dead?" asked Zevran.
     "Dead."
     "Are you sexy?"
     Bannon frowned.  "I don't know!"
     "How can you not know!?  If you don't know, you can't pick that person!"
     "Oh, fine!  Considering it's you who's asking... yes!"
     "Are you Andraste?" Zevran's face lit up in triumph.  "Hah! You are Andraste!"
     "No I'm not!
     "People are always Andraste.  Wait... do I know you?"
     "No."
     "Then how am I supposed to guess!?"


Second Hour:

     They crept over to Bodhan's wagon.  Bannon crouched low and popped the lock on a chest set on the ground by the wheel.  Zevran hovered close by, watching his technique.  "Don't you have a key for that?"
     "What for?  It'll only get lost."
     "Oh."
     Bannon opened the chest and set about sorting the accumulated stuff inside.  Zevran's ears perked up as he heard a familar thick clink of glass.  "You have liquor stashed in here?"
     "Yeah -- oh no!  That's for emergency purposes!"
     Zevran snorted.  "You and your 'emergency purposes.'  This is an emergency, is it not?"
     "I don't see how--"
     "Look," the assassin explained reasonably, "if we get drunk and pass out, then we will be asleep, no?  Our problem will be solved!"
     Bannon frowned in thought a minute.  "That... actually makes sense," he said hesitantly.  "Why do I think it's a bad idea?"  This last bit was wasted, because as soon as he even sounded as if he was agreeing, Zevran nabbed a bottle out of the stash and had run off with it.


Third Hour:

    The sounds of elven two-part harmony drifted through the night:

Through the forest wild and free
Comes our Dalish melody!
Ever dancing as they say
None so merry and none so gay...!



Fourth Hour:

     The full, epic length rendition of all twelve verses of the dirty limerick "There Once Was a Man from Orlais."


Fifth Hour and Beyond:

     Things after that get a little fuzzy.  However, much to the relief of the rest of the companions, they are at least quiet.



     Morning light was done filtering through the trees, it had its heart set on piercing the tent walls with light.  Alistair groaned and finally had to surrender.  It was time to get up.  Groggily, he climbed out of his tent and looked around.  He half expected the camp to look as if a tornado had blasted through, but it actually looked neater than any camp had a right to look.  He spotted Bannon and Zevran sitting near the banked fire, hunched intently over a hand of cards.  Cautiously, he moved away from his tent.  His foot clanked against -- he looked down -- his helm?  Wait, why were pieces of his armor lying near the fire?
     "Hey, why is my armor out here?"  He picked up the helm and turned it over in his hands.  "Gah!  And why is there a hidous clown face painted on my helm?"
     "That was for the puppet show," Bannon answered mildly.  "Do you have any threes?"
     "Go fish," the assassin told him.
     Alistair muttered and rubbed the helm with one corner of his shirt.  "Puppet show," he muttered.  At least the makeup came off easily.
     "Do you have any threes?" Zevran asked Bannon.
     "No.  Go fish."
     With a muttered Antivan curse, Zevran drew a card from the pile between them.
     Alistair glanced over towards the path that returned to the main road.  Sten, as usual, was patrolling there impatiently.  Looking in the other direction, Alistair saw Leliana in front of her tent, getting ready to make breakfast.  Behind her, on the tent, was a large cartoon drawing of her.  It was actually quite good.  Then Leliana bent to pick up something, and more of the drawing was revealed -- the absolutely nude drawing.  "Gah!"  Alistair gaped like a stunned fish.
     With a quizzical wrinkle in her brow, Leliana stood and turned to see what he was staring at.  "Oh my!"  She tilted her head, appraising it for a minute or two.  "That's very artistic," she said generously.  She turned back around to the two elves.  "Which one of you drew that?"
     "I did," said Bannon with a proud smile.  The effect was somewhat marred by the fact he had on pink lipstick and green eyeshadow.  Not to mention the word 'LOSER' written across his forehead.  "Do you have any threes?"
     "Go fish."  Zevran, for his part, had on red lipstick, blush, and gold eye shadow.  Across his forehead was the word 'AWEZOME.'  "I did the one of you, Alistair."
     Alistair opened his mouth to say something, but then realized what the Antivan had just said.  He turned around.  "Oh!  Um...."  He gulped at the stick figure.  It could have been worse.  "That's... not bad.  But if I'm brandishing my sword over my head, how do I have a red sword in my other hand?"
     "That's not your sword.  Do you have any threes?"
     "Mn mm.  Go fish."
     Alistair's brow twisted up into a full question mark shape.  He tipped his head sideways, peering intently at the stick figure.  "Not my...? OH!"  His eyes popped open wide.  It was worse!  "Striking tent!  Right now!"  He ran forward, discarding his armor, and started yanking at the tent pegs and guy lines, trying to collapse his tent and the 'glorified' Templar drawing on it, even though all his stuff was still inside.
     Leliana approached the elves.  "Where did you get tha-- my makeup kit!"  She quickly knelt before the pilfered makeup to make sure it was all there.
     Wynne walked over from her tent.  "What on Thedas is painted on my tent?" she demanded.
     Zevran said, "It is a picture of you smacking a hurlock over the head with your cane.  Er -- staff!  I meant staff!"
     The older woman scowled at him.  "Why were you painting graffiti on people's tents?"
     Bannon answered that one.  "Well, we put everyone's name on their tent, but you couldn't really read it from that far away, so...."  His explanation sort of petered out under her withering glare.  "It seemed like a good idea at the time?"
     Leliana looked over at the elves' tents.  There were drawings on the front, but these were scribbled over viciously.  They seemed to be elven stick figures, and the brown-haired one's comparative anatomy was consipcuously smaller than the blond-haired one's.  The rest of the canvas of both tents were covered with a variety of blond and brunette elf stick figures killing each other in imaginative and gory ways.
     Wynne came to a stop beside her, viewing the carnage.  She gave an annoyed huff.  Then she rounded on the elves.  "Where did you get these paints?"
     "Oh, we improvised," Bannon said.  "We, um, were sorting our supplies."
     "They're not permanant, are they?" Alistair asked, returning from his mission to dismantle the artwork on his tent.
     "No," Zevran said.  "At least, not most of them."
     "That's good, at least."  Alistair hoped.  "Zevran, why do you have the word 'AWESOME' with a backwards S written across your face?"
     "Because I am ridiculously awesome!" he beamed proudly.
     Bannon snorted.  Leliana said to him, "Do you know you have the world 'LOSER' written across your forehead?"
     "What?  Oh!"  The elf rubbed at his forehead.
     Leliana shook her head.  "No, it's still there."
     "Wh--!?"  He glared at the Antivan.  "You used the stuff that stains on my face!?"  He threw down his cards without waiting for an answer, and sprang on the other elf.  The two went down in a heap, thrashing in the dirt.  Leliana and Wynne had to jump back to avoid being bowled over.
     "Alistair!" Leliana cried after a moment, when the Templar didn't immediately wade in to separate the two.
     "What?  I think they need a good thrashing, this time."
     The Chantry Sister glared at him, so with a put-upon sigh, Alistair went to haul Bannon off the assassin.  He didn't get that far, however, before a voice rolled like thunder over the whole camp:  "Just Who Painted A Pornographic Picture On My Tent!?"  Everyone froze as Morrigan stalked over.  The two elves scrambled to their feet.  Bannon pointed at Zevran.
     "It's not pornographic," the Antivan began.  "It is an artistic rendering --"
     "It's a picture of TWO OF GIANT BOOBS!" the witch roared.
     Wynne rounded on them.  "That's it!  No more candy for you two!"
     Bannon gaped at her.  "But Wyyyyyynnnne!  He started it!"
     "Did not!"
     "Did too!"
     "Enough," Wynne yelled.  "Now go wash that stuff off Morrigan's tent this instant.  Both of you!  And then clean up Alistair's armor and give Leliana her makeup kit back!"
     "But he did it," Bannon insisted.
     "And you can both dig new latrines!"  Wynne was in fine form now.  Alistair gave her a look that was half admiring and half fearful.
     "We did that already," Zevran said.
     "Yeah, we were kinda bored," Bannon added.
     Wynne pressed a hand to her forehead.  "Maker's Mercy, I'm too old for this!"

[Klidi]

Now I'm not sure - that codex is official or your own? O.o It really sucks to be elf. Can't even eat candy without terrible consequences. Well all right, in case of these two it's hilarious, not terrible, but still.

"Well, who died and made you King of Ferelden?"
Bwahahaha! Zev, you really are the best. xD

Hyperactive from sugar AND drunk? And Bannon wonders if it's a good idea? Lol I feel sorry for Wynne. Her first night in the camp, and she allready has to suffer antics of those two brats. But it's good she's there. I don't think they'd survive the camp otherwise - others would probably murder them. I was surprised Morrigan didn't fry them.

[BloodsongVengeance]

oh, hey; i didn't know anyone was paying attention. lol!

no, i made that up. but it explains how elves never get fat, and are always good-looking; due to efficient metabolism. but on the other hand, there's elves starving in the streets, so they must have a mechanism for dealing with both surpluses and deficits of food. as for the sugar thing... it's just for laughs ;P and im sure not ALL elves have a terrible sweet tooth. im pegging that on zevran, though :X


ambra, welcome to the madhouse! i'm still working on getting zevran into the story, on the officially published places. bannon is still fending for himself out there.

[BloodsongVengeance]

i was going to post another story excerpt here... but it contains a bit of a teensy spoiler, and i wanted this thread to remain spoiler-free.  but i'll post a link to it here, for those who just can't resist.

Assassination Can Be Fun!

that's on my bioware blog.  there are also other teasers there on the blog, done for the RAZT prompt entries.  but be VERY careful, those take place at many different points in the saga, and some contain some very serious SPOILERS!

[BloodsongVengeance]

the Bannon & Zevran saga is continuing apace; don't wait! act now! and go READ IT!  links in my sig.

here's another piece that is coming up soon in the story.

Zevran vs Carroll
=============
Content:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Humor
Language: no
Violence: no
Nudity: no
Sex: just smexy talk
Other: Contains Zevranisms

Author's Note:
   this may or may not end up as canon (well, it will, somehow.  but i'm not sure morrigan and sten are actually going...).  all the fun of kicking the templar in the lake, zevran style!
-------------------------------------------


     A lone Templar stood on the pier guarding the ferry to the Tower.  He didn't bother to wait for them to get to him nor to state their business.  He held up on hand.  "No one is allowed in the Tower, by orders of the Knight Commander."
     "We're Grey Wardens," Bannon told him.  "We have business with the Circle of Mages."
     "Oh, you're Grey Wardens, are you?" the Templar drawled.  "Prove it."
     Bannon and Alistair looked at each other.  "Prove it?" the human asked.  "How does one go about proving that, exactly?"
     "Well, I don't know.  Slay some Darkspawn."
     "There aren't any Darkspawn here," Alistair insisted.
     The Templar nodded.  "Right, so toddle off, then."  He presses his lips tight, but couldn't hide a smirk.
     Bannon narrowed his eyes at the man.  "Wardens can sense Darkspawn before they appear.  Perhaps your superiors would like to know if they are to be attacked at any moment."
     The Templar propped himself up on his toes self-importantly, then rocked back on his heels.  "If the Darkspawn are coming, then you can slay some."
     The elf grit his teeth.  "Fine.  What do you want to take us across the blasted lake?"
     Now the stalwart bastion of righteousness' eyes lit up.  "Well, that lynx-eyed beauty is certainly a looker."  He leered at Morrigan.
     Alistair and Bannon both turned to the witch.  This poor fool obviously had no idea.  Bannon inclined his head as if suggesting Morrigan go with the Templar.
     Morrigan smiled coldly.  "Oh, such a lovely young thing.  Will you fall prey easily, I wonder?"  Her eyes raked him over.  "Or will you struggle and scream as I devour your flesh?"
     "Ohhh," the Templar quavered.  "She's going to eat me!"  His leer widened.  If he wasn't careful, drool was going to start leaking out of the side of his mouth.
     "Haven't you taken vows with the Chantry?" Lelaina asked pointedly.
     "No," the smug Templar assured her.  "Have you?  Would you give them up for me?  You pretty little minx!"  He folded his arms, puffing up his chest.
     Leliana opened her mouth to retort; Morrigan raised her hand to begin a spell of destruction; Bannon tried to think of something -- anything -- to say;  Alistair prayed for deliverance from this disaster.  But before anyone could make a move, Zevran stepped forward.  "I'll handle this."  They all gaped at him.
     Even Sten's brow went up a notch as the Antivan moved towards the Templar with a very distinctive sway to his hips.  "My my, what a deliciously handsome man you are," the elf purred.
     The Templar grinned and started to nod, then blinked rapidly.  "Bu- bu- uh-- You're a guy!"  He unfolded his arms as if in preparation to run away.  But there was no where to go on the end of the dock.
     Zevran drew an admiring hiss between his teeth.  "So sexy, so virile, and smart?  Be still my heart!"  He walked right up to the frozen Templar and ran his hands across the man's breastplate.  "I do so admire a man in a suit of hard, steel armor." 
     The Templar backed up a step, a small, strangled sound that sounded rather like "ack" escaping his throat.
     The assassin put his hand pre-emptively on the Templar's swordhilt.  "Such a long sword you have," he leered, drawing the word out.  He rubbed the palm of his hand provocatively over the pommel.  "Are you very skilled in its uses?"
     "I- I- I-- ulp!"  Skittishly, the man backed away, but Zevran followed him relentlessly, licking his lips.
     "Are you wearing anything under that sexy dress of yours?" the elf asked brightly.  "Because you know I want to get down there right now and--"
     "WAAAAAAAAUGH!"  Just then, the Templar took another step back, but he'd run out of pier.  He toppled over into the water with a mighty splash.
     Zevran shrugged.  "Or," he said, "if not, we can just steal your boat."  He turned and hopped in.
     "Okay!" said Bannon, joining the assassin.  Morrigan and Sten started to follow.
     "Wait," cried Alistair.  "We can't just leave him to drown!"
     "And why not?" the witch asked archly.  "It is his own stupidity that landed him there.  He deserves what he gets."
     "I agree," the qunari added.
     Alistair gave Leliana a pleading look, then started shucking his own armor.  The lay Sister bit her lip a moment, then darted to fetch a rope.  Together they worked on saving the foolish Templar.  Meanwhile, the rest sat waiting in the boat.
     "Who is expected to row this thing?" the qunari asked.
     Bannon gave him a look.  "Sten, what does your book tell you?"
     "The Qun tells us many things."  He lowered his brows threateningly at the elf.
     "It says that everyone is assigned a job based on his abilities," Bannon told him, like a teacher reciting a lesson.  "To row a boat, we need someone big and strong.  And who might that be?"
     The qunari grumbled, but he took a seat between the oars.
     Bannon turned to Zevran.  "What were you going to do if he was actually interested in that?"
     The Antivan spread his hands with a shrug.  "Then he would right now be very distracted and you could steal his boat.  Or, you could wait a few minutes, and he would be happily rowing us across with a big smile on his face."
     "Seriously?"  Bannon's face wrinkled half in disbelief and half in repulsion.
     "And why not?  He is a very handsome fellow, no?"  He ignored his patron's doubtful look and gazed past Bannon.  "Such a straight spine, broad shoulders...; that blond hair, those rugged good looks....  So witty and charming.  Mmm, that sexy upper-class Ferelden accent...."
     Bannon twisted around wondering what the Antivan was going on about.  He couldn't have gotten all that just from talking to the lech for two minutes.  All he saw was Alistair and Leliana hauling the unfortunate Templar onto the dock, water streaming from him.  Alistair had dove in and managed to get the Templar free from his weighty chest plate and back armor, as well as the soaked skirting  (and yes, he was wearing something under it).  Bannon shook his head.  Sometimes, he didn't understand that Antivan at all.

[Klidi]

Lol, this is the first time ever I feel sorry for Carrol. But he's not handsome. Is Zev talking about Alistair?
And it was fun to see Bannon was disgusted... knowing how it will end.

[BloodsongVengeance]

pfft, sorry for carrol? bah. he deserves a good dunking.

yeah, what IS that antivan going on about?? he couldn't possibly be talking about carrol.
bannon's only just met him, in that part. he's just a ferelden city elf who hasn't been outside of denerim in his entire life! ah, to be that young and naive again.

[BloodsongVengeance]

well, it's just about time to wrap this thread up.  next week "The Ambush" will go live, and you can stop reading teasers and see what those two annoying elves are up to.

as a last parting gift, here's the first part of Chapter 3: A Wolf in the Fold.  Zevran arrives in Denerim.

The Assassin
------------------
Content:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Drama
Language: some (helpfully bleeped by the Bioboards)
Violence: referenced
Nudity: none
Sex: referenced
Other: mature references

Author's Notes:
   I have no idea what "Hannah and Her Brothers" is about, or even what it is.  Gang name lifted from a Xena episode.  I find it easier to remember names that way, so sue me :X
 

The Assassin

     Iron grey clouds crouched over the city of Denerim.  A cool storm breeze fluttered the studding sails.  The captain cursed and bellowed orders to his men to get them to the docks in the chancy changing winds.
     Zevran stood on the starboard side, a little back from the bow and out of the way of the sailors.  He was an elf, smaller than the burly shems like all his kind, but there was no mistaking the rounded bulge of his biceps above the elbow guards of his studded leather armor, nor the sculpted lines of his thighs where they were bare between the leather kilt and the straps securing the kneepads above the worn leather boots.  He was no household servant or simple laborer -- he was an Antivan Crow, one of the deadliest assassins in the world.  Well the most deadly really, if you wanted his opinion.
     A few stay wisps of pale blond hair blew across his face, which he ignored.  Most of his shoulder-length hair was pulled back behind his pointed ears, tied with two warrior braids that formed a circlet behind his head.  His skin was a natural deep bronze that few could achieve without baking their skin to leather under the sun.
     He had a sloped forehead, long straight nose, and a strong jaw; all of which gave him a perpetual air of belligerent ****iness.  Or perhaps it was the other way around -- his lifelong defiance in the face of adversity had shaped his features as he'd grown.  The left side of his face was marked with a tattoo, three filigree lines that swooped from his temple to halfway down his cheek.  They had been black when he'd gotten them at sixteen, almost looking like fresh-painted ink.  But in the five intervening years, they had faded to a purplish cast under the surface of his skin.
     Zevran squinted his narrow amber eyes as the squall breeze cut towards the ship.  He turned his head slightly to avoid a splash of spray kicked up by the plunging bow.  He didn't bother to move, not even when the rain started pattering down on the deck.  It was only rain.  Chillier than Antivan rain to be sure, but it suited his mood.
     He'd come to Ferelden for only one purpose: death.  A very difficult and obscenely expensive contract had come to the Crows from this country -- this very city, its capitol: Denerim.  Naturally, the Crows had sent their best assassin to handle it.
     The Ten Pegs nosed into port, guided by pilot boats.  The berthing and docking were tedious maneuvers, and Zevran went below to gather his gear.  The rain grew thick and miserable for a while, but by the time he was ready to disembark, it had lessened into a steady drizzle.
     Some self-important, rich shem reached the top of the gangplank at the same time as Zevran.  The assassin cut him a sideways glare, and the man suddenly remembered he had some reason or other to stand on the deck another minute or two.  Zevran never made any attempt to hide his profession, though outside of Antiva there were actually a few sad people entirely ignorant of who or what an Antivan Crow was.  But the haughty shem and his yapping wife had both suddenly taken ill after a misplaced comment about elves knowing their place, and only the dullest of sailors on board had no clue how that might have happened.
     Zevran stepped off the bottom of the gangplank and shouldered his bag.  His weapons he wore openly, and he had little concern for any guards stopping him.
     "State your name and business," the tired and soggy port clerk recited.
     "Zevran Arainai," the assassin replied.  He had a flavorful Antivan accent, unlike the dull heavy tones of the Fereldens.  "I am here for a job."
     The clerk glanced up from his manifest for a moment, then bent and scribbled on it.
     "Can you direct me to the residence of the Arl of Denerim?" Zevran asked him.
     This earned him another curious glance, but the man must've had his interest surgically removed years ago.  "Take Port Street to the Market.  Can't miss it from there," the clerk said tiredly.  He turned away from the Antivan to deal with the other passengers, clearly dismissing him.
     Zevran flicked rainwater out of his eyes and resettled the pack on his shoulder, then set out towards the city.   Shirtless elves darted through the rain, hurrying barefoot across the slick planks of the docks to offload cargo.  There didn't seem to be as many of them as usual, and their numbers were filled out by young human males, their necks and shoulders reddened by exposure to the sun.
     Off the docks and onto the cobbled streets proper, there was even less traffic.  Zevran wrinkled his nose.  The sailors had all joked about Ferelden smelling of wet dog, but the Antivan hadn't credited it.  Ferelden was known for its famous wardogs, but certainly they weren't so numerous as to make the entire country stink.  No, no, it must be the rain, and the city streets.  Muddy water gurgled in the gutters and darkened the cobbles.  In many places, the road was uneven.  Such untidyness would never be tolerated in Antiva City -- not in the quarters where the rich moved about, anyway.  A pang of homesickness flashed through the assassin, but he quashed it.  One place was as good as any other.  All cities had their sewers.
     He found a boarding house -- too small to be called a proper inn -- squashed between a warehouse and a money lender's office.  He didn't have much coin of his own, and he didn't intend to stay long, so he took a cheap room.  He secured his pack there, in a strongbox he augmented with a poisoned trap.  Then out he went again, carrying only his weapons and a small satchel of important documents.
     The rain had begun to taper off, though more threatening clouds lurked over the city's rooftops.  Zevran found the huge Market Square easily enough.  There were several gated egresses.  One was heavily guarded and led down a wide avenue towards a fortified castle.  Another opened on a courtyard of a large estate, but it belonged to some country arl, not that of Denerim.  Armed with more vague directions (honestly, he began to think half these people didn't know north from south)*, Zevran circled the Market until he came to the alienage gate.  This was easily recognizeable by the high wall it was set into, and the distinct aroma of sewage that came from the bridge just beyond it.  Oddly for this time of day, the gate was closed, and four men guarded it rather than a solitary bored soldier.
     The elven assassin ignored them and approached three beggars huddled by the wall.  "Spare a coin, friend?"  The most well-fed looking one approached, hands out.  "I was at Ostagar," he continued.  "Darkspawn done et half me foot."
     Zevran chuckled.  Nothing like beggars who kept up with current events.  "Actually, perhaps you can help me."  The eyes of all three narrowed.  Ignoring their suspicion, he said, "I am looking for the Arl of Denerim's estate."
     "Are you gonna rob him?" demanded the youngest, a tow-headed boy barely in his teens.  "Are you a Dalish?"
     "Shut up, Shane," growled one of his elders as they shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting towards the gate guards.
     "Actually, I am half Dalish," Zevran said.  "And the arl is paying to have a job done.  As for robbing him, the Antivan Crows always deliver the money's worth."
     "There's a job?"  The youth's hungry eyes brightened.  "What kind of job?"
     "Murder, you idiot," the third beggar growled.  "Antivan Crows are assassins."
     "Really?  You going to kill Howe?"  The boy sounded just as eager about that as he had been about the job.
     "Shut up, you daft blighter," snarled 'Half-Foot.'
     "I'm sure I won't be killing anyone you know," Zevran assured the boy slyly.  He folded his arms and leaned his weight back on one leg, exuding the deadly confidence of his trade.  "You do know the way to the residence of the man in charge of this city, no?" he drawled.  A silver coin appeared between his fingers and he toyed with it idly.
     The third beggar, clearly the brains of the bunch, moved forward.  "Past those two streets on the left."  He pointed.  "Take the third.  Follow the wall til the gate."
     Zevran tossed him the coin and set out.  The directions seemed odd, but they were accurate.  Somewhere along its length, the alienage wall became the wall guarding the estate of the Denerim Arl.  Why anyone would put a noble estate up against the festering slums of the elven quarter was beyond the Antivan, but... these were Fereldens.
     The gate was closed.  The guard challenged Zevran, who produced the letter requesting his presence, marked with the Arl's seal.  She shrugged and let him through the postern gate.  He crossed the courtyard and approached the large double doors.  He had to doge aside quickly as a troop of guards emerged.
     They milled about at the bottom of the steps, checking their weapons.  Their leader, a sharp-faced man with a thin black moustache, exited behind them, clapping a helmet onto his head.  "All right," he barked in a no-nonsense tone as he pushed through them, "our quota today is two dozen ears.  Trouble-makers only!  They go down easy, just put the fear of the Maker into them."  With a snap of his wrist, he signalled them to move out.
     One of the guardsmen in the back leaned towards his comrade.  "How many of the elven ****s you think we can get to go down easy?"  He sniggered.
     "All of 'em!" his portly companion boasted.  "I got my 'fear of the Maker' right here."  He patted his codpiece with a grin.
     Zevran sneered as he slipped inside the doors before they closed.  Amateurs.  A Purge explained why the alienage gate was closed in the middle of the day.  The workers, elven servants with jobs, would all be out.  Only women and children would be at home, and the old and infirm, as well as those elves who worked within the alienage, shopkeepers and craftsmen and the like.  And, of course, the unemployed -- beggars, thieves, drunkards.  The trouble-makers Rendon Howe wanted eliminated.  It was a ruthlessly good plan, Zevran had to admit, as much as it disgusted him.  But it was not his concern.
     Hell, if the Fereldens wanted to kill off all their Grey Wardens and let the Blight overrun their country, that wasn't his concern either.  Except where it was his job to do that particular killing-off.
     The butler, a properly dour old man, escorted the assassin to the Arl's study after he had once again produced the letter with the Arl's seal.  "Zevran Arainai," the butler pronounced, "Antivan Crow."  His imperturbable demeanor seemed a touch perturbed at the 'title.'  Zevran smirked inwardly.  It wasn't the abject fear and respect he got in Antiva, but it was a start.
     Rendon Howe was an older man with iron grey hair neatly trimmed above his ears.  The cut did nothing to flatter him, as his ears stuck out ungracefully.  His eyes were watery blue and close-set, his chin weak, and his nose... downright rat-like.  Along with those ears, he would have made an excellent clown, if he didn't constantly look as if he were gnawing on something unpleasant.  His clothing was cut in a severe style, the colours muted greys and blues.  The boots were practical, and he wore a rapier at his hip.  His pinched face pinched even further as he turned to look over the assassin.  "You're an elf," he said simply.  His tone implied volumes about how little he thought of that fact.
     A smile spread slowly across Zevran's face.  So many retorts for that, so little time.  "You wanted the best, and that would be me."
     "And alone?"  Howe sniffed, which only reinforced his likeness to a nose-twitching rat.  "I rather expected more for this ridiculous price."
     "Only one can be the best."  The elf shrugged.  "The Antivan Crows guarantee success," he emphasized.  "And speaking of said ridiculous price...?"
     Howe sighed in annoyance and resignation, then sent for the money.  Two of his house guards lugged in a steel chest and thumped it carefully down on the desk.  The senior of the two produced the key and opened it -- it was filled with gold coins.
     "Really," Zevran drawled, "it is so much easier to count it when you pile the coins neatly before dumping them into the chest."
     "It's all there," the arl growled.
     Zevran spread his hands.  "Procedure," he said simply.  "I am not in your employ until the contract is signed, and that will not happen until I am satisfied the Crows are being properly paid."
     Howe summoned his butler, whom he sent after his exchequer secretary.  Truly, the man must have a servant for every task.  Perhaps even separate ones for washing and folding his breechcloths.  While they waited for the secretary to come in and begin stacking the coins, Howe extended him zero courtesy, and Zevran did his best to annoy the noble shem.
     "They say Ferelden is much colder than Antiva," the elf said lightly, his accent distinct.  "Perhaps that also extends to a certain lack of hospitality.  Some wine offered while we wait, for example."  He cocked his brows at the reticent shem.  "No?  Ah well, perhaps I will serve myself."  Zevran moved easily to the sideboard, selected a silver goblet, and poured wine from a crystal decanter.  It was a deep burgundy; very nice.  He raised the goblet, but didn't get it halfway to his mouth when he heard the distinct sound of steel slowly sliding from a sheath.  He froze, arm bent, and half turned.  To his surprise, the guards hadn't moved.  It was Howe who had drawn his rapier.
     "Put your lips on that goblet," the human threatened, "and you'll be picking them up off the floor."
     Zevran raised his brows.  He glanced from the sword to the guards, who still hadn't moved, except to rest their hands firmly on their weapons.  Behind him, the sound of coins clinking into piles had stopped.  Then, self-consciously, it started up again.
     The assassin smiled and relaxed, lowering his hand but not replacing the goblet.  "You know," he said jovially, "usually when a client wants to test my skills, they throw a useless lackey at me."  He tipped his head towards the two guards.  Howe's narrow gaze never left his face.  "I don't make a habit of killing the client to prove a point," he told the man.  He turned back to the wine and got it nearly to his lips when he froze again, Howe's blade at his neck.
     "Put it down," the arl ordered calmly.  "Sit down.  And wait until you are summoned."
     Slowly, Zevran lowered the goblet.  He set it down with a gentle thunk.  Howe pulled back, holding his blade relaxed but ready.  "Didn't they mention," he said, "that in Ferelden, the nobles are not powdered and pampered pets, but warriors hardened in battle?"
     "Must have slipped their minds," Zevran confessed, only half as cocky as he could have been.  "Makes sense.  Dogs take after their people, do they not?"
     "Sit down."
     Zevran shrugged.  He'd meant it as a compliment.  He turned away from the arl and walked to a chair by the wall, swaggering just enough to show he wasn't doing it just because he'd been ordered to.  He plumped down deliberately in the chair, leaned back like a cat stretching lazily out in the sun and, just to ****** the man off, propped his muddy boots up in the low service table.
     The guards tensed, clearly awaiting orders to teach this knife-ears a lesson.  But Howe didn't even twitch an eyelash.  He'd just get the elven servants to clean it up.  The bastard.
     Howe sheathed the rapier.  True to his boast about Ferelden nobles, he handled it professionally.  "I will need to present you to the Regent," Howe told the assassin.  "I do hope you have some modicum of courtly manners."
     "Only a Regent?"  Zevran waved it off carelessly.  "I have been in the company of Princes.  Of course, usually it's standing in a pool of their blood, but ah."  He shrugged flippantly.
     He actually made Howe grit his teeth.  Point for him!  "I am speaking of Teyrn Loghain -- the General of all Ferelden's armies, father and Regent to the Queen Anora, and ruler of this country."  His eyes glittered.  "If he disapproves of this plan, you're going home with nothing."
     "I don't think the Crows will be too happy with that," Zevran threatened.
     "No," Howe agreed.  "Your employers will be most unhappy if you fail to secure this highly lucrative contract."
     Slippery, oily, greasy rat bastard.  Zevran shrugged with nonchalance.  "I concede your point."
     "Well, then.  I believe your coin is ready to be counted."  He looked to the balding man behind the desk.
     The exchequer secretary nodded.  "Yes, my lord," he said crisply.
     Zevran glided lightly out of the chair and came over to inspect the shining columns of gold.  "I can't help but notice you have a great many Orlesian coins," he pointed out.
     "Left over from the occupation," Howe replied smoothly.
     "Orlesian coins are six grains lighter than Ferelden coins."
     "It buys the same amount," Howe said a bit harshly.
     "In Ferelden, yes; perhaps even in Orlais."  Zevran fixed the arl with a pointed stare.  "But this coin is going to Antiva, where its only value is the gold weight."  He told the secretary,  "Separate out the different coins." Turning back to Howe, he said,  "If you want to pay in Orlesian coin, you will have to make up a six percent difference."  Was the nobleman gritting his teeth again?  Oh good!  Before he left, perhaps he could push the man into fully grinding them.  "It appears at least eighty percent of your payment is in Orlesian gold.  That should be about 124 coins to cover it.  Unless you wish to use Ferelden coin, in which case, 100 will suffice.  Your man can do the calculations."
     The secretary looked at Howe, licking his lips nervously.  The arl scowled at the man, who then scribbled a few moments on a bit of paper.  "Uhm, that's correct, my lord."
     Howe rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.  "Very well.  Sandin, see the Antivan gets the proper amount of coin to fulfill his contract."
     "Yes, my lord."



     When the accounts were settled, the coin was packed back into the strongbox.  Howe's guards would be responsible for getting it to the Crow Masters in Antiva, and Howe of course would be responsible for any mishap that might occur to it.  All that was needed were the signatures of the clients on the contract.
     "When can we meet with this Regent of yours?" Zevran asked.
     "I will arrange it for later today.  Do you have lodgings?"  Not that Howe was offering any.  Zevran nodded.  "Leave the information with my butler; I'll send someone to collect you when you are needed."
     Zevran performed an Antivan court half-bow, which was actually deep by Ferelden standards.  "As you wish, my lord."  Like most city elves, he was able to affect a subservient tone and manner, even while imagining the Arl performing several anatomically impossible acts with some of his rodent ancestors.  Whether Howe was mollified, or not fooled in the slightest, he gave no indication at all.



     And so Zevran found himself in Denerim with a lot of time on his hands.  He hated waiting.  He paused at the edge of the Market and looked towards the alienage gate.  The three beggars were nowhere in sight.  Zevran shrugged.  It was too late to warn them about the Purge, anyway.  Most likely they already knew -- from some astute servant at the estate -- which is why they were outside in the first place.
     The Antivan splurged a few coppers on a meat pie, rightly guessing that the fare at his 'inn' wouldn't be up to par.  The pie was actually good, with a flaky crust and well-spiced meat.  Not as spicy as it was in Antiva, of course.  Then it started raining again, and he headed back to the shelter of the boarding house.
     The front room's desk doubled as a small bar.  The assassin sat on a stool and the shem girl on duty came over to him.  "Watered dog ******," he ordered.  The barmaid grinned, but didn't seem surprised in the least.  She poured him a mug of....  Zevran sipped it.  Yeah, he'd guessed right.  He dropped a copper on the bar.
     The girl set her fingertip on the coin and pushed it back towards him.  "On the house," she said, smiling again with a cute little wrinkle to her nose.  "We don't get many strangers in here."
     "Oh, really?" Zevran snorted.  "A piece of crap lean-to on the way from the waterfront?  I can't imagine any locals come here often, either."  He took a gulp from the mug, figuring if he could throw it past his tongue, he might not taste it as much.
     She grimaced, but persisted doggedly.  "I mean your kind."  Oh, of course!  Elves.  "Where are you from?  Tevinter?"
     "Antiva."
     "That's desert, ainnit?  They say it gets hot up there."  She leaned forward on the bar, twisting a hank of hair around one finger.
     Zevran took another gulp of his drink.  "The desert gets cold at night," he warned, fixing her with an icy stare.  Unfortunately, she took it quite the wrong way.
     She smiled again and leaned over the bar so he could get a good view of her less than impressive cleavage.  "You want your bed warmed?  I can arrange for your stay to be on the house, too."
     Zevran slammed the mug down on the bar.  "Do I look like a **** to you?" he snapped.  She jumped and shrank back.  He reached over his shoulder and pulled his sword out.  He pointed it at her, and she backed up against the shelves.  "Does this look like an instrument of pleasure that a **** would carry around?"
     "No!" she squeaked.
     "Stupid ****."  He sheathed the sword.  "Give me the jug."  She blinked dully, and he had to repeat himself before she fetched the jug of swill from under the bar and handed it over.
     He took it up to his room.  He didn't bother paying extra for the whole jug -- the single copper he'd left was more than it was worth.  Besides, he was on a budget, wasn't he?  His Crow Master had paid his way and given him a stipend for supplies and mercenaries.  That didn't include fine board and lodging, drink, or ****s.
     Zevran looked at the gaping maw of the jug.  He wanted to get drunk badly, but reckoned that would be a bad idea when he had an appointment with the Regent -- ruler of all Ferelden and blah blah blah.  Maybe he should have taken the bargirl up on her offer but... he grimaced in disgust.  Since he had made the mistake of falling hard for one particular woman, he hadn't been able to take as much pleasure in them as he used to.  The expensive ****s of Antiva hadn't been able to take his mind off her, and they were professionals.  Some simpering Ferelden girl, smelling of dog, looking to bed an elf -- he would have to be drunk for that to have any appeal.  Maybe if she had been a boy....
     "****," said Zevran, staring down into the jug again.  "I hate waiting."



     Howe's man had come to get him in the late afternoon, when it was nearing dinner time.  The arl looked more the warrior there at the castle, with his blade strapped across his back along with a wicked hatchet.  He wore leather armor, though his was dyed and dressed, and edged in polished steel.  Apparently, silks and satin were not the thing at the Ferelden royal court.  Zevran had to give them grudging respect.  He gave the arl a short bow, little more than a dip of his head.  To Howe's credit, he didn't harp on the elf's "courtly manners."  So they entered the Regent's study in a state of detente.
     The Regent was not holding court at the moment, though perhaps he had been, for he was in full plate armor -- not the thing for even Ferelden Kings to lounge about in.  The tall, dark-haired man busied himself with the wine decanter as Howe approached with Zevran.
     "My Lord."  Howe approached Teyrn Loghain like a man offering a placating steak to a lion.  "I believe I may have a solution to the Grey Warden problem."
     Loghain turned and his steely gaze swept over Zevran.  The elf stepped forward confidently.  "The Antivan Crows send their regards."  He showed his teeth in a faint feral smile.
     The Regent looked over at Howe.  "An assassin?" he snarled, clearly without respect for that ancient profession.  He shook his head in disgust.
     "Against Grey Wardens," the arl replied, "we will need the very best."
     Zevran chuckled faintly.  "And the most expensive."  Howe shot him a look and the cocky assassin grinned at him.  Loghain missed the byplay entirely, for he had turned back to his cluttered desk.
     "Sire."  Howe moved up beside him.  "When one is faced with an infestation of rats, one does not confront them with honor and steel.  One uses poison, or whatever other means necessary to eradicate them."
     Loghain sighed.  "Very well.  We do not have the manpower to spare to hunt these vermin down.  The ratcatcher will have to do."
     Zevran bristled at the lack of respect, but bit his tongue.  All he cared about was getting this job.  It wouldn't do to fidget impatiently while the powerful men read and signed the contract, so he kept an iron grip on his self-control and stood in an attitude of relaxed poise, examining his fingernails.  At last the ink had dried and the contracts were sealed.  The deed was as good as done.
     The assassin couldn't wait to get to business.  He peppered Howe with questions as they left the castle.  How many Grey Wardens had survived?  Was he sure there were only two?  What were their specialties?  Their dispositions?  Where might they go?  Who were their allies?  
     Apparently, one of the Wardens was an elf.  Zevran had never been contracted to kill an elf before.  Of course he had no problem with it -- a job was a job.  He'd killed elves who were working as guards to his targets, and the occassional servant or slave who couldn't be counted on to keep quiet during an infiltration.  It was only very rare for an elf to rate high enough as an actual target.  In fact, Zevran had never heard of such a thing.  If anyone wanted an elf dead, there were plenty of cheaper and easier means than hiring the Antivan Crows.  This contract would surely go down in the annals of the Crows as something extraordinary.
     Reports from Lothering indicated the Wardens weren't alone.  They had a woman travelling with them, and perhaps had gathered more followers.  That meant a difficult fight.  Ferelden women, unlike their Antivan counterparts, were known to be fierce warriors with blade and bow.  Still, the men were bigger and stronger, so it was just as likely that magic was involved.  Any woman in a dress could fell half a dozen swordfighters with a fireball, if she had magic.
     Luckily, Zevran found a mercenary company headed by one such woman.  Her name was Hannah, and she was an apostate -- on the run and hiding from the Circle of Magi.  Which was always a bonus, because he wouldn't have to explain his request to hire a mage to a bunch of nosy Templars nor pay the Chantry a usage tax for such services.  Hannah had three brothers, all warriors and fiercely loyal to her.  They, in turn, kept the dozen or so other fighters in line.  This worked out well for the elf, as the men were used to deferring to someone smaller than they were.  It was always a trial to have to prove oneself to a bunch of muscle-bound shem fighters just to get them to follow orders.  With this company, simply called the Black Wolves, Zevran dealt with Hannah, and she cracked the whip on her followers.
     They secured three wagons, loaded them up with provisions and tools of their trade, and set out west on the Imperial Highway.  On the hunt at last, Zevran felt more alive than he had in weeks.  Which was ironic, considering his quarry was the most deadly he had ever faced.  

Modifié par BloodsongVengeance, 14 juin 2012 - 10:05 .