Difficult Understanding 1/?fallgrlAugust 27 2010, 11:44:11 UTC
So...I started in the right vein, but I think it sidetracked. Sidetracked into absolutely NO smut...how did that happen?! -------------------------------------------------------------------
She moves like lightening, bright and fast, striking with brutal force. Even turning to the flat of her blade, Zevran can feel the bruises blooming, knows he will be aching fiercely in the morning.
Teeth clenched, he grips the hilt of his longsword, following her movement, timing his attack. Speed is his ally, stealth in shadows, sleigh of hand, tricking the eye of his opponent, but she doesn’t chase his slick feints, isn’t fooled by the serpent quick blows, as she forces his sword into the dirt with the rim of her shield.
The bold gleam of the falling sunlight paints her silverite armor copper and bronze, the golden glow a sharp contrast to the glint of her teeth, the flash of blue fire in her eyes, the flush of red in her cheeks, excitement blushing under her skin.
She parries his attacks easily, her speed in heavy armor stunning, the elegance of her shifts and strikes makes him catch his breath, gasping a little at the splendor of her blade work, a little at the magnificence of her beauty, and a little at the thumping weight behind the slap of steel on his flesh, caught out in a moment of inattentiveness.
She smirks, brows arched, when he doubles over, breathless. She plants her armored boot on his shoulder, and shoves, tumbling him to the ground. The elf groans slightly at the though, and feel, of yet another bruise, this on his tailbone, that he will sport, come morning.
“Merciful, beautiful Warden, I yield.” He struggles to keep his tone light and playful, subservient to his chosen mistress, but he can’t quite hide from himself the awe, the resentment, that this woman, Gray Warden though she be, can best him. Again. And again. Every sparring session leaves him filthy, sore, and intrigued.
She laughs at the stunned look on his face. “You are not the first to underestimate my prowess, Zevran.” A tinge of mocking in her voice, more than a touch of pride. A slight blush of bitter grief. “Many men have fallen to my sword, just as surprised as you are now.” She reaches down, offering her hand to his aid. Always, he is startled by her grace in victory, her compassion. And grateful, once more, that she would spare him.
Her hand lingers on his as she appraises him, head cocked to one side, lips curled in a slight smile.
He may be unfamiliar with the reality of a woman warrior, but the look in her eyes now is something he knows all too well, gauging him, measuring him, judging him. “Do you like what you see, Warden?” He pitches his voice just shy of a growl, letting heat flare in the gaze he returns. He doesn’t let her see the disdain.
She twitches when he speaks, her own moment of fancy, and flushes as his words and tone sink in. She shakes her head quickly, eyes dropping, flicking back to him, hurrying to drop again. She starts to speak, pauses, starts again. She blushes deeper red, and turns away, the warmth of her calloused fingers finally leaving him.
Difficult Understanding 2/2fallgrlAugust 27 2010, 11:51:45 UTC
When he returns to the fireside, as clean as cloth dampened from his water skin can get him, he finds her staring in to the flames, hypnotized by the flicker and showering sparks. She is cleaning her armor, deftly removing soil and blood, until is shines again. A glance at him, a half smile, and he sits beside her. When she tenses, he sidles further away, until he finds the distance necessary for her to relax again. Mutely, he watches the fire as well, simply sharing the evening with her.
“Can I ask you something?” He can’t say why she sounds timid, she who intimidates with ease.
“Hmmm, only if I can stare luridly at you while you do so.” He slants a look from the corner of his eye, only to see her staring at her hands, fingers twisting in what looks to be a most painful fashion.
A deep breath. “You…Um. You said you grew up in a whore house…“ She trails off, still refusing to look at him.
He smirks a little, to himself, to see his proud, confident Warden so tongue-tied. “So I did.”
“I-Ugh. Never mind.” She shudders, turning back to polishing her pristine armor. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask, let alone how to ask it.”
He almost can’t keep the sneer to himself. “Perhaps you are curious about what tricks I may have learned, to play at being a bed warmer?” A struggle, to keep flirtatious, when his insides have frozen. But he is a Crow, and well trained.
“What? No! Maker’s breath, no!” She jerks as if slapped, though perhaps a blow would have rocked her less. “Was it terrible, living there?” Finally she turns fully toward him, meeting his eyes. “I just…I guess I want to know more about you. How you grew up, what you thought of becoming a Crow, what you think about it now. That sort of thing.” She huffs, and turns back toward the fire. “I see.” The chill inside thaws slightly at her words, further at the sad, torn look on her face.
“I’m good at swords. I’m good at fighting, at killing. I’m not very good at people.” She chuckles darkly. “Which is probably a good thing, since I don’t think the darkspawn would think much of me if I tried to talk them to death.” She sighs, scrubbing her face with her hands. Stands, gathering her gear.
When she places her hand on his shoulder in farewell, he speaks. “It was not so bad, the whore house. I was raised by whores, not as one.” He touches just her fingers as she goes to pull away, holding her to him by will alone. “It can always be worse." Pressing lightly, before releasing her. "Goodnight, fair Warden.”
A soft murmur. “Sleep well, Zev.”
He watches as she crawls into her tent, pulling the flap closed. Tomorrow is a new day, and a new chance to best her in combat. For tonight, he will relish the softer side of his apparently socially inept warrior Goddess. Tomorrow, perhaps he can find a way to use it to put a bruise on her backside for a change.
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She moves like lightening, bright and fast, striking with brutal force. Even turning to the flat of her blade, Zevran can feel the bruises blooming, knows he will be aching fiercely in the morning.
Teeth clenched, he grips the hilt of his longsword, following her movement, timing his attack. Speed is his ally, stealth in shadows, sleigh of hand, tricking the eye of his opponent, but she doesn’t chase his slick feints, isn’t fooled by the serpent quick blows, as she forces his sword into the dirt with the rim of her shield.
The bold gleam of the falling sunlight paints her silverite armor copper and bronze, the golden glow a sharp contrast to the glint of her teeth, the flash of blue fire in her eyes, the flush of red in her cheeks, excitement blushing under her skin.
She parries his attacks easily, her speed in heavy armor stunning, the elegance of her shifts and strikes makes him catch his breath, gasping a little at the splendor of her blade work, a little at the magnificence of her beauty, and a little at the thumping weight behind the slap of steel on his flesh, caught out in a moment of inattentiveness.
She smirks, brows arched, when he doubles over, breathless. She plants her armored boot on his shoulder, and shoves, tumbling him to the ground. The elf groans slightly at the though, and feel, of yet another bruise, this on his tailbone, that he will sport, come morning.
“Merciful, beautiful Warden, I yield.” He struggles to keep his tone light and playful, subservient to his chosen mistress, but he can’t quite hide from himself the awe, the resentment, that this woman, Gray Warden though she be, can best him. Again. And again. Every sparring session leaves him filthy, sore, and intrigued.
She laughs at the stunned look on his face. “You are not the first to underestimate my prowess, Zevran.” A tinge of mocking in her voice, more than a touch of pride. A slight blush of bitter grief. “Many men have fallen to my sword, just as surprised as you are now.” She reaches down, offering her hand to his aid. Always, he is startled by her grace in victory, her compassion. And grateful, once more, that she would spare him.
Her hand lingers on his as she appraises him, head cocked to one side, lips curled in a slight smile.
He may be unfamiliar with the reality of a woman warrior, but the look in her eyes now is something he knows all too well, gauging him, measuring him, judging him. “Do you like what you see, Warden?” He pitches his voice just shy of a growl, letting heat flare in the gaze he returns. He doesn’t let her see the disdain.
She twitches when he speaks, her own moment of fancy, and flushes as his words and tone sink in. She shakes her head quickly, eyes dropping, flicking back to him, hurrying to drop again. She starts to speak, pauses, starts again. She blushes deeper red, and turns away, the warmth of her calloused fingers finally leaving him.
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“Can I ask you something?” He can’t say why she sounds timid, she who intimidates with ease.
“Hmmm, only if I can stare luridly at you while you do so.” He slants a look from the corner of his eye, only to see her staring at her hands, fingers twisting in what looks to be a most painful fashion.
A deep breath. “You…Um. You said you grew up in a whore house…“ She trails off, still refusing to look at him.
He smirks a little, to himself, to see his proud, confident Warden so tongue-tied. “So I did.”
“I-Ugh. Never mind.” She shudders, turning back to polishing her pristine armor. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask, let alone how to ask it.”
He almost can’t keep the sneer to himself. “Perhaps you are curious about what tricks I may have learned, to play at being a bed warmer?” A struggle, to keep flirtatious, when his insides have frozen. But he is a Crow, and well trained.
“What? No! Maker’s breath, no!” She jerks as if slapped, though perhaps a blow would have rocked her less. “Was it terrible, living there?” Finally she turns fully toward him, meeting his eyes. “I just…I guess I want to know more about you. How you grew up, what you thought of becoming a Crow, what you think about it now. That sort of thing.” She huffs, and turns back toward the fire.
“I see.” The chill inside thaws slightly at her words, further at the sad, torn look on her face.
“I’m good at swords. I’m good at fighting, at killing. I’m not very good at people.” She chuckles darkly. “Which is probably a good thing, since I don’t think the darkspawn would think much of me if I tried to talk them to death.” She sighs, scrubbing her face with her hands. Stands, gathering her gear.
When she places her hand on his shoulder in farewell, he speaks. “It was not so bad, the whore house. I was raised by whores, not as one.” He touches just her fingers as she goes to pull away, holding her to him by will alone. “It can always be worse." Pressing lightly, before releasing her. "Goodnight, fair Warden.”
A soft murmur. “Sleep well, Zev.”
He watches as she crawls into her tent, pulling the flap closed. Tomorrow is a new day, and a new chance to best her in combat. For tonight, he will relish the softer side of his apparently socially inept warrior Goddess. Tomorrow, perhaps he can find a way to use it to put a bruise on her backside for a change.
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