He oversees the preparations, checking and double-checking the deadfall, the myriad unmarked traps each archer was expected to avoid, going over the plan of attack once more.
His employer was able to provide a reasonable amount of information-two Wardens, one human, with limited Templar training, one a mage of some kind. He has found an ambitious young apostate who assures him she can keep the mage busy long enough for the archers to handle him, as long as Zevran can occupy the Templar.
Combined with the traps-clever, vicious things-and his own skill with a blade, normally Zevran would be confident in their success. Perhaps he would lose a man or two, take a wound himself, if this were a normal ambush, normal marks, but the contract would be completed.
As it stands, he feels they will put up a reasonable fight and die well. Wardens are not known for being easy to kill, nor for any lack of prowess on the battlefield, and if he had any intention of actually winning this fight, he would have dragged half a dozen full Crows out of Antiva, not settled for hired rabble.
Yet here he is, pacing back and forth across the deep gorge, awaiting the signal from the sentries he'd posted to watch for the Wardens' approach. He has made peace with death, taken it into himself a very long time ago, become its right hand, and now that he faces his own, he is...oddly regretful.
He breathes, thinks today will be his last. He will never take another life, never eat another meal, taste wine or watch a sunrise again. It is no more than he deserves, however, and his resolve does not waver.
The call of an Antivan osprey echoes across the thick Fereldan forest, distinctive and very out of place, and he looks up, signals the archers to make themselves ready. The apostate turns to him, a mad gleam in her dark eyes, and he nods. The Wardens approach from the east. She will lead them into Zevran's gorge and, in theory, they will not leave it alive.
His men concealed now, Zevran remains where he is-even if the Wardens do not recognize it for a trap immediately, the woman's story of bandits will bring them bearing steel and expecting a fight in any case, and though Zevran himself does not exactly fit the profile of bandit, being neither human nor excessively scruffy, it will do no harm to present himself as an initial target.
Long, tense minutes pass before he hears their approach-the apostate in the lead, the Wardens close on her heels, his sentry trailing them unseen, sidling up the lip of the gorge, positioning himself to trigger the deadfall at Zevran's nod.
He draws his weapons and the Wardens are trapped. He goes to meet death gladly.
Unsurprisingly, nothing goes to plan. As he'd promised his own mage, he makes immediately for the tall human in the heaviest armor, currently occupied with one of his hired mercenaries. Battle sings in his blood, and for the first time since Rinna, it feels right to fall heedless into combat, laughter caught in his throat as he carves a path through the battlefield.
The first indication that perhaps there was a factor unaccounted-for was the high, panicked scream of his hired apostate-Zevran catches the motion from the corner of his eye, turns in time to see the Warden-mage slam the butt of his staff against the ground, see the human woman dragged off her feet momentarily, a blue-white arc of visible magic ripped from her as her cry ends abruptly and she falls to the ground, dead in an instant.
One spell robs him of his single most expensive asset. Any other contract, and Zevran would be cursing the Maker, loudly and inventively.
He looks back to the enemy mage who has so overturned the already-unequal battle and it is with a growing sense of surreality that he recognizes the man, is recognized in turn.
Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems, and while the tall, slender elf looks somewhat more threatening in his bloodspattered robes, his hands haloed with lethal power, there is no mistaking him for anyone but the same elven mage Zevran had so enjoyably bedded a scant few days earlier.
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 12 2010, 05:19:26 UTC
The moment-though bare seconds, beyond foolish to indulge in mid-fight-passes when one of Zevran's archers puts an arrow in the mage's back, and is promptly and spectacularly immolated, lightning from a clear sky. Zevran redirects his attention to the Templar-Warden about to smash him to the ground with a cracked kite-shield, sidestepping swiftly, bringing one blade down at the extended arm's elbow-joint in retaliation. The human Warden blocks, does his level best to decapitate the assassin.
Zevran falls effortlessly back into the fight, setting aside the realization of the other Warden's identity as irrelevant, again losing himself in the fierce joy of a battle well-fought, flowing around his opponent like air, like water, turning aside the attacks aimed at him easy as instinct. They trade blows, parry back and forth to little result-the man has both height and reach, but he is slow, and though well-trained, he seems oddly hesitant to use his full strength against Zevran.
Perhaps it is a Grey Warden trait-used to battling darkspawn as they are, they do not fight like killers when presented with a less monstrous enemy.
The opening presents itself and he moves without pausing to think, trapping the human's sword with his own, kicking out, boot connecting solidly with the metal-reinforced edge of the battered shield, knocking it to the side as his full weight slams into the Templar-Warden, knocking him off-balance.
They stumble back, forward in tandem, an odd, graceless dance, and he is bringing up his free hand, already too close, within the warrior's broken guard, lashing out with the blade not occupied preventing his own beheading, aiming at the man's-wide, brown-eyes, his intent to cripple.
He hears the sound behind him too late, and something connects with the side of his head with enough force to knock him sideways, make his vision blur out alarmingly-he raises his hand to his temple, disoriented, and the second blow breaks several fingers.
The third lays him out flat on his back, and the last thing he sees is the elven mage, wild and oddly beautiful in that moment, bloodied staff in hand, breathing hard, murder in his pale eyes, wreathed in midmorning sunlight.
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 12 2010, 05:22:21 UTC
(Y'all can thank my beta for the fact that the ending doesn't suck anymore. Also, pay no attention to the anonfail behind the curtain.)
The day continues to deviate from plan.
He awakens, not to death but to a headache he believes must be slightly worse than death, cursing between clenched teeth at the bright sun above, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing slowly, so as to aggravate the injury as little as possible.
“He's awake.”
A man's voice, with a Fereldan accent. His eyes snap open once more and though he regrets it immediately, he does not dare close them again, squinting up at his erstwhile captors. The double-vision takes a worryingly long time to resolve itself properly.
The Templar is sitting on the broken wagon, sword across his lap, scowling at Zevran, likely the one who'd spoken. At his feet is a war-painted mabari hound, to his left is a red-headed human woman with a half-drawn bow, also looking somewhat perturbed.
A pressure against his injured hand prompts him to look up, the movement making his head throb and stomach churn as though he's just come off a week-long drunk. Only several times worse.
It is the mage's boot, the toe laid gently against his thumb, poised to grind his-two? Three?-broken fingers into the rocky earth. The butt of his staff is grounded by Zevran's ear. He somewhat impressed in spite of himself at the pure menace the slender, unimposing young elf is able to conjure with a little intelligent positioning, but then he'd already been thoroughly aware that the mage knows how to use his body.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze travels up, to the faded red mark still visible under the Warden's ear, half hidden by his high collar. It's a poor time to remember the night he put it there, and he is not unaware of the irony. This is by no means the first time he's slept with a target.
It is, however, the first time he's done so accidentally and unaware of the fact.
His head feels fit to split open at any moment, he has just proven unsuccessful at getting himself killed, and he feels more alive than he has in months. He grins.
“You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully.
The Warden-mage's eyebrows go up. The Warden-Templar makes a choking noise, eyes bulging slightly.
“And I think I preferred you before you tried to kill us,” the mage counters. “Unfortunately, here you are.”
“Here I am,” Zevran agrees, with as much of a shrug as he can manage, pinned to the ground at he is. “Though not, unfortunately, naked.” Tact, he believes, is woefully overrated.
Guess who finally showed up to the party. Bookmark'd!
Will you marry me, writernon? 'Cause that was everything I was hoping for. It really, awesomely hot and then wonderfully angsty (which is also hot but they may just be me).
I loved the way that Zevran was so in character in all of this, especially at the end. Tact? What's that? Can I eat it?
Y helo thar. I am already promised, alas, but I've got nothing against polygamy if you'd like to join in! The more the merrier and all that.
I'm terribly glad you enjoyed. Zevran is totally my favorite now, and I'm relieved he came across as IC. Funny story? I didn't even really 'ship him with that Surana until I wrote this. And now I do. Like burning. So thanks for that.
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 13 2010, 19:25:23 UTC
...I made the mistake of reading this in a public library, and here I am stuffing my fists over my mouth to stop from grinning like an idiot! “You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully. Best line. Ever. Alistair's reaction was priceless!
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 19 2010, 04:40:15 UTC
Alistair's reaction was priceless!
Hahaha. Yeah. This makes me want to read sequel fic of Zev hitting on PC while Alistair continuously tries to get PC to ditch him, not that he's jealous of course. No sir, not Alistair! Straight as an arrow, he is!
Re: writeranon here
anonymous
July 2 2011, 09:48:40 UTC
Nooo tempt! Tempt! I am DYING to see more! please? please?
This was so awesome! I *loved* your Zevran tone. He sounded so numb and so resigned and and and... oh please please PLEASE write more of this world? Surana obviously saw the look of surprise when Zevran recognized him, so he knew Zevran didn't sleep with him because he is his mark but... oh go yes please! Alistair thrown to this mix would be so unbelievable also. (corrupting the innocent is always awesome)
His employer was able to provide a reasonable amount of information-two Wardens, one human, with limited Templar training, one a mage of some kind. He has found an ambitious young apostate who assures him she can keep the mage busy long enough for the archers to handle him, as long as Zevran can occupy the Templar.
Combined with the traps-clever, vicious things-and his own skill with a blade, normally Zevran would be confident in their success. Perhaps he would lose a man or two, take a wound himself, if this were a normal ambush, normal marks, but the contract would be completed.
As it stands, he feels they will put up a reasonable fight and die well. Wardens are not known for being easy to kill, nor for any lack of prowess on the battlefield, and if he had any intention of actually winning this fight, he would have dragged half a dozen full Crows out of Antiva, not settled for hired rabble.
Yet here he is, pacing back and forth across the deep gorge, awaiting the signal from the sentries he'd posted to watch for the Wardens' approach. He has made peace with death, taken it into himself a very long time ago, become its right hand, and now that he faces his own, he is...oddly regretful.
He breathes, thinks today will be his last. He will never take another life, never eat another meal, taste wine or watch a sunrise again. It is no more than he deserves, however, and his resolve does not waver.
The call of an Antivan osprey echoes across the thick Fereldan forest, distinctive and very out of place, and he looks up, signals the archers to make themselves ready. The apostate turns to him, a mad gleam in her dark eyes, and he nods. The Wardens approach from the east. She will lead them into Zevran's gorge and, in theory, they will not leave it alive.
His men concealed now, Zevran remains where he is-even if the Wardens do not recognize it for a trap immediately, the woman's story of bandits will bring them bearing steel and expecting a fight in any case, and though Zevran himself does not exactly fit the profile of bandit, being neither human nor excessively scruffy, it will do no harm to present himself as an initial target.
Long, tense minutes pass before he hears their approach-the apostate in the lead, the Wardens close on her heels, his sentry trailing them unseen, sidling up the lip of the gorge, positioning himself to trigger the deadfall at Zevran's nod.
He draws his weapons and the Wardens are trapped. He goes to meet death gladly.
Unsurprisingly, nothing goes to plan. As he'd promised his own mage, he makes immediately for the tall human in the heaviest armor, currently occupied with one of his hired mercenaries. Battle sings in his blood, and for the first time since Rinna, it feels right to fall heedless into combat, laughter caught in his throat as he carves a path through the battlefield.
The first indication that perhaps there was a factor unaccounted-for was the high, panicked scream of his hired apostate-Zevran catches the motion from the corner of his eye, turns in time to see the Warden-mage slam the butt of his staff against the ground, see the human woman dragged off her feet momentarily, a blue-white arc of visible magic ripped from her as her cry ends abruptly and she falls to the ground, dead in an instant.
One spell robs him of his single most expensive asset. Any other contract, and Zevran would be cursing the Maker, loudly and inventively.
He looks back to the enemy mage who has so overturned the already-unequal battle and it is with a growing sense of surreality that he recognizes the man, is recognized in turn.
Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems, and while the tall, slender elf looks somewhat more threatening in his bloodspattered robes, his hands haloed with lethal power, there is no mistaking him for anyone but the same elven mage Zevran had so enjoyably bedded a scant few days earlier.
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Zevran falls effortlessly back into the fight, setting aside the realization of the other Warden's identity as irrelevant, again losing himself in the fierce joy of a battle well-fought, flowing around his opponent like air, like water, turning aside the attacks aimed at him easy as instinct. They trade blows, parry back and forth to little result-the man has both height and reach, but he is slow, and though well-trained, he seems oddly hesitant to use his full strength against Zevran.
Perhaps it is a Grey Warden trait-used to battling darkspawn as they are, they do not fight like killers when presented with a less monstrous enemy.
The opening presents itself and he moves without pausing to think, trapping the human's sword with his own, kicking out, boot connecting solidly with the metal-reinforced edge of the battered shield, knocking it to the side as his full weight slams into the Templar-Warden, knocking him off-balance.
They stumble back, forward in tandem, an odd, graceless dance, and he is bringing up his free hand, already too close, within the warrior's broken guard, lashing out with the blade not occupied preventing his own beheading, aiming at the man's-wide, brown-eyes, his intent to cripple.
He hears the sound behind him too late, and something connects with the side of his head with enough force to knock him sideways, make his vision blur out alarmingly-he raises his hand to his temple, disoriented, and the second blow breaks several fingers.
The third lays him out flat on his back, and the last thing he sees is the elven mage, wild and oddly beautiful in that moment, bloodied staff in hand, breathing hard, murder in his pale eyes, wreathed in midmorning sunlight.
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The day continues to deviate from plan.
He awakens, not to death but to a headache he believes must be slightly worse than death, cursing between clenched teeth at the bright sun above, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing slowly, so as to aggravate the injury as little as possible.
“He's awake.”
A man's voice, with a Fereldan accent. His eyes snap open once more and though he regrets it immediately, he does not dare close them again, squinting up at his erstwhile captors. The double-vision takes a worryingly long time to resolve itself properly.
The Templar is sitting on the broken wagon, sword across his lap, scowling at Zevran, likely the one who'd spoken. At his feet is a war-painted mabari hound, to his left is a red-headed human woman with a half-drawn bow, also looking somewhat perturbed.
A pressure against his injured hand prompts him to look up, the movement making his head throb and stomach churn as though he's just come off a week-long drunk. Only several times worse.
It is the mage's boot, the toe laid gently against his thumb, poised to grind his-two? Three?-broken fingers into the rocky earth. The butt of his staff is grounded by Zevran's ear. He somewhat impressed in spite of himself at the pure menace the slender, unimposing young elf is able to conjure with a little intelligent positioning, but then he'd already been thoroughly aware that the mage knows how to use his body.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze travels up, to the faded red mark still visible under the Warden's ear, half hidden by his high collar. It's a poor time to remember the night he put it there, and he is not unaware of the irony. This is by no means the first time he's slept with a target.
It is, however, the first time he's done so accidentally and unaware of the fact.
His head feels fit to split open at any moment, he has just proven unsuccessful at getting himself killed, and he feels more alive than he has in months. He grins.
“You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully.
The Warden-mage's eyebrows go up. The Warden-Templar makes a choking noise, eyes bulging slightly.
“And I think I preferred you before you tried to kill us,” the mage counters. “Unfortunately, here you are.”
“Here I am,” Zevran agrees, with as much of a shrug as he can manage, pinned to the ground at he is. “Though not, unfortunately, naked.” Tact, he believes, is woefully overrated.
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...*sigh* Something more in particular you'd be interested in seeing from this Surana and his Zevran?
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Will you marry me, writernon? 'Cause that was everything I was hoping for. It really, awesomely hot and then wonderfully angsty (which is also hot but they may just be me).
I loved the way that Zevran was so in character in all of this, especially at the end. Tact? What's that? Can I eat it?
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I'm terribly glad you enjoyed. Zevran is totally my favorite now, and I'm relieved he came across as IC. Funny story? I didn't even really 'ship him with that Surana until I wrote this. And now I do. Like burning. So thanks for that.
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“You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully.
Best line. Ever. Alistair's reaction was priceless!
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Hahaha. Yeah. This makes me want to read sequel fic of Zev hitting on PC while Alistair continuously tries to get PC to ditch him, not that he's jealous of course. No sir, not Alistair! Straight as an arrow, he is!
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Or, y'know, do.
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This was so awesome! I *loved* your Zevran tone. He sounded so numb and so resigned and and and... oh please please PLEASE write more of this world? Surana obviously saw the look of surprise when Zevran recognized him, so he knew Zevran didn't sleep with him because he is his mark but... oh go yes please! Alistair thrown to this mix would be so unbelievable also. (corrupting the innocent is always awesome)
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