The Debut
Well.
While getting ready to do my exchange with harp_of_israfel for the spring exchange on zevran, I got a little plotbunny for the story of Zevran's first assassination. I blithely started writing and... ended up in a rather unpleasant place. But we didn't really expect assassinating to be all fun and games, did we...?
Many thanks to syverce, charnia, sami jo and Sresla (especially you, mister) for beta'ing and input. I'm still feeling a bit weird about the whole thing, but considerably less so with their help.
The Debut
Author: jenovan
Rating: M for sexual situations and murder
Warnings: NSFW! Vague hints of dub-con, depending on your interpretation. Is this warning really needed? I don't know... I just worry.
Zevran knelt on a velvet cushion and waited quietly for his mark to return, glancing around the bedchamber and marking the items he might use to his advantage, if needed. It was both a practical and fairly engaging way to pass the time, and was not so very suspicious a thing to be found doing, if, somehow, someone caught him by surprise.
Gaining entry to the man's private chambers had been simple enough, although it had required a brief flurry of planning among his cell. With a combination of observation and bribery, his Master had determined that this Rivaini merchant had a... fondness for young males, elves in particular - not children, but youths on the verge of adulthood, their bodies at that all too brief stage of aesthetic perfection that Antivan artisans had been immortalizing for centuries. Armed with this information, Zevran had felt confident enough to make his first bid, and unsurprisingly, it was accepted. Indeed, he had gotten the impression that the Master wanted him, specifically, to take the contract. He did fit the bill perfectly: he was of the ideal age, lithe, slender, undeniably attractive, and quite well-educated in the affairs of the bedroom. What remained to be seen now, however, was how good he was at reading a mark, and if he could tailor his performance accordingly...
He had little to work with so far, but he hadn't been alone with his mark yet, either. The fledgling assassin had been "sold" to the Rivaini after being paraded about (by another Crow in disguise, of course) like a trophy at one of the extravagant parties that were commonplace at Midsummer. The fact that the merchant had purchased the instrument of his own demise provided Zevran with enough inner amusement to keep his spirits up as he played the part of an obedient slave for the rest of the evening, following the man like a well-trained dog.
Of course, the merchant's bodyguards had patted him down for weapons, none too gently, when the man had triumphantly brought his new prize home. And, of course, Zevran had no blades on his person. There was no way he would have been able to conceal them properly in the soft fabric of the fine doublet and breeches he wore, elegant wrappings for a living objet d'art. That wasn't to say he wasn't armed, of course; there was a garrote wire wound inside the left cuff of his doublet, and the large pearl brooch on his collar - obviously made of glass and therefore of no apparent value - contained a small, but sufficient, amount of poison. Neither of those tools was of use in a hurry, however, and if something went drastically wrong, he might have to get creative.
Zevran preferred to stay optimistic, of course, and he hoped that his intended course of action would play out as expected; he had gotten rather thorough information on the merchant's habits from two of the more expensive brothels in the city, and had planned accordingly. Having alternatives never hurt, however, so he noted the bed curtains and their ties, the pillows, the heavy drapes on the windows, an elegant iron brazier, and other commonplace things as he waited for his new "master".
He had been sitting in silence for perhaps an hour when he finally heard sounds in the outer room: the merchant, talking and laughing with his manservant in their particular Rivaini dialect. It was a musical language, but Zevran knew virtually nothing of it, besides a few colorful curses. Still, he could identify the intonation of a suggestive remark, and the smug reply, when he heard one. It seemed some things were universal.
After several minutes, it sounded as if the manservant left the room, his tasks done for the night, and in a moment the merchant appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber. Zevran gazed up at him, keeping his expression just a little anxious as he took a moment to size up his target. The man was handsome enough, in his way; his dark moustache and beard were trimmed neatly in the Rivaini fashion, and his long black hair had been pulled back into a plaited topknot, the end swinging about his shoulders. He was not large - the Rivaini seldom were - but he was still more than a hand taller than Zevran. While he could not be fairly described as fat, his body, clearly clad in nothing more than the rich silk robe he currently wore, had the indolent softness of someone who performed no physical labor. Agile he might not be, but he still out-massed the slender assassin, a fact Zevran would have to keep in mind.
The merchant came several steps closer, his light brown eyes lingering on Zevran with a heated, possessive gleam that the elf knew entirely too well, and for a fraction of a moment, his mask of youthful anxiety was no mask at all. Idiot, he chided himself as he subserviently lowered his glance to the floor, trying to calm himself. There's nothing he can do to you that hasn't been done before, and unless he's hidden his toys well, he doesn't seem to be one for the wilder entertainments. The trick will be getting him to do what you need him to do for this to work...
He could tell that the man was simply watching him for a long moment, perhaps savoring the anticipation, or trying to imagine what was beneath the silk and velvet trappings. Finally, the Rivaini leaned against one of the bed's massive posts, and Zevran risked a glance up at him - some owners disliked their slaves showing that kind of initiative, but he had gotten away with it a moment ago, after all.
The merchant smiled at him, the grin of a fox with the rabbit in his jaws, and that alone gave Zevran a hint of how he should behave. Control. He wants control. The assassin feigned shyness again, looking away, but not too quickly. The man would never believe him a blushing virgin, not with the way he had been flaunted by Artemio at the party. Hesitance, though, a twinge of fear... those might appeal to this kind of man.
"Your clothing," the merchant finally said, quietly but with an mistakable hint of command.
Zevran could have played innocent, could have pretended he didn't understand the order, but, again, it would have seemed out of character for the image he was trying to project. Instead, he silently rose to his feet, eyes still downcast, and began to unfasten the laces of his doublet. "Slowly," the man said succinctly, and from the tone of his voice, he was already well on his way to picturing what would soon be revealed.
The elf did as he was told, divesting himself of the doublet and setting it aside with care before pulling off the fine linen shirt beneath with a show of reluctant self-consciousness. All the while, he felt the merchant's gaze upon him, drinking in the clean lines of his adolescent form. There were scars, of course, marks of his harsh training, but he was a slave portraying a slave - such things would raise no particular suspicions. He did not have the elaborate tattoos that the older Crows wore, only because he had not yet reached his full growth; that gave him a bit more versatility in approaching his marks for the next few years. If he survived so long. If he survived tonight.
As his hands fell to the laces of his breeches, the merchant abandoned his nonchalant pose and came closer, murmuring, "That's enough."
And so here we have it... Zevran looked up shyly, as if uncertain of what his "master" wanted, then looked away, as if afraid of being too bold. The Rivaini chuckled softly, smugly, and cupped the elf's chin in his hand, forcing him to look up again. Zevran did so without any real resistance, but instead of meeting the man's eyes, he glanced at the distracting glint at the man's ear: a single teardrop of blue sapphire, capped in gold, dangled there, ostentatious in its simplicity.
"Ah, an eye for pretty baubles?" the merchant laughed softly, fingering the earring with his free hand. "Perhaps if you perform well, you will earn such things for yourself, hmm?"
Lies, Zevran knew. Oh, perhaps a slave in such a position might be allowed to wear jewels - real ones, even, not like the glass gems he wore today - but those trinkets would belong to the master, as surely as the slave himself did. Just another bit of extravagance: I am so wealthy that even my pet is dressed like the son of a rich man.
But the young assassin did not intend to be in this situation long enough to explore that particular scenario. He could have tried; there was a decent span of time built into the contract, but he meant to have this finished tonight. One gilded cage was bad enough - he had no intention of letting himself be trapped within two.
He glanced up again, but closed his eyes quickly as the merchant leaned down to kiss him on the lips, his hand sliding up to gently caress Zevran's ear. The youth shivered involuntarily; apparently the Rivaini did know how to handle his preferred playthings. All the better, then - it would only make it easier for Zevran to play his part. He allowed himself a soft, surprised sound, the liberty of vocalization unfamiliar to him after having learned to take his pleasures in silence. It seemed to have the intended effect as the merchant eagerly thrust his tongue between Zevran's slightly parted lips, his other hand reaching for the fastenings of the elf's breeches.
Still playing the nervous youth, the assassin slowly stepped back, knowing there was a wall only a few steps behind him. Let him have the pleasure of "trapping" me there, then. In his eyes, I will be completely at his mercy at that point... Indeed, the man chuckled, clearly more amused than annoyed by his prey's weak attempt at escape. He advanced as Zevran retreated, never letting the elf out of reach, until the assassin was pinned against the wall.
"And where will you go now?" he asked in a low voice, lust mingling with mockery. The elf made no reply, of course, and the merchant did not wait for one as he began tracing the line of the youth's neck with lips and tongue. One of his hands stole down to rub at Zevran though the soft material of the breeches, and it took a great effort for the assassin to not twist away from the touch. The merchant wanted him willing - wanted the paired aesthetic and erotic pleasure of his arousal - and willing he would have to be for his trap to work... but relaxing in the hands of someone who had so much power over him at the moment was harder than he had expected.
As the man teased his right nipple lightly with his tongue, Zevran arched his head back and tried to think of something more to his taste, something that would let him not just tolerate, but enjoy this. What if... ah, what if this were Taliesen, driving him to distraction as they both fought to stay silent? They had competed in such a way one night several months ago, while they were supposed to be on rooftop lookout duty. The older boy (though Taliesen would insist on being called a man now) had succumbed to boredom first, and had begun diverting his friend in what he knew would be the most effective way. They had been in dark plainclothes, not armor, which had made access a much simpler thing...
It was easier, now, as a line of kisses was drawn down the taut muscles of his abdomen, to let himself moan quietly in real anticipation. Taliesen had taken much the same route that night, and his moustache and goatee had scratched and tickled in much the same way. Then, Zevran had been struggling for silence; that had been part of the exhilaration, knowing that an involuntary sound caught by the city watch or the target's guards could mean their deaths. And, too, the challenge of staying silent became a game in itself for the two of them, a battle for dominance and control, and they took that game to other places after that night.
Right now, though, his voice was another tool, a goad to nudge his mark in the needed direction; it was becoming easier to not leash those sounds, to let his breath hitch audibly as his breeches were tugged down to leave him exposed. The merchant's attentions and his own imagination had done their work, but he still needed the man to do one thing more. It was so close, now...
The Rivaini continued to tease him, running his tongue along Zevran's length before leaning back slightly to look up at him. "Do you want this?" he asked with a smirk, eyes narrowing in amusement. "Tell me you do."
Zevran shuddered, more in disgust and irritation than need, although he knew how the man would interpret it. He wants me to beg - fine. He has no idea how much I do want this... "Yes," he murmured breathlessly, "please..."
His plea must have been satisfactory; the merchant laughed lowly and finally took Zevran into his mouth, and the assassin closed his eyes and tried bring a more satisfying image to mind. Taliesen usually enjoyed taunting him, drawing him to the edge of release repeatedly and denying him (again, in the interest of making him cry out against his will), but sometimes the older boy would play fair, and those were the memories Zevran sank into now.
His hands were tense against the wall, fingers instinctively trying to claw into the unyielding surface. Did he dare put his hands on the merchant? Some would see such a bold move as insubordination worthy of punishment - an elven slave did not manhandle his master without permission - but, the Rivaini had been amusedly tolerant so far, and seemed to enjoy the "helpless" passion of his new pet. Zevran decided to risk it; if the man let the transgression pass, it would give him one more way to ensure his plan ran to completion.
Feigning clumsy hesitation, he slowly brought his hands down, sliding his fingers into the Rivaini's hair. He did not grab hold, or make any other such aggressive move, and he felt the man's sound of amusement. Taking this as a cue, the merchant took him in even deeper, drawing an entirely genuine gasp out of the elf. He didn't bother holding back the sounds now, knowing that his outward pleasure only spurred the man further; between the merchant's apparent expertise and the mental image of Taliesen in his mind, Zevran knew he wouldn't last much longer...
When he finally came, crying out wordlessly, it was both a physical and mental relief. The Rivaini did not pull away immediately, and Zevran felt him swallow, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he did so. Secure now in the fact that his scheme had played out as intended, the young assassin concentrated on calming himself beneath the facade of the flushed youth, regaining the composure he would need to see the job through.
The formulation Zevran had chosen would begin to take effect within ten minutes; if that much time passed without incident, he had done something wrong, and would have to fall back on other measures. Ten minutes... can I keep him off of me for that long? He had no desire to suffer the Rivaini's touch any longer than he had to. Of course, he would do what was necessary, especially if he needed to make a second attempt on the man's life, but if he could stall until the poison should have taken hold, he would.
Grinning at what he perceived to be a victory, the merchant rose and simply looked at him for several moments, studying his body in this state of arousal. He said something under his breath in his native tongue, his tone pleased; Zevran dared to glance up, and the Rivaini licked his lips in clear provocation. Trying not to cringe, the assassin looked away as if embarrassed.
"Such a melodious voice, when you sing," the merchant laughed. "Shall we see what other tunes you know?" He walked to the bedside table and pulled a small vial from the narrow drawer. Zevran had a fair idea what it was, and did not move from his position against the wall. Let the Rivaini work for this a little; he did seem to enjoy the hunt, anyway.
He knew the merchant was watching him, even as the man finally unbelted his robe and let the thing fall to the floor. Perhaps he hoped for some reaction, but Zevran steadfastly kept his eyes averted, as if ashamed to look.
"Come, my songbird." The Rivaini was clearly amused at his new nickname for his pet. "Surely you know how this tune goes?" He approached again, reaching out to take Zevran by the arm and propel him gently towards the bed. Reluctantly, the elf went, trapped in his role of compliance. He had little doubt that the merchant could make this pleasurable, if he wished to do so, but Zevran did not relish the thought of his mark dying while they were in a clinch. Assassin he might be, but even to him, that seemed... unpleasant.
He sat lightly on the edge of the bed, as if nervous, drawing another laugh from the Rivaini. "Surely you see that I do not wish to hurt you, little songbird... unless you displease me." His tone turned darker, as he finally made it clear who was master here. "Little birds who displease me lose their wings."
Zevran wasn't sure exactly what that implied, but it certainly didn't bode well. He swallowed visibly and backed further onto the bed, watching the merchant with a fearful expression.
"Ah, now, there's no need to fear, is there?" the man chuckled, his countenance lightening. "Simply do-"
He trailed off, one hand going to his throat as if he were choking. Indeed, his breathing became ragged, and his eyes widened as he stared down at the assassin on his bed. "You-" Realizing now that his life was in danger, if not already forfeit, the man wheeled, clearly headed for the door to alert his bodyguards in the hallway.
Zevran, of course, would not allow it. he sprang from the bed and lunged at the merchant, dragging him to the ground with one arm in a chokehold around his neck. The man couldn't scream, could barely even move at this point; he simply stared up at the elf in horror as total paralysis spread through his body, the hallmark of the Crows' alabastro poison.
In a few moments, the venom stilled his heart, and Zevran finally let go and backed away from the now-dead merchant. It seemed clear enough that the man had died of poisoning; there was not a mark of violence on him, and no signs of strangulation, just a bit of pale foam that had bubbled from his nose and mouth. His expression - frozen in horrified realization - made it clear enough that his end hadn't been sudden; he'd had enough time to realize he was going to die.
Of course, Zevran would be the primary suspect, but he'd never be found; besides, no one in their right mind would try to catch and punish a Crow. They might bring one assassin to justice, but the wrath of the flock would fall upon whoever might be so foolhardy.
Satisfied that the job was done, the elf went to the wash basin, cleaning himself quickly but thoroughly. There were rituals that a Crow might perform at this time, for a task completed, for a death wrought; Zevran had never really been disposed towards that kind of mysticism. At the moment, he simply wanted the Rivaini's touch - the grip of a dead man - off of his skin. Was that superstitious uneasiness any better than a ritual of thanksgiving, he wondered briefly as he dressed, but he dismissed the thoughts as foolish. If given sufficient time, why not take a moment to cleanse oneself? There was no advantage in not doing so, after all.
The client had wanted one of the Rivaini's rings as proof of the deed, a cabochon ruby set in gold. It was on the man's right middle finger, Zevran had observed, and he returned to the body to take it, tucking the band out of sight inside his doublet. As he let the man's hand drop and stepped back, a glint of blue caught his eye - the earring, again.
He considered for a moment. The trainees were not allowed to have personal belongings, he had learned the hard way. Especially ones that might have reminded them of their lives before becoming Crows. The full Crows, though, often took trophies, he knew. It was not only allowed, but subtly encouraged. Taliesen, initiated for a year now, had several, and the thought of having something to show off to his friend as a memento of his first contract convinced him.
Carefully, Zevran retrieved the earring, then held it up in the lamplight, admiring the color and quality of the stone. He said perhaps I'd earn the likes of this if I performed well, he thought. I think I performed brilliantly, yes?
He wondered if he might come across Artemio in the guild house, when he arrived to make his report to the Master. The more senior Crow had considered Zevran's plan foolhardy for someone with no previous experience, and had been doubtful of its success - not so much Zevran's success in killing the mark, but in his scheme working as intended. The elf found himself looking forward to the other Crow's reaction to this clear evidence of his competence. That was one rung up on the ladder for Zevran, and, if he could play it right, half a step down for Artemio. Such was the dance among the assassins, and he was finally one of them, now: a Crow not just by name, but by deed.
Zevran's escape route had been planned in advance, of course. Tucking his prize away, he walked to the window, and did not look back as he slipped into the night.
.fin.
While getting ready to do my exchange with harp_of_israfel for the spring exchange on zevran, I got a little plotbunny for the story of Zevran's first assassination. I blithely started writing and... ended up in a rather unpleasant place. But we didn't really expect assassinating to be all fun and games, did we...?
Many thanks to syverce, charnia, sami jo and Sresla (especially you, mister) for beta'ing and input. I'm still feeling a bit weird about the whole thing, but considerably less so with their help.
The Debut
Author: jenovan
Rating: M for sexual situations and murder
Warnings: NSFW! Vague hints of dub-con, depending on your interpretation. Is this warning really needed? I don't know... I just worry.
Zevran knelt on a velvet cushion and waited quietly for his mark to return, glancing around the bedchamber and marking the items he might use to his advantage, if needed. It was both a practical and fairly engaging way to pass the time, and was not so very suspicious a thing to be found doing, if, somehow, someone caught him by surprise.
Gaining entry to the man's private chambers had been simple enough, although it had required a brief flurry of planning among his cell. With a combination of observation and bribery, his Master had determined that this Rivaini merchant had a... fondness for young males, elves in particular - not children, but youths on the verge of adulthood, their bodies at that all too brief stage of aesthetic perfection that Antivan artisans had been immortalizing for centuries. Armed with this information, Zevran had felt confident enough to make his first bid, and unsurprisingly, it was accepted. Indeed, he had gotten the impression that the Master wanted him, specifically, to take the contract. He did fit the bill perfectly: he was of the ideal age, lithe, slender, undeniably attractive, and quite well-educated in the affairs of the bedroom. What remained to be seen now, however, was how good he was at reading a mark, and if he could tailor his performance accordingly...
He had little to work with so far, but he hadn't been alone with his mark yet, either. The fledgling assassin had been "sold" to the Rivaini after being paraded about (by another Crow in disguise, of course) like a trophy at one of the extravagant parties that were commonplace at Midsummer. The fact that the merchant had purchased the instrument of his own demise provided Zevran with enough inner amusement to keep his spirits up as he played the part of an obedient slave for the rest of the evening, following the man like a well-trained dog.
Of course, the merchant's bodyguards had patted him down for weapons, none too gently, when the man had triumphantly brought his new prize home. And, of course, Zevran had no blades on his person. There was no way he would have been able to conceal them properly in the soft fabric of the fine doublet and breeches he wore, elegant wrappings for a living objet d'art. That wasn't to say he wasn't armed, of course; there was a garrote wire wound inside the left cuff of his doublet, and the large pearl brooch on his collar - obviously made of glass and therefore of no apparent value - contained a small, but sufficient, amount of poison. Neither of those tools was of use in a hurry, however, and if something went drastically wrong, he might have to get creative.
Zevran preferred to stay optimistic, of course, and he hoped that his intended course of action would play out as expected; he had gotten rather thorough information on the merchant's habits from two of the more expensive brothels in the city, and had planned accordingly. Having alternatives never hurt, however, so he noted the bed curtains and their ties, the pillows, the heavy drapes on the windows, an elegant iron brazier, and other commonplace things as he waited for his new "master".
He had been sitting in silence for perhaps an hour when he finally heard sounds in the outer room: the merchant, talking and laughing with his manservant in their particular Rivaini dialect. It was a musical language, but Zevran knew virtually nothing of it, besides a few colorful curses. Still, he could identify the intonation of a suggestive remark, and the smug reply, when he heard one. It seemed some things were universal.
After several minutes, it sounded as if the manservant left the room, his tasks done for the night, and in a moment the merchant appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber. Zevran gazed up at him, keeping his expression just a little anxious as he took a moment to size up his target. The man was handsome enough, in his way; his dark moustache and beard were trimmed neatly in the Rivaini fashion, and his long black hair had been pulled back into a plaited topknot, the end swinging about his shoulders. He was not large - the Rivaini seldom were - but he was still more than a hand taller than Zevran. While he could not be fairly described as fat, his body, clearly clad in nothing more than the rich silk robe he currently wore, had the indolent softness of someone who performed no physical labor. Agile he might not be, but he still out-massed the slender assassin, a fact Zevran would have to keep in mind.
The merchant came several steps closer, his light brown eyes lingering on Zevran with a heated, possessive gleam that the elf knew entirely too well, and for a fraction of a moment, his mask of youthful anxiety was no mask at all. Idiot, he chided himself as he subserviently lowered his glance to the floor, trying to calm himself. There's nothing he can do to you that hasn't been done before, and unless he's hidden his toys well, he doesn't seem to be one for the wilder entertainments. The trick will be getting him to do what you need him to do for this to work...
He could tell that the man was simply watching him for a long moment, perhaps savoring the anticipation, or trying to imagine what was beneath the silk and velvet trappings. Finally, the Rivaini leaned against one of the bed's massive posts, and Zevran risked a glance up at him - some owners disliked their slaves showing that kind of initiative, but he had gotten away with it a moment ago, after all.
The merchant smiled at him, the grin of a fox with the rabbit in his jaws, and that alone gave Zevran a hint of how he should behave. Control. He wants control. The assassin feigned shyness again, looking away, but not too quickly. The man would never believe him a blushing virgin, not with the way he had been flaunted by Artemio at the party. Hesitance, though, a twinge of fear... those might appeal to this kind of man.
"Your clothing," the merchant finally said, quietly but with an mistakable hint of command.
Zevran could have played innocent, could have pretended he didn't understand the order, but, again, it would have seemed out of character for the image he was trying to project. Instead, he silently rose to his feet, eyes still downcast, and began to unfasten the laces of his doublet. "Slowly," the man said succinctly, and from the tone of his voice, he was already well on his way to picturing what would soon be revealed.
The elf did as he was told, divesting himself of the doublet and setting it aside with care before pulling off the fine linen shirt beneath with a show of reluctant self-consciousness. All the while, he felt the merchant's gaze upon him, drinking in the clean lines of his adolescent form. There were scars, of course, marks of his harsh training, but he was a slave portraying a slave - such things would raise no particular suspicions. He did not have the elaborate tattoos that the older Crows wore, only because he had not yet reached his full growth; that gave him a bit more versatility in approaching his marks for the next few years. If he survived so long. If he survived tonight.
As his hands fell to the laces of his breeches, the merchant abandoned his nonchalant pose and came closer, murmuring, "That's enough."
And so here we have it... Zevran looked up shyly, as if uncertain of what his "master" wanted, then looked away, as if afraid of being too bold. The Rivaini chuckled softly, smugly, and cupped the elf's chin in his hand, forcing him to look up again. Zevran did so without any real resistance, but instead of meeting the man's eyes, he glanced at the distracting glint at the man's ear: a single teardrop of blue sapphire, capped in gold, dangled there, ostentatious in its simplicity.
"Ah, an eye for pretty baubles?" the merchant laughed softly, fingering the earring with his free hand. "Perhaps if you perform well, you will earn such things for yourself, hmm?"
Lies, Zevran knew. Oh, perhaps a slave in such a position might be allowed to wear jewels - real ones, even, not like the glass gems he wore today - but those trinkets would belong to the master, as surely as the slave himself did. Just another bit of extravagance: I am so wealthy that even my pet is dressed like the son of a rich man.
But the young assassin did not intend to be in this situation long enough to explore that particular scenario. He could have tried; there was a decent span of time built into the contract, but he meant to have this finished tonight. One gilded cage was bad enough - he had no intention of letting himself be trapped within two.
He glanced up again, but closed his eyes quickly as the merchant leaned down to kiss him on the lips, his hand sliding up to gently caress Zevran's ear. The youth shivered involuntarily; apparently the Rivaini did know how to handle his preferred playthings. All the better, then - it would only make it easier for Zevran to play his part. He allowed himself a soft, surprised sound, the liberty of vocalization unfamiliar to him after having learned to take his pleasures in silence. It seemed to have the intended effect as the merchant eagerly thrust his tongue between Zevran's slightly parted lips, his other hand reaching for the fastenings of the elf's breeches.
Still playing the nervous youth, the assassin slowly stepped back, knowing there was a wall only a few steps behind him. Let him have the pleasure of "trapping" me there, then. In his eyes, I will be completely at his mercy at that point... Indeed, the man chuckled, clearly more amused than annoyed by his prey's weak attempt at escape. He advanced as Zevran retreated, never letting the elf out of reach, until the assassin was pinned against the wall.
"And where will you go now?" he asked in a low voice, lust mingling with mockery. The elf made no reply, of course, and the merchant did not wait for one as he began tracing the line of the youth's neck with lips and tongue. One of his hands stole down to rub at Zevran though the soft material of the breeches, and it took a great effort for the assassin to not twist away from the touch. The merchant wanted him willing - wanted the paired aesthetic and erotic pleasure of his arousal - and willing he would have to be for his trap to work... but relaxing in the hands of someone who had so much power over him at the moment was harder than he had expected.
As the man teased his right nipple lightly with his tongue, Zevran arched his head back and tried to think of something more to his taste, something that would let him not just tolerate, but enjoy this. What if... ah, what if this were Taliesen, driving him to distraction as they both fought to stay silent? They had competed in such a way one night several months ago, while they were supposed to be on rooftop lookout duty. The older boy (though Taliesen would insist on being called a man now) had succumbed to boredom first, and had begun diverting his friend in what he knew would be the most effective way. They had been in dark plainclothes, not armor, which had made access a much simpler thing...
It was easier, now, as a line of kisses was drawn down the taut muscles of his abdomen, to let himself moan quietly in real anticipation. Taliesen had taken much the same route that night, and his moustache and goatee had scratched and tickled in much the same way. Then, Zevran had been struggling for silence; that had been part of the exhilaration, knowing that an involuntary sound caught by the city watch or the target's guards could mean their deaths. And, too, the challenge of staying silent became a game in itself for the two of them, a battle for dominance and control, and they took that game to other places after that night.
Right now, though, his voice was another tool, a goad to nudge his mark in the needed direction; it was becoming easier to not leash those sounds, to let his breath hitch audibly as his breeches were tugged down to leave him exposed. The merchant's attentions and his own imagination had done their work, but he still needed the man to do one thing more. It was so close, now...
The Rivaini continued to tease him, running his tongue along Zevran's length before leaning back slightly to look up at him. "Do you want this?" he asked with a smirk, eyes narrowing in amusement. "Tell me you do."
Zevran shuddered, more in disgust and irritation than need, although he knew how the man would interpret it. He wants me to beg - fine. He has no idea how much I do want this... "Yes," he murmured breathlessly, "please..."
His plea must have been satisfactory; the merchant laughed lowly and finally took Zevran into his mouth, and the assassin closed his eyes and tried bring a more satisfying image to mind. Taliesen usually enjoyed taunting him, drawing him to the edge of release repeatedly and denying him (again, in the interest of making him cry out against his will), but sometimes the older boy would play fair, and those were the memories Zevran sank into now.
His hands were tense against the wall, fingers instinctively trying to claw into the unyielding surface. Did he dare put his hands on the merchant? Some would see such a bold move as insubordination worthy of punishment - an elven slave did not manhandle his master without permission - but, the Rivaini had been amusedly tolerant so far, and seemed to enjoy the "helpless" passion of his new pet. Zevran decided to risk it; if the man let the transgression pass, it would give him one more way to ensure his plan ran to completion.
Feigning clumsy hesitation, he slowly brought his hands down, sliding his fingers into the Rivaini's hair. He did not grab hold, or make any other such aggressive move, and he felt the man's sound of amusement. Taking this as a cue, the merchant took him in even deeper, drawing an entirely genuine gasp out of the elf. He didn't bother holding back the sounds now, knowing that his outward pleasure only spurred the man further; between the merchant's apparent expertise and the mental image of Taliesen in his mind, Zevran knew he wouldn't last much longer...
When he finally came, crying out wordlessly, it was both a physical and mental relief. The Rivaini did not pull away immediately, and Zevran felt him swallow, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he did so. Secure now in the fact that his scheme had played out as intended, the young assassin concentrated on calming himself beneath the facade of the flushed youth, regaining the composure he would need to see the job through.
The formulation Zevran had chosen would begin to take effect within ten minutes; if that much time passed without incident, he had done something wrong, and would have to fall back on other measures. Ten minutes... can I keep him off of me for that long? He had no desire to suffer the Rivaini's touch any longer than he had to. Of course, he would do what was necessary, especially if he needed to make a second attempt on the man's life, but if he could stall until the poison should have taken hold, he would.
Grinning at what he perceived to be a victory, the merchant rose and simply looked at him for several moments, studying his body in this state of arousal. He said something under his breath in his native tongue, his tone pleased; Zevran dared to glance up, and the Rivaini licked his lips in clear provocation. Trying not to cringe, the assassin looked away as if embarrassed.
"Such a melodious voice, when you sing," the merchant laughed. "Shall we see what other tunes you know?" He walked to the bedside table and pulled a small vial from the narrow drawer. Zevran had a fair idea what it was, and did not move from his position against the wall. Let the Rivaini work for this a little; he did seem to enjoy the hunt, anyway.
He knew the merchant was watching him, even as the man finally unbelted his robe and let the thing fall to the floor. Perhaps he hoped for some reaction, but Zevran steadfastly kept his eyes averted, as if ashamed to look.
"Come, my songbird." The Rivaini was clearly amused at his new nickname for his pet. "Surely you know how this tune goes?" He approached again, reaching out to take Zevran by the arm and propel him gently towards the bed. Reluctantly, the elf went, trapped in his role of compliance. He had little doubt that the merchant could make this pleasurable, if he wished to do so, but Zevran did not relish the thought of his mark dying while they were in a clinch. Assassin he might be, but even to him, that seemed... unpleasant.
He sat lightly on the edge of the bed, as if nervous, drawing another laugh from the Rivaini. "Surely you see that I do not wish to hurt you, little songbird... unless you displease me." His tone turned darker, as he finally made it clear who was master here. "Little birds who displease me lose their wings."
Zevran wasn't sure exactly what that implied, but it certainly didn't bode well. He swallowed visibly and backed further onto the bed, watching the merchant with a fearful expression.
"Ah, now, there's no need to fear, is there?" the man chuckled, his countenance lightening. "Simply do-"
He trailed off, one hand going to his throat as if he were choking. Indeed, his breathing became ragged, and his eyes widened as he stared down at the assassin on his bed. "You-" Realizing now that his life was in danger, if not already forfeit, the man wheeled, clearly headed for the door to alert his bodyguards in the hallway.
Zevran, of course, would not allow it. he sprang from the bed and lunged at the merchant, dragging him to the ground with one arm in a chokehold around his neck. The man couldn't scream, could barely even move at this point; he simply stared up at the elf in horror as total paralysis spread through his body, the hallmark of the Crows' alabastro poison.
In a few moments, the venom stilled his heart, and Zevran finally let go and backed away from the now-dead merchant. It seemed clear enough that the man had died of poisoning; there was not a mark of violence on him, and no signs of strangulation, just a bit of pale foam that had bubbled from his nose and mouth. His expression - frozen in horrified realization - made it clear enough that his end hadn't been sudden; he'd had enough time to realize he was going to die.
Of course, Zevran would be the primary suspect, but he'd never be found; besides, no one in their right mind would try to catch and punish a Crow. They might bring one assassin to justice, but the wrath of the flock would fall upon whoever might be so foolhardy.
Satisfied that the job was done, the elf went to the wash basin, cleaning himself quickly but thoroughly. There were rituals that a Crow might perform at this time, for a task completed, for a death wrought; Zevran had never really been disposed towards that kind of mysticism. At the moment, he simply wanted the Rivaini's touch - the grip of a dead man - off of his skin. Was that superstitious uneasiness any better than a ritual of thanksgiving, he wondered briefly as he dressed, but he dismissed the thoughts as foolish. If given sufficient time, why not take a moment to cleanse oneself? There was no advantage in not doing so, after all.
The client had wanted one of the Rivaini's rings as proof of the deed, a cabochon ruby set in gold. It was on the man's right middle finger, Zevran had observed, and he returned to the body to take it, tucking the band out of sight inside his doublet. As he let the man's hand drop and stepped back, a glint of blue caught his eye - the earring, again.
He considered for a moment. The trainees were not allowed to have personal belongings, he had learned the hard way. Especially ones that might have reminded them of their lives before becoming Crows. The full Crows, though, often took trophies, he knew. It was not only allowed, but subtly encouraged. Taliesen, initiated for a year now, had several, and the thought of having something to show off to his friend as a memento of his first contract convinced him.
Carefully, Zevran retrieved the earring, then held it up in the lamplight, admiring the color and quality of the stone. He said perhaps I'd earn the likes of this if I performed well, he thought. I think I performed brilliantly, yes?
He wondered if he might come across Artemio in the guild house, when he arrived to make his report to the Master. The more senior Crow had considered Zevran's plan foolhardy for someone with no previous experience, and had been doubtful of its success - not so much Zevran's success in killing the mark, but in his scheme working as intended. The elf found himself looking forward to the other Crow's reaction to this clear evidence of his competence. That was one rung up on the ladder for Zevran, and, if he could play it right, half a step down for Artemio. Such was the dance among the assassins, and he was finally one of them, now: a Crow not just by name, but by deed.
Zevran's escape route had been planned in advance, of course. Tucking his prize away, he walked to the window, and did not look back as he slipped into the night.
.fin.