#* / hc: zevran arainai.

[araneapeixes]

happy dragon age month, i miss my homies so I doodled them in some simple camp clothes (bc im bg3pilled)

[dandeydraws]

after drakon

[bluerose5]

Zevran & Astarion Banter Pt. 12/?

[First] [Prev] [Next]

...

Astarion: It doesn't bother you, does it?

Zevran: That depends. What are we referring to?

Astarion: You know. The fact that we're not—that we haven't...

Zevran: Oh, that.

Astarion: Yes, that.

Zevran: No, it does not bother me. I mean, I am not opposed to having sex, should you ever wish to try, but sex is best when done well and when all parties can enjoy that time together. Our arrangement is a change of pace from what I'm accustomed to, I must admit, but it is far from being an unwelcome change. I am surprised, I have to say. I find it nice to simply spend time together without expectations of what "should" happen.

Astarion: You must have... urges, though.

Zevran: What am I? Some sex-crazed fanatic, unable to control my baser hungers?

Astarion: Look. All I am saying is that, given everything, you seem very comfortable with sex, more than I am at least. I almost envy you for it.

Zevran: Don't. I am comfortable with it to an extent, yes, but I do not expect you to be. Whatever "urges" I have, I can handle them on my own.

Astarion: So you say, but you mentioned that you have been in an arrangement with multiple partners before. Are you sure you would not prefer...?

Zevran: I would not. I do not think that would benefit either of us in this situation.

Astarion: How do you mean?

Zevran: Would you honestly be comfortable if my attention was focused elsewhere?

Astarion: Ha! It's just sex, darling.

Zevran: Coming from anyone else, I'd almost believe that, but what we have is still so new. Our freedom is still new to us. There is enough for us to figure out on our own without adding another into the mix, yes?

Astarion: I do not wish to deprive you of anything. I–I just want you to be happy.

Zevran: And I am happy, my dearest Astarion. I promise you that. Turns out, I value you more than sex. Who would've thought?

Astarion: Heh, miracles never cease.

[ghostwise]

Matacuervos, ch. 3 El milagro In which the brothel receives an unexpected visitor. Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning on AO3

A miracle was taking place in Rialto. And what better place for a miracle than the longest-standing brothel on the city’s promenade? 

El milagro.

For decades it had promised patrons a unique experience; something transformative and life-affirming. Something they wouldn’t find anywhere else. Today it was aptly named.

“Ahtziri’s son is downstairs!”

The news spread quickly through the prostitute’s quarters, high up on the third floor. Past the first floor and all its revelries, past the second floor with its private and comfortable rooms, the flurry of heeled footsteps sounded through the hallways of the old building. “Come quick! Have a look for yourselves!”

Those who were recent hires at El milagro met the news with little more than a bemused smile. But those who had been there longer remembered the scandal like it was yesterday.

“Ahtziri’s son!”

“The laundress! The knocked-up Dalish girl.”

“I remember her. Miss too-good-to-wash-our-linens. Miss wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-whoring.”

Amid the chatter, a sharp intake of air. “Don’t speak ill of the dead. It was a tragedy! She left a child behind.”

“Her son! What was his name?”

“Looks just like her. Blond hair, big brown eyes…”

“Got taken away one day, I remember. Adopted, they said. What was the name? Started with a Z…”

“Ziran? No!”

“Zarah?”

“No, no! Zevran?”

“Yes, that was it! And he’s downstairs right now!”

Of course the old prostitutes remembered. Who could forget? The dead husband, the widowed Dalish girl, the piles of debt, all the rumors of money and passion—and caught amidst all that ugliness, the orphaned baby. But the memories had softened with the passage of time, and the men and women of El milagro chatted amongst themselves, pleased with the reminiscing. Wasn’t it nice to be remembered, bad blood aside?

An Antivan never forgets his roots, they all agreed.

An Antivan always remembers, they said, and nodded wisely at the thought.

-

Meanwhile, unaware of the commotion he had caused, Zevran was downstairs and speaking with the brothel manager in her office.

Gloria Amilcar was a wisp of a middle-aged woman, fragile and thin, save for her soft and lined face. With her hair tied back in an austere bun and her fingernails delicately lacquered, she had a flighty air about her that seemed ill-fitted to her role.

She was also trying very hard to get Zevran to leave.

“I understand, completely. But, as I said earlier, we have a strict no loitering policy,” she said.

“Of course,” Zevran returned smoothly. “With such a fine establishment, your employees must be very busy, I’m sure. Allow me to pay for an hour! I will even pay double! I do not mind, if only to see old friends—”

“It is a generous offer.” She gave a pause, and a forced smile. “But we simply cannot accept.”

“After work, then?” Zevran asked.

“There is no ‘after work’ here at El milagro. I cannot close the brothel to our other clients. This is a business, young man.”

“Then perhaps on a day you are closed? I can return then-”

“We are never closed!”

Zevran plucked at a thread on his trousers, a placid smile fixed onto his face; a tactic to hide his growing irritation. “I am asking to simply pay for an hour or two with your esteemed workers,” he tried again, “As any client would. Am I being denied that right?”

“Precisely. You are denied.” Sra. Amilcar left her desk abruptly. Refusing the opportunity for any further discussion, she opened the door and with a sharp gesture motioned for Zevran to leave.

“You have your answer. Please, go.”

The sounds of the brothel floated in through the open door, and Zevran sat in his chair, impassive.

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected to be met with so much resistance. When he’d first arrived to the brothel he’d been greeted as a guest, but no sooner had one of the older women recognized him that Sra. Amilcar’s demeanor changed entirely. Now his intuition was telling him there was a reason why Amilcar was desperate to get him gone.

This was not a prison. Surely the workers were free to chat with a guest? So why did she seem worried—even afraid?

The thought was interrupted as a familiar voice floated through the door.

“Vhenan? Oh, there you are.”

Hamal had evidently grown tired of waiting out on the street.

If she hadn’t been scandalized already, Sra. Amilcar was doubly so now. She scanned Hamal from top to bottom, eyes wide. “Ven-an?”

“Ah! Hello.” Hamal simply smiled at her as he sidled in past her. “Very little Antivan, sorry! My husband is done? Everything good?”

“Everything is fine, amor,” Zevran said, looking at Sra. Amilcar pointedly. “Just negotiating.”

“I was just,” Sra. Amilcar interrupted, her voice terse and jumping from syllable to syllable, “telling your husband that we cannot accommodate his request. Please, gather your things and leave. You know? Get out. Go away. Goodbye, no more! Perhaps your husband can translate more properly! Shoo!”

She elaborated further by pointing rather aggressively towards the exit.

Zevran and Hamal exchanged a look.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had been kicked out from an establishment. It would, however, be the first time they were kicked out as a married couple, and that made it special.

Zevran smiled, with a soft tilt of the head, as if to say, see what I’m dealing with?

“Oh,” Hamal intoned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He looked from his husband to Sra. Amilcar and then repeated, “Sorry, very little Antivan, very bad. I can explain: We are married! On our honeymoon.”  He made sure to speak loudly enough that his strongly accented Antivan rang clear out across the brothel. “Where can I pay? I will pay everything. A gift for my husband!”

By now, the discussion had drawn the attention of others, who erupted into cheers at the declaration. Zevran grinned, simply beaming under Hamal’s confidence, and the way the prostitutes shouted encouragement and praise: What a doting husband! What a thoughtful gesture! Were they open to adding a third?

Meanwhile Sra. Amilcar had grown quite pale. Swaying a bit on her feet, she seemed to steel herself before taking a deep breath and stating loudly, “Enough! I will call the city guard if you do not leave, NOW!”

-

All things considered, this was much farther than Zevran had ever expected to get.

Nevermind the fact that they now found themselves on the street, having been swiftly expelled by the brothel’s security. The visit had been enlightening, and not entirely a waste. For instance, he knew now that the brothel was still running, and under the same management, too. But the reaction he’d met within had been troubling.

“I am sorry.” Hamal grimaced. “I may have made things worse. I should have waited-”

“She had already decided to kick me out when you showed up,” Zevran assured him. “But it was very fun to watch, amor.”

“I am glad you had fun. I cannot recall ever seeing you so unhappy in a brothel, ma vhenan.”

Zevran laughed softly. He did not respond.

“You seem distracted,” Hamal observed after a moment. “What happened?”

Zevran looked up, and found Hamal’s eyes on him. “That woman in charge,” he said with a frown. “She was afraid of me.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“I cannot rightly say. I suppose I was drawing too much attention. Everything was fine when she thought I was just another customer to charm. But as soon as some of the older prostitutes recognized me, she suddenly became quite concerned. She forced them upstairs and pulled me into her office, where you found me.”

“They recognized you?” Hamal asked.

Zevran let out a sigh, mulling over the unexpected influx of memory and feeling. It was more than he’d expected. More than he’d been prepared for.

“They did,” he said, voice softening. “They were pleased to see me. They greeted me like an old friend.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yes, in fact. Sofia and Nadia. They and another young woman named Adelmar used to take turns watching me and the other children.”

“All these years and they did not forget you! You must have left quite an impression,” Hamal suggested, with a smile.

Zevran considered it; then he grinned, and an exuberant little laugh escaped him.

He had never expected to be remembered.

He remembered El milagro, of course, because he had suffered so much there. But here were people who had lived beside him, and watched his childhood years from their own perspective. In a sense they were witnesses to a crime, though they did not even realize it.

“I must speak with them at once,” Zevran said earnestly. “They could tell me things about my past. About my childhood. About the Crows.”

Hamal nodded. “We must find a way to get past this Amilcar woman. But for now,” he added, glancing at the first-floor shutters of Gloria Amilcar’s office, “I suggest we leave, before she calls the city guard.”

-

Gloria Amilcar peered through the shutters of her office window, watching the retreating figures of the two unwelcome visitors until they vanished into the distance. Being a woman of little imagination, she felt her heart rate settle almost instantly.

Thank the Maker, it had been taken care of quickly.

She shut the blinds and tucked a loose strand of hair back into her updo.

The situation with the Dalish boy—now a young man—had certainly been unexpected, but she had handled it, in her own opinion, with grace and intelligence. Now this Zevran and his strange foreign companion were gone, and they would not return again.

And why would they?

After all, what good would it do for them to dig any deeper? To linger nearby, esculcando where they shouldn’t and stirring up trouble? Even if they tried it, she would make sure they were swiftly taken away and locked up. Pull a few strings, pay a few guards. Send a strong message.

But it hadn’t come to that.

Feeling pleased with that conclusion, Sra. Amilcar went back to her desk.

It was her duty to keep such things from the workers. Threats to El milagro could imperil their all their livelihood in ways few could understand. Not only the wayward sons of politicians, or a dozen noble-born bastards to keep track of; running a brothel involved a lot of customer service—but she had hosts who took care of that. Mostly she handled the administrative side of things.

She tallied up totals and calculated expenses. She filed things that were necessary, or made it so that they were not necessary after all, ensuring the owner’s accounts were always in good standing. Obscuring a few lapses here and there. Falsifying birth certificates. The financial records needed to be completed by a deft hand, so the tax collectors wouldn’t dig too deeply into things. She was good at all this. El milagro kept her busy. She had no time for disruptions. No time for mess.

As she pulled out a list of supplies for the next month, she heard the door swing open.

“Is he gone?”

“Who?” Sra. Amilcar asked, without looking.

“That man,” Nadia said, and settled into the now vacant chair. “Zevran.”

“Ah,” Sra. Amilcar said. “Yes, he’s gone.”

Nadia regarded her closely.

She was a gem, and a gossip, a favorite of the customers for many years. Sharp-tongued and honey-eyed, Nadia had no surname, but she held half the city's secrets in her pockets—she'd even birthed a few herself—and she enjoyed a certain rapport with the brothel manager. Simply put she was irresistible, with her aged and deep-set features, which now focused into a critical and exacting look.

“Did you kick him out?”

Sra. Amilcar set an inkwell and fresh pen upon the table. She laid out her lists of supplies, her tally of accounts, and her roster of the brothel’s most productive workers, and only the faintest tremor of her right hand betrayed her.

“Money has been a bit tight, Nadia,” Sra. Amilcar said carefully. “I may have to let a few of the girls go if things keep up.”

“Sure,” Nadia hummed. “What is it he wanted anyway? I never get to see you make such a fuss, even when the clientèle gets rowdy, so…?” Under the sharp warning glare of the brothel manager, Nadia grinned. “Did he want to know about his mother? Is that it?”

Sra. Amilcar cleared her throat sharply. Unable to hold Nadia’s gaze, she  looked away, subdued.

“Yes,” she lied quietly. “And I told him the truth: We know nothing about it. It was all too long ago. He was understandably disappointed.”

“I see.”

Nadia watched her for a moment, allowing the silence that followed. When Sra. Amilcar said nothing more, she got up from the chair, and gathered up her skirts.

“Well,” she sighed, “I was just curious. No reason to dwell on the past. Not in this line of work, right?”

“Exactly!” Sra. Amilcar let out a little sigh, pleased to be understood.

A soft moment for Nadia to prod into. She stood beside the door, casting a glance over her shoulder.

“And Gloria?” she asked sweetly before leaving.

“Mm?”

“You will find a way to stretch the budget, won’t you? You’re so good at that. I’ve always said numbers were just one of your many talents.”

“Yes… well.” Sra. Amilcar paused. “You’re right, of course, Nadia. I’m sure I will figure something out.”

[herearedragons]

The Warden's New Clothes

As the glow of the healing spell subsides and Wynne removes her hands from the injury, Kyana dares to glance at her side once again. What was a miserable sight mere moments ago is now a perfectly healthy patch of skin, no trace of the burns left on her torso or left arm.

It’s not the first time she wishes Wynne had been there when they climbed the tower of Ishal.

There is, however, a problem remaining. Where skin can be fixed, fabric not so much; the remains of her sleeve are hanging in sorry tatters and the state of the left side of her robe is definitely indecent. Adding insult to injury, the enchantment has evaporated from the garment, the fabric hanging heavier and colder than usual.

“Blast it,” Kyana murmurs - and startles, suddenly remembering that Wynne is still there. Have her manners spoiled so much that she curses at a senior enchanter without a second thought?

To her relief and wonder, Wynne does not express any disapproval, simply nodding:

“We should get you changed. Boys - “ the enchanter steps out of the corner they had retired to so that she could heal Kyana with some privacy - “One of you should go back to the mages’ quarters, see if there are any clothes intact in the wardrobes. We need a new set of robes, as close to Kyana’s size as you can get.”

It’s a strange experience, hearing Wynne give out orders to… yes, to her team; Kyana has to admit to herself that she has come to view them as such. Even Zevran, new as he is to the group. He had sworn his loyalty to her, personally; surely that counts for something?

Speaking of the assassin - it’s his voice that she hears answering Wynne.

“What about this one? There’s barely any blood on it - “

“Maker, ew. Really?”

The second voice is Alistair. At that point, Kyana decides to see what the fuss is about and joins the rest, holding the left side of her robe together with her hand.

The scene which appears before her is self-explanatory. Zevran is pointing at a corpse on the ground. Wynne and Alistair are looking upon it disapprovingly.

The body belongs to the blood mage they just fought. Her clothes are… unusual, definitely not of the Circle, and yet familiar. It takes Kyana a moment to place the image, but then she remembers: the vault. There was definitely a robe of a similar design in there, hanging in a glass case. Was it the same one, or just a similar item? Either way, if she’s right, it’s old, it’s from Tevinter, and it probably bears a powerful enchantment.

Kyana reaches for her magic, just slightly, but enough to confirm one half of her theory: the dead woman’s robe is very enchanted.

She definitely wants it now.

“Zevran is right,” she says. ��We don’t have time to search the rooms. This will do.”

With that, she begins to direct her magic further. The force of telekinesis lifts the body up from the ground; Kyana lets it rotate mid-air for a few moments, getting a feel for the object she’s about to manipulate. Then, the same telekinetic force begins undoing buttons, buckles and clips, pulling elements of clothing off of the corpse. 

Part of her is glad that Wynne is watching; she’s been honing her precision telekinesis for a while. Nobody in the camp, not even Morrigan, seemed to appreciate it much - but, surely, the senior enchanter understands the work that has gone into this.

Another part of her wonders whether she’s supposed to be more hesitant to undress a dead body, but it’s not a very useful thought, and she lets it go fairly quickly.

If Kyana had to guess, she would say that the whole process takes less than two minutes; definitely less time than it would require to search the living quarters again.  

The new robe fits tighter than the Circle one, mostly due to panels of some stiff material sewn into it in several places. It's definitely more restricting, though Kyana finds that she doesn't mind that much; it feels almost like wearing armor, or, at least, what she imagines wearing armor feels like.

It is strange, though. She somehow feels more dressed than she ever was before; the Circle robes were so familiar that they were almost a part of her, but this... this is alien, a tangible barrier between her and the rest of the world.

“Well… You know, it is quite pretty,” Alistair says. “It’d be even prettier if I could unsee you taking it off of a corpse.”

“Shall I remind you where your armor came from?” Kyana asks dryly.

“That’s different! The armor’s not touching my skin. Also, I cleaned it before putting it on.”

“I also cleaned it! Who do you think I am?”

Alistair raises an eyebrow.

“Cleaned how?”

“Magic.”

“Well, I hope those spells were effective, because otherwise - that’s pretty gross.”

“If I may, Warden,” Zevran pipes up, “Please do not take this the wrong way, but… may I have your old clothes?”

Alistair gives him a look.

“Is there a right way to take this?”

There seems to be some kind of lewd joke implied - she’s been getting better at noticing those kinds of things - but presently, Kyana doesn’t have time to unpack the exact meaning of it. If Zevran wants the rags, he can have them. 

She uses a small burst of telekinetic force to pick up the robes and toss them to the assassin.

“Many thanks,” he says.

The sound of tearing fabric follows immediately after. It takes her a moment to understand what he’s doing, but when Zevran tears a narrow strip of fabric from the robe and starts wrapping it around his right hand, Kyana finally notices:

“Your gloves are ruined.”

They’re in a similar state to her old robe; the top part is almost entirely burned away. Was he the one to finish off the Rage demon? Likely so, considering the singe marks on his arms and the rest of his armor.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Zevran says. “If you see nice leather gloves on someone here, do let me know.”

He finishes securing the remains of his right glove to his hand and prepares to tear off another strip of fabric.

“…Wait.”

Kyana opens one of the pouches on her belt. There, nestled alongside a few healing potions, is a rolled-up pair of leather gloves.

“Here.” She holds them out. “I bought these a while ago, but didn’t end up wearing them that much. They’re warm, but not that good for spellcasting.”

Zevran stops mid-tear.

“You’re… giving me gloves?”

“Well, I don’t use them. Do you not want them?”

“No, no - I did not mean to sound ungrateful. I’ll take them.”

As he approaches to collect the gloves, something about them seems to catch his attention; Zevran lingers for a moment before finally taking them from her hand.

“These are Dalish, are they not?” he asks.

“Yes. I bought them from a Dalish craftsman.”

Zevran turns the gloves in his hands, runs his thumb along one of the stitches - appreciating the craftsmanship, maybe?

“No one has simply… given me a gift before,” he says finally. “I shall treasure these. Thank you.”

It didn’t occur to her to think of it as a gift, but technically, he’s correct.

It’s just as well. If they’re of a better use to Zevran than to her, he should have them.

“It’s nothing,” Kyana says. “I hope they fit.”

[zevranscrowsfeet]

pls talk to me about your wardens preferred method of spoiling zevran rotten

[hadescavedish]

zevran and isabela are bi4bi energy, no kidding

[heartsdefine]

zevran can pick locks, thank you very much. it just takes him a little while longer than most rogues, due to a personal struggle with fine motor skills. being tortured by assassins from a young age can leave some damage, and he is one of the unlucky few whose hands still suffer from the occasional tremor when he tries to work with small objects such as lock-picks.

[lyriumheart]

'shipping rook with viago is incest because theyre both de rivas its still incest if theyre not blood related and wanting rook/lucanis/viago/teia stuff is bad bc youd rly rather see lucanis in a borderline incest polycule than w neve'

you are ACTUALLY tripping if you think rook is genuinely related to viago in. any way. at all. (beyond individual hcs ofc.)

like number 1 way to show you do not understand how the crow 'families' are HOUSES. and while some have legit families in them via blood and adoption, joining a house =/= being related to the people in it by default! are you dense! theyre MAFIA FAMILIES you twit!

like are we saying zevran and rinna were brother and sister now??? they were both arainais and in a relationship.

and saying that it's bc people would rather do that than put lucanis with neve- that is one hell of a fucking reach.

keep the topic of incest out of your fucking mouuuuttthhh if you cannot be normal or discuss the subject in any way other than to bring it up as a 'gotcha' over fucking SHIPPING. literally just using incest, an extremely traumatic thing, as a bludgeon against ships you hate. just shitting all over incest victims. we're not your fucking cudgels oh my gd

[runespoor7]

Levi Dryden remains written like the least trustworthy NPC to ever do a run for

It's so weird because he's on the level! But here he is, talking about his good friend Duncan who totally promised he'd something for him and it's so weird he didn't ever speak about me! But he promised, so you're gonna do this for me right?

For the record, Daphnis doesn't think it's weird or anything she didn't hear of Levi, she knew Duncan for only a short time! But the way Levi goes at it and his insistence are ringing all her alarms for it being at best a con. Maybe another ambush?

I hc that we can check with Alistair that "Soldier's Peak" was a warden base (and possibly even about Levi Dryden being an acquaintance of Duncan? though he might not know either, Duncan might be discreet), and maybe even ask Zevran if he's heard about another ambush/trap by Loghain. He'd laugh bc that's not how Crows work, but the fact that we just got Zevran makes Daphnis think this probably isn't a Loghain trap. Loghain doesn't know yet his assassin failed.

So to Soldier's Peak we go. It's not that far from Denerim anyway, and it might get us things we need - more info, or more recent treaties, or weapons, or anything of the sort.

Daphnis is NOT IMPRESSED with what she finds.

She grits her teeth and decides to check on the tower the demon moving Sophia Dryden's corpse talks about. Hopefully it contains the key to repairing the Veil and anto-demon stuff - which would explain why the demon wants it destroyed so bad! But since she can't be sure, she doesn't destroy the demon before going to the tower. Just in case they do need to rely on the demon to close the Veil.

Also for the record Zevran being unable to pick locks means taking Leliana with me as well, which means that when Daphnis starts "negotiating" with the demon Leliana speaks and I miss out on the Zevran +2 approval would happen if she wasn't in the team! I'm very annoyed! Zevran "I can pick locks" Arainai no u can't. False advertising!!! (which I comment on at every single possible point when playing, I think I'm hilarious)

Long story short:

- Daphnis doesn't drink the result of Avernus research because she doesn't trust it

- Daphnis does manage to make Avernus see he's fucked up, and he agrees to judgment

- we fight Sophia (sorry not sorry. the demon was never going to walk away)

- Avernus closes the Veil

- Daphnis executes Avernus. The way Avernus talked about it, it sounds like maybe he took a demon in himself to survive, as well, which given the decisions he's been taking re: torture of fellow Wardens, isn't a great sign that he's not being influenced by the demon.

Even without that... it was bad.

At this stage Daphnis has come to the following guidelines, which will inform her decisions in Redcliffe:

- you can fight and win against demons in the Fade, paradoxically. You can confront, including negotiate with, demons in the Fade.

- it's a terrible idea to bring things out of the Fade! Do not! Do not do it! You can beat demons in the Fade but demons in our world are just bad! Do not!!

- mages going "yeah I'm going to bring an army of demons that I'm definitely going to be able to control and also let a demon into my body to interact with the real world, I will definitely not be taken over": so far we're on 2/2 of Do Not.

- Daphnis trusts herself but less so other people. It's okay when people don't bring demons into the world or torture people or stuff. She doesn't do these things. So it's okay.

Notably: Daphnis hasn't talked with Wynne a lot yet. :) Wynne is a little preachy and telling her not to be overconfident, and Daphnis was a little surprised when she came with, but she's okay.

I also wanted Avernus' robes because Daphnis is going to do blood magic, and if I hadn't she might have left Avernus alive, buy the decision/scene wasn't horrible to make from a RP perspective.

[fatedvoyage]

i've sorted out the sideblog situation here i think. i still need to go thru and reread hcs and edit/post, update links to bios and rules and such, put up some short blurbs for verses. but here's a quick rundown of what all's on offer:

@spacecoeboy - sam coe from starfield

@honorhelm - din djarin from the mandalorian

@ncgotiator - obi-wan kenobi from star wars

@wittyrogue - zevran arainai from dragon age

@magistheir - dorian pavus from dragon age

@vannhawke - vann hawke from dragon age, reaver champion of kirkwall

@daxassan - feynrahel isethari from dragon age, elven rogue inquisitor

some quick notes for myself below:

starfield verses for din and obi-wan, maybe a star wars verse for sam (honestly may not do that bc starfield just allows for universe jumping real easily)

not gonna worry about datv verses for any of the dragon age muses yet, the game has to come out and i have to play it first

hof verse for keskil, and a modern verse

mass effect verse for vann

feyn inquisitor verse and companion verse

[bluerose5]

There's something so sacred about ruling a country at your husband's side while your and your husband's other husband decides to act as an assassin for the throne.

[ghostwise]

ZevWarden Week 2023 - Day 5, Bodies and Minds

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

Trust :: 460 words tags: vallaslin, dalish culture, zevran arainai/male mahariel

"I hope I still remember how to do this," Zevran says, and he checks his tray of supplies carefully: ink and needles, clean washcloths, boiled water with a splash of disinfectant, and soap, all neatly arranged.

"It would be easier, of course," he continues, "if we had a healer with us. Alas! We shall simply have to heal it the old fashioned way: with time and care."

Across the room, Hamal regards him with a raised brow.

"Zevran, you are not worried, are you?"

"Not at all!"

Zevran sets the tray on the bedside table. He looks down at his hands, inspecting them carefully.

"Maybe I should wash my hands again," he mutters.

"They are clean," Hamal laughs. "Washed three times already."

Zevran smiles at him. "Of course."

"It is just a touch-up."

"I know. But this is important."

He takes Hamal's face in his hands then, and brushes his fingers over his skin; graceful vallaslin swoon and sweep across Hamal's cheekbones, around his eyes, his forehead. They have faded over the years... faster than they should have.

Hamal thinks it is the Grey Warden Taint. The same force that pushes his body to such extremes—stronger and faster, yes, but enhanced in inconvenient ways too; quick to fevers, always hungry, and fighting to heal old wounds. Which, of course, the vallaslin are.

Zevran holds a different view. To him, it is the sunlight that's to blame. Antiva gets so much more of it than Ferelden, after all, and even with Hamal's diligent use of sunscreen he's burned more times than either of them can count.

Whatever the case, the vallaslin look like trees in the autumn.

"I need to make sure I get it right," Zevran murmurs. "The right color. The right depth. The right shape. What if I make an error?"

He draws his thumb across his lip. Hamal smiles.

"And I… I do not know the proper rites, the prayers… braska," he sucks in a breath of air. "I need to wash my hands again!"

"Vhenan…"

Hamal laughs. Perhaps there is nothing for it. The vallaslin does matter, after all. Some level of anticipation is only proper.

"If it helps, I feel a lot better than I did when I first got them," Hamal says after a moment.

Zevran returns to his side, his hands freshly cleaned. He looks at him, eyes wide. "You do?"

"I was beyond nervous the first time. But I'm not nervous now. Not at all." He smiles. "You're the only I'd trust to do this, Zevran."

Zevran relaxes, dropping into a nearby chair. He considers it, easily drawing from Hamal's confidence.

"Very well, then," he says. "If you are not worried then I suppose I shouldn't be either. Hold still, amor. Let's begin."

[paper--moons]

Regressor!Zevran Arainai Headcanons

(with cg!Cousland)

On average, Zevran is a baby regressor! Though he can get up to a rather mischievous seven—this being primarily dependent on who he regresses around. Though throughout different stages of his life, the end of his range that he favored more often flip-flopped; his bigger kid self tends to come out more the less he trusts someone as a sort of compromise between his need to regress and his self-preservation. Because if one thing can be said about Zevran, it's that he's had his sense of self-preservation ingrained in him long before being bought to become a Crow, back when he was just a little boy being raised in a brothel in a dangerous part of the city. He has never really had a sense of security, a sense of safety, and in fact it isn't until taking on the contract to kill the wardens—an undertaking that he believed would bring about his end—and subsequently meeting the wardens, being shown mercy for the first time in his life, that he starts to truly feel safe with someone.

Feeling safe? With a former mark no less? It's a foreign feeling. Not only foreign, but it goes against everything he's ever been taught by the Crows, although it doesn't go against his instincts. Instincts that tell him that he's safe, that they can be trusted. Zevran hasn't had quite the same gut feeling about someone since Rinna, which should make him feel reassured given that she was his last cg. Should being the operative word, because in actuality it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He cannot become so attached to someone again only to lose them, to be a part of their undoing. Cousland, however, is not so easily deterred by his flippant remarks and scandalous stories, instead recognizing them for what they are: an attempt to appear entirely open while hiding any vulnerability behind that honesty about the life he's led. Though the warden isn't sure what exactly it is that Zevran is hiding at first, it's obvious that it isn't anything that threatens the party. Rather, it's something their local assassin seems to be embarrassed by, or perhaps thinks is a weakness? Despite everything that they have inferred, he is still a difficult read when it comes to whatever this is.

Until suddenly he isn't. All it takes is one comment from Wynne for the pieces to click into place. They're making their way through the market quarter in Denerim, restocking some supplies when over the bustle of the city around them Cousland hears Wynne say Must you be such a child? Are you incapable of a single, serious conversation?. Zevran hesitates just for a second too long before giving one of his usual witty remarks. The fumble goes unnoticed by the others, but it is something that the warden discusses with Wynne later before they both come to the same conclusion. A conclusion that, when taking the rest of his behavior into account, points to the fact that Zevran regresses. And Cousland cares about him and his well-being, so it isn't surprising that they come up with a plan—a plan that, essentially, is just to wait until they notice Zev slip into that childlike space he seems to go sometimes and indulge him. Not roll their eyes at his antics or suggest that he focus on the task at hand like usual, but to listen and play along. To take him by the hand and let him know that it's okay to let go sometimes.

Unsuspecting of this, Zevran finds himself slipping during some downtime while they are traveling to Orzammar. They've stopped to rest for the night, and are all gathered around the fire sharing a meal and generally shooting the breeze. The combination of good company and good food has him feeling warmer, softer and smaller, just enough so that he finds himself deciding to play a little prank on Alistair. Nothing major, just relocating a few of his personal items to Oghren's tent. There's no harm in it! He's giggling as he exits the dwarf's tent, thinking he got away with it. At least, until Cousland catches him red-handed and he freezes like a hart caught by a hunter. Any plans he had had for other mischief making halts as the warden simply cocks an eyebrow at him. A simple Haven't we talked about this, Zev? has him feeling more scolded than it normally would, and he willing follows Cousland as they motion for him to walk with them. He half expects another talk about why he shouldn't mess with Alistair's things, but something feels different. It isn't quite a sense of dread, but Zevran knows Cousland means to talk about something else—they've never been one to beat around the bush and he suspects that this little chat of theirs won't be an exception.

The resulting conversation isn't one he expects however, and the second the word "regression" slips past their lips he nearly bolts. Regression was something he was never supposed to indulge with to begin with—the Crows said it was a weakness, that it could be used against him along with the entire organization by association—and when he had it had ended poorly. Oh so poorly, with dear sweet Rinna suffering for it in the end. But here is Cousland, arguably the strongest person he knows telling him not only would it be okay for him to regress more at camp if he needed, but that they wanted to take care of him (so he doesn't get into trouble, they say, but the fond look on their face tells him it's more than that). Zevran had promised himself he wouldn't regress again—not fully at least—and certainly not with another cg nor anyone else for that matter, so the offer startles him. Startles him because of how much the warden cares. Startles him because of how much he trusts the warden. Because of how much he finds himself wanting. But he's still hurting over the loss of Rinna, the betrayal of Taliesen, and so Zevran laughs it off with a pained smile and says they are mistaken though he appreciates the concern. All while privately berating himself and deciding he has to buckle down and try harder not to slip no matter how much he needs to.

And Zevran is nothing if not stubborn. Having made up his mind, any time he feels the need to be small he suppresses it and pushes it far, far away. After all, he already wasn't regressing as young as he needed to when he was slipping, so he's had practice. Despite the need to regress and despite Cousland trying their best to provide him with an environment in which he feels he can do so, he somehow makes it until the battle with the Archdemon without regressing. But when the battle proves to nearly be Cousland's end, well...the near-loss reminds him too much of Rinna and he cracks. Even the encounter with Taliesen didn't shake him this badly (which is saying something, because he nearly lossed his grasp on himself then). The moment Wynne allows them all into Cousland's room in Redcliffe Castle, saying that she's healed them all she could and that Cousland is finally awake again, Zevran is at their bedside in an instant. Still trying his hardest to keep himself from fraying, but all it takes is Cousland's easy smile and suddenly they've got a very tiny elfling cuddling up to their side. Crying far too quietly as he desperately clutches at their shirt, as if they might disappear; though they promise him that they won't as they soothingly card their fingers through his golden hair.

Zevran stays small for awhile after that, but Cousland doesn't mind the little one at their bedside keeping them company, nor do they mind the little shadow that trails after them once they're up and moving again a few days later; they know he's been putting it off (for far too long) for whatever reason, and when he does come back up again they'll talk about it then. Everything is done at a pace that he's comfortable with however, Cousland not wanting to push Zevran away since this is obviously something he's kept close-guarded for a reason. But even without words the pair reach a silent agreement, and it's decided that Cousland will be his cg from now on. Though he's much more vocal about things by the time the warden gets summoned away a few months later and his attachment (and subsequent separation anxiety) are made clear. So finding a little stow-away in the wagon as they near Amaranthine? That isn't a surprise. Of course Zev would come with them, to keep them safe as he had claimed—and they are sure their time at Vigil's Keep will be all the better for his company.

[zevranscrowsfeet]

#holy shit i found it again#finally#i was looking everywhere for this#btw op this is very nice and has so much angst potential#may i make use of this i wonder?#zevran#dao#dragon age#tw: wounds#tw: gore#tw: death#okay but#zevran pestering morrigan about teaching him to make healing potions#he starts to build up his own little caché of potions and salves and elfroot#he starts hoarding them#never again is he gonna be scared of running out#also#tiny zevran stealing healing potions from the handlers#tiny zevran is quick enough and quiet enough and knows where the potions are kept#they won't catch him#or so he thinks#it obviously doesn't work#either he is caught or their handlers notice potions have gone missing#either way the punishment is gruesome#and bad enough that he never tries it again (via @heniareth)

#hey! this is rude!#also thinking about how yes the crows are allowed to function and everyone knows about them#but there are too many rules about mages to just waste their magic on any old recruit right?#so to heal up the young unimportant ones they pay some random apostate with /just/ enough magical ability to heal on the surface#but underneath scar tissue still forms. wounds still leave marks they just can't be seen#and of course the higher-ups don't acknowledge that because they get the fancy healers who know what they're doing#sure the rank and file assassins might /look/ perfect but they are Not#it's always touted as so benevolent of the talons to use their precious resources on the newbies....#be grateful. be appreciative. don't complain about anything because you saw an acquaintance die of sepsis just last week#the calculations did not fall in favor of ''wasting'' the money and skill to save them#and it was agonizing and slow. finally someone cut her throat just to end it even though she was supposed to accept her death as punishment#for failing to be quick enough or agile enough or strong enough#what a trip for zev when wynne or a mage warden just. healed him. like it was no big deal.#and it turns out magic is self-replentishing and was never in danger of being wasted....#and yet another piece of abuse gets knocked loose with kind hands#oof#zevran#to write (via @greyvvardenfell)

ive noticed its a very common hc that zevran must have lots of very visible and painful looking scars, but i would like to offer the opposite case

he mentions more than once using seduction to get to his marks, and wouldnt being heavily scarred be counter productive to that technique? at the very least it would be distracting, at worst it could be a giveaway. 

also, think of the psychological ramifications of being tortured and brutalized, then healed to mint condition, over and over, the crow masters having carte blanche to do whatever pleases them to their recruits. the ones that die do so because the masters thought they werent worth the trouble to heal. they didnt die by their own incompetence, but by the crow masters’ will. 

imagine children found wanting in their skills instead of being killed outright,  slowly succumbing to accumulating non fatal wounds that are never healed. a knife that barely missed an artery there. a broken hand here. open, festering whip welts under a shirt. every day still training along all the other children who were good enough to earn their healing. 

imagine zevran’s pride on his looks being not borne only out of vanity, but out of the sense of worth instilled by the ways of the crows. 

imagine zevran fastidiously applying healing balms and salves and oils to his wounds, cajoling wynne to work her magic fingers on him, playing it up half as a joke on himself, look at how vain i am!, because that is easier than considering why seeing a scar from a cut he missed on his calf made him so irrationally but oh so deathly afraid of something. his body went cold and rigid, his heart, instead of speeding up, seemed to come to a halt, his breathing wasn’t loud in his ears but he worried it might still draw attention, he couldnt move his eyes, lest he be caught. he felt like a hare at the crack of a twig - frozen in its tracks, hoping against hope it would blend into its surroundings and go unnoticed. 

how silly of him, to be afraid over nothing! 

[maid-of-the-golden-deer]

a headcanon i like about the antivan poetry scene with zevran is that he like, idly wrote it himself while thinking about the warden, but then realized "wait. there arent supposed to be Feelings here" and scrapped them.

.......but, the next time he sees you he couldnt help himself and is like "ah yes. i will simply tell them about this Bad Poem I Heard. it is not MY bad poem. of course not."