#kali broska

[blarrghe]

off by a day but I wrote another little thing for @zevraholics​ Zevwarden Week. For the prompt “Opening Up”

She gave him leather gloves. 

His response was bewildered, and something about what he said closed in around her heart. His first real gift; he wasn’t used to receiving kindness. Grateful, he told her that no one had ever thought of him like that before, remembering the details of a story. The Crow talked and talked, and no one had ever listened. But she saw the gloves, and she thought of him. She found that a lot of things were beginning to make her do that; birds and beasts, a well strung bow, the first time she saw a great lake and wondered if it was anything like the ocean. She found herself still thinking of him after he left her tent, and sometimes, she found herself asking him to stay. For the gloves she said he was welcome, that it was nothing. It wasn’t; she wasn’t used to showing kindness.

He gave her an earring. 

Her response was confused, and something about that made him nervous. The crow talked and talked, but he couldn’t tell her why. She asked for a reason, and found herself quibbling with him like she did with her sister. He told her he wanted her to have it for all she had done for him, and she told him she needed no reward. Flustered and hesitant, he insisted. When she thanked him, something shook in her speech too. He had given her things before, useful things; a whetstone for her axe, gathered herbs for her potions, the last piece of meat from the fire. She always said thank you like it was nothing. It wasn’t; she wasn’t used to being shown kindness.

He turned away and told her no. 

Again, she was confused. She was finding that a lot of the things he did confused her; the way he laughed at her short little jokes when everyone else thought them bitter, the way he called her beautiful and insisted that he meant it, the way he fussed over her wounds after a fight. When she asked him to, he stayed. He knew her body better than she did; kept calling it beautiful as he found new ways to overwhelm her. He stayed in her tent often, following passion with gentle talk, sleeping in her embrace. She asked again, and he told her that her care and trust confused him, filled him with a feeling he didn’t know how to name. 

She told him that she felt the same. He told her that was enough.

[blarrghe]

“i don’t care if the world knows my name, i just want you to remember me.” For whoever!

Wellp since it’s zevwarden week I decided to tie this into that, and also the “death” prompt of the day. I posted this story about my zevmancing warden earlier, so this is a bit of a more in-depth moment from that.

Denerim was a dirty, cramped, and dusty city, walled in with stone and ceilinged by an almost omnipresent raft of grey clouds. The city seemed to bleed grey. It’s only whorehouse was a lifeless shack, and its proper taverns were filled too often with high class travelers, and not often enough with interesting locals. Zevran wished that their epic quest to save all of Thedas could have led them somewhere warm and beautiful, but he took some small comfort in knowing that the Archdemon would come to ruin this pile of mildewy cobblestones, and not the gem of Antiva. And even if it was but a dismal scrape of butter upon the dry brown toast that was Ferelden, it was, at least, a city on a coast.

The shores of the Amaranthine Ocean did not open onto Denerim in wide sandy beaches, but into grubby ports sectioned off with gates and guards. The water linked itself to no great canals, but to a tributary which ran through the city, crisscrossed by stony bridges and busy roads. But, if one followed that river just a short distance beyond the city’s walls, along the west road, and through just a few secret paths in the surrounding wood, one could find a place upon it where a wide clearing of grass opened up beneath tall trees, and the river gave way to several small streams, trickling in a cascade over hills of rock and old wood. 

There, on the eve of their great battle, the completion of their legendary adventure, Zevran snuck away with his love. 

They had been quartered in Denerim’s castle for weeks, since arriving in the city with the Arl of Redcliffe newly won to their side, and to sleep in a bed had indeed been a relief, but on this final night of the journey, it seemed more fitting to rest beneath the stars. Zevran laid out blankets and some simple lanterns, then emptied his pack of the vital necessities he had brought with them for this return to wilderness living; books of poetry, an empty journal, various decadent pastries which he had deftly acquired from the castle kitchens, and several bottles of Antivan wine - nothing from the royal wine cellars, but cheap bottles he had bought off smugglers at the ports. Neither he nor his love much cared for dignified vintages, and with Antivan wine, it was the cheap stuff which conjured images of the sea. 

The night was blissfully still. The clouds had parted for them, it seemed, in their hidden place just a few hours away from the world, and stars glittered in the sky overhead. They filled the night with passion, and then with rest and murmured words.

Zevran read his lover poetry, emphasizing the phrases from his books of romance which reminded him of her, and he wrote, too. His love drank wine from the bottle, sitting with her legs leisurely draped over his, as he jotted down quick words and made hasty sketches. 

“What are you doing?” She asked him as she placed the bottle gently down.

He passed her the journal, there were a few lines written, and the outlines of a sketch of herself that was rough still, but clear. “I told you I would show you a beautiful evening,” He explained as she admired his artistic skill, “and I want us never to forget a moment of it.” 

“Least of all me, naked.” She said with a smile, passing the journal back. 

“Least of all, my dear. It is a pity to think that when they design your statues, they will surely miss much of your beauty.” Zevran replied. 

She moved to lean into him, winding herself up between his legs and pushing her head back onto his chest. He closed the book and let it fall to the side as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“You are going to be very famous after all this, you know. A hero, one of the great tales.” Zevran teased softly, his lips at his lover’s ear. 

“I don’t care if the world knows my name,” She closed her eyes as she tilted her head up for him to kiss her lips, “I just want you to remember me.” 

Zevran sighed, pulling his arms tighter around her waist. “Do not speak so, beautiful Warden.” The risk of death was not new, it was a thing built into each of their lives from even the earliest memories, but this battle held a weight that was different. He did not want that looming shadow here, in this starlit grove. 

“Zevran, I love you.” His Warden said in return, tilting her head once more with the expectation of a kiss. It was something he could not refuse. “Write that down for me.” She said as their lips parted. 

She shifted, reaching for her pack which lay atop the pile of their clothes just to her feet. From it she pulled a small box, and rolled back toward him, bringing her face up to his own with one more kiss before she pressed it into his palm. 

“You gave me one.” She said as he opened it. 

Inside was a ring, a thin band of plain gold. He held it up, tilting it to reflect the glow of the dim lantern light, and his heart filled with wonder at it’s shine. 

“It doesn’t look like much, but it has a story, like yours.” He heard her explaining, and brought his eyes back to her to find her face unfathomably timid. “First thing I ever bought for myself, that.” He took her hand and pressed the ring back into it, returning it to her care. But as he pulled his hand away she caught it, and taking his hand in both of hers she slipped the band securely over one of his fingers.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it; a gesture that he had previously thought himself the master of. He felt a redness not caused by wine flooding to his cheeks. “Zevran, if I die,” the somber words interrupted the peace of their hideaway again, bringing dark shadows on their wings. 

“My love, you mustn’t talk so.” He insisted, hushing her with a kiss. “We will face the Archdemon together, and come back in one piece.” He pushed the words out confidently, but she pressed his hand to her lips again, gazing softly over his fingers to lock her golden eyes with his. 

“If I die,” she repeated, holding his eyes in her gaze, “I need you to understand what this has meant to me, what you have meant to me. I did not think I would ever feel so happy, so…” She trailed off, but quieted him when he tried again to interrupt the finality of her speech. “I love you.” She said it again, pulling his hand to her own heart, where the earring he had once given her was hung on a long chain. “Promise you will remember that.” 

His beautiful Warden, determined and fast-acting, the woman of few words. She was mighty, adventurous, tough, and had been brought up in straits as dire as his own. He had once thought she would be ruthless, brutal, in need of no one. And yet she had been trusting and caring to him, a fast friend, a passionate partner. Love had been a surprise for both of them, the feeling creeping upon them as the months wore on. His trusted, loyal, dependable, fearless Warden. Her words threw his heart into quicker beats, while the desperately pleading look on her face and the sureness in her grasp on his hand left him struggling to remember to breathe. There was no poem in his books that could describe how he loved her. 

“I promise.” He said with a quiet strength. “Until the end of my days.”

[blarrghe]

Kali Broska

Wrote this a bit ago, but didn’t post the full thing to the tumblog. Posting now as it fits @zevraholics Zevwarden Week theme of the day - La Petite Mort (Death). Hope that’s cool =] AO3 Link

If it was supposed to be spelled “Brosca”, Kali didn’t know, and she didn’t care. Kali was a casteless dwarven woman (whether you liked it or not, yes, she was a woman), with two fists that were made for three things: fighting, drinking, and more fighting. She spent her entire life acting as the support of her small family, broken as it was. While she provided the money and food, her mother drank her days away unhappily cursing her children for all they didn’t accomplish, and her father, long dead, had left his daughters with nothing but gambling debts. 

The only person in the world Kali trusted in her life before the Blight was her sister, Rica. Rica had charms that Kali didn’t, and she could win the hearts of even noble men with smiles and pleasant words. Kali supported her sister in her attempts to marry up, and never minded that her own line of work was more brutal, while her sister had to stay focused on her appeal - in fact, she preferred things that way. Rica was safe, and she was free to let her fists do the talking most of the time, which suited her fine.

Apart from Rica, Kali had one close friend in her brother-in-crime, Leske. They weren’t exactly affectionate, but the dwarf had saved her skin more than once in a close fight, and she had many times done the same in return. Life in the slums of Dustown is unforgiving. No friendships are made that can outlast all that Orzammar can throw at a casteless duster, and all told, Kali would still say that she only trusted Leske as far as she could throw him, but, she wagered, that was probably pretty far.  

When a job for her Carta boss went south and Kali was forced into exile, her only real thought was to her sister, Rica. With a heavy heart she left Orzammar to join the Wardens, ready to fight darkspawn for as long as the surface days were long, but occupied all the time with thoughts of her sister. Rica had assured her that prospects with a promising noble house were very good, and that she would be made of noble caste within no time, but Kali hated to leave her with nothing to fall back on. She vowed, somehow, to come into cash enough to help her sister, as soon as the ritual and battle at Ostagar were over.

But things did not go as planned, and long months of fighting darkspawn, werewolves, and demons went by before she could return to Orzammar. Upon returning, she found that her fears had in fact been unwarranted, and her sister was - as promised - poised to marry into nobility - royalty, even! Though the progression of the line was being challenged. Kali had never had any love for the royal ruling class of Orzammar; few dusters did. But this young prince promised progress for the low classes and the casteless, and moreover her sister’s fate mattered above any political jabber. So Kali ran the prince’s errands, feeling little different than she did running errands for the Carta, and doing so brought her again face to face with Leske.

When Leske betrayed her, she was angry, but not surprised. While she had been gathering forces against a blight, her old compatriot had been working his way out of imprisonment, climbing the ladder of hard jobs back to a place where coin could be gotten, and she could not blame him for that. She did kill him though, taking his head in battle with furious skill.

Of all the wonders of the surface world, the animals were Kali’s favourite. In Dustown there are only nugs, bugs, and the occasional panic of a stray darkspawn that breaks through the Deep Road defences. But in the forests of Ferelden there were wolves, bears, even sometimes wild cats. She took on a canine companion, whom she called Kallack - war - and allowed, with bemusement, for the elf-assassin she took to her ranks to continually attempt to impress her with his command of and friendship with various creatures.

Kali enjoyed the attention from the assassin, and she found unlikely friendship in the Warden Alistair, as well. The kid was new to battle, and unfamiliar with death, but he had a warrior's heart and the right sort of spirit to share a drink with, and that led into friendship fair enough.

Leliana, she struggled to understand. The bard was kind, and impossibly sweet, but a little mad and sometimes too soft. Still, Kali grew to trust her like another sister, and she said the same of Morrigan, the witch, in short time. Morrigan was strong, like Kali, and determined in her aims. Kali admired her and consulted with her often, finding her opinions and guidance valuable as she fought to gain respect in the humans’ world. With the help of Morrigan’s shapeshifting magic, Kali’s body was bound in the form it should have been, all along, and the process gave her a peace she had never expected to receive. It was dark magic, perhaps, and Wynne disapproved, but Kali could tell little difference, and generally found that Wynne fretted too much, and asked her to wax philosophical much more than was warranted.

Kali was a woman of few words, she fumbled with writing or responding to letters, and read few books. She could not tell you if Leliana’s songs were worthy of Orlesian courts, nor whether Zevran’s poetry would be considered trite by scholars of such things, but she had no reason to care: to her, these were the finest arts in all the world, and she loved them.

So it was with Kali, her affections were hard-won, but once you had them, they were hard-lost as well. Zevran flattered her, and she began her relationship with him on a thoughtless whim; a pretty thing to warm her bedroll, as he would say. But he strove ever to impress her, and soon, he did. He did not win her heart with his fighting skill, something which Kali admired but could certainly best in contest, but in the way that he could speak in soft rhythms while she simply listened, him never demanding more. And she loved him for the way he understood her life - what it had meant to grow up casteless and penniless, trapped below ground doing dirty work for dirty dealers, without her having to explain any of it. He called her beautiful, stringing together three words that she had never heard woven for her before, and he did so often.

When Morrigan came to her it was with concern, for she knew that Kali would be stubborn and unwilling to dictate choices over Alistair’s body or bed; Alistair naturally asked what she would have him do, and she was honest. By that time Alistair had learned to trust Kali’s leadership, and would have followed her into any insane plan, but Alistair had earned her respect in return, and she had arranged with difficulty for his rule over Ferelden after the battle was ended - a deal made with Anora that Alistair took reluctantly, but with dignity nonetheless. That same dignity she offered Alistair on the eve of battle, telling him to choose of his own volition, and he elected to fight without tricks, fully expecting that if there would be a price to pay, he would beat her to the paying of it.

Kali fought with sword and axe, having learned the art of channeling her anger from the mighty dwarven fighters of the deep roads, and the skills of a champion from her kindred companion, Sten. She was a whirlwind of force in a battle, taking on large and brutish darkspawn without fear, and slaying beasts and evil spirits until her armour ran red with blood. When the dragon came down upon the Wardens on the rooftop, Alistair could not keep his fearsome friend from the fight, and she leapt atop the monster’s back and slew it, relinquishing her soul as she did.

Zevran was not the same after Kali’s death. He wandered back into a life of contract killing and misbehaviour, but with less lightness in his step, and no more evenings filled with poetry. In her final farewell to her bewildered lover, she told Zevran in her own way of how full he had made her heart, how special he had made her feel, how light and happy and full of tingling feeling and deep love; how his love had changed her, shown her a goodness in the world she hadn’t thought to find, guided her through challenges on the surface that in her whole lowly life, she had never dreamed she might face - oh, that she did not have to face those things alone! All of this, she spoke directly into the heart of the reformed Crow with her own three words: “I love you.” She told him, and the two exchanged rings under the stars together, alone and perfect, in a ceremony of their own design - with poetry and love making, and the knowledge that their souls would be forever bonded.

Zevran always knew that his beautiful Warden might be taken from him in the end, and he had spent much of his time with her desperately trying to cling to the strength to accept it. But when that time finally came, that strength failed him, and he took little comfort for a very long time. And even as in time he found new adventures to entertain him, never again did he love, for there were none who could compare, and he wore Kali’s ring until the end of his days.

[blarrghe]

I’m finally happy with these! All three of my Wardens because I can’t pick a canon ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ You can also read about them on AO3!

[blarrghe]

WIP Wednesday more like RIP Wednesday amirite? ha ha ha I am never going to finish all of these.

[blarrghe]

Kali Broska finds out from Morrigan that there is a way, with magic, to physically transform her body to be as it should have been. She undergoes the ritual without hesitation.

Zevran: So it is done? You look very happy, I trust all went well.

Kali: Yes! It feels... I feel lighter than air, Zev. How do I look?

Zevran: You look like you. I am simply glad that the witch did not mar your beauty.

Kali: This doesn’t... does this change anything, with us?

Zevran: Should it?

Kali: I didn’t consult you, before. I’m learning that I should... I should try, sometimes, to talk to you. About things. And... feelings.

Zevran: Ah, for me as well, that part is new. But you did not need my permission, you know this.

Kali, angrily: I didn’t mean permission!

Kali, sighing: I just. If it’s too strange, I’d understand.

Zevran: Oh? I do not think you would, I think you’d more likely hit me. But not to worry, you are as beautiful to me as ever.

Kali: Thank you.

Kali: I would have hit you.

Kali: You aren’t going to miss my...old body?

Zevran: Can I still ravish this one? If so, then no.

Kali: But the ravishing, it won’t be the same.

Zevran: Kali, my love, I have made love with bodies of a great many sort; men, women, and sometimes those in between. Every act is an adventure, a new splendid land to explore and enjoy. And I already know that you are an excellent lover, I doubt very much that has changed.

Zevran: Still, if you would still like to pleasure me with a cock as you used to, I would not object. We could purchase you a new one, for when the mood strikes.

Kali: I don’t want a -

Kali: Oh. OH.

Kali: There’s a shop in Orzammar. They have ones that are purple.

Zevran, laughing: Of course. Fine Dwarven Cocks.

Zevran: Right now, though, I’d very much like to explore this new splendid land with you, if you are game.

Kali: That is the only thing I have ever wanted to do in my whole life, Zevran.

Kali: Oh and kill the archdemon.

Kali: But mostly, yeah, sex.

Zevran: And how honoured I am to be able to aid you in both those pursuits, my beautiful Warden.

[blarrghe]

This post got a note and I got a thought :(

“i don’t care if the world knows my name, i just want you to remember me.” For whoever!

Wellp since it’s zevwarden week I decided to tie this into that, and also the “death” prompt of the day. I posted this story about my zevmancing warden earlier, so this is a bit of a more in-depth moment from that.

Denerim was a dirty, cramped, and dusty city, walled in with stone and ceilinged by an almost omnipresent raft of grey clouds. The city seemed to bleed grey. It’s only whorehouse was a lifeless shack, and its proper taverns were filled too often with high class travelers, and not often enough with interesting locals. Zevran wished that their epic quest to save all of Thedas could have led them somewhere warm and beautiful, but he took some small comfort in knowing that the Archdemon would come to ruin this pile of mildewy cobblestones, and not the gem of Antiva. And even if it was but a dismal scrape of butter upon the dry brown toast that was Ferelden, it was, at least, a city on a coast.

The shores of the Amaranthine Ocean did not open onto Denerim in wide sandy beaches, but into grubby ports sectioned off with gates and guards. The water linked itself to no great canals, but to a tributary which ran through the city, crisscrossed by stony bridges and busy roads. But, if one followed that river just a short distance beyond the city’s walls, along the west road, and through just a few secret paths in the surrounding wood, one could find a place upon it where a wide clearing of grass opened up beneath tall trees, and the river gave way to several small streams, trickling in a cascade over hills of rock and old wood. 

There, on the eve of their great battle, the completion of their legendary adventure, Zevran snuck away with his love. 

They had been quartered in Denerim’s castle for weeks, since arriving in the city with the Arl of Redcliffe newly won to their side, and to sleep in a bed had indeed been a relief, but on this final night of the journey, it seemed more fitting to rest beneath the stars. Zevran laid out blankets and some simple lanterns, then emptied his pack of the vital necessities he had brought with them for this return to wilderness living; books of poetry, an empty journal, various decadent pastries which he had deftly acquired from the castle kitchens, and several bottles of Antivan wine - nothing from the royal wine cellars, but cheap bottles he had bought off smugglers at the ports. Neither he nor his love much cared for dignified vintages, and with Antivan wine, it was the cheap stuff which conjured images of the sea. 

The night was blissfully still. The clouds had parted for them, it seemed, in their hidden place just a few hours away from the world, and stars glittered in the sky overhead. They filled the night with passion, and then with rest and murmured words.

Zevran read his lover poetry, emphasizing the phrases from his books of romance which reminded him of her, and he wrote, too. His love drank wine from the bottle, sitting with her legs leisurely draped over his, as he jotted down quick words and made hasty sketches. 

“What are you doing?” She asked him as she placed the bottle gently down.

He passed her the journal, there were a few lines written, and the outlines of a sketch of herself that was rough still, but clear. “I told you I would show you a beautiful evening,” He explained as she admired his artistic skill, “and I want us never to forget a moment of it.” 

“Least of all me, naked.” She said with a smile, passing the journal back. 

“Least of all, my dear. It is a pity to think that when they design your statues, they will surely miss much of your beauty.” Zevran replied. 

She moved to lean into him, winding herself up between his legs and pushing her head back onto his chest. He closed the book and let it fall to the side as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“You are going to be very famous after all this, you know. A hero, one of the great tales.” Zevran teased softly, his lips at his lover’s ear. 

“I don’t care if the world knows my name,” She closed her eyes as she tilted her head up for him to kiss her lips, “I just want you to remember me.” 

Zevran sighed, pulling his arms tighter around her waist. “Do not speak so, beautiful Warden.” The risk of death was not new, it was a thing built into each of their lives from even the earliest memories, but this battle held a weight that was different. He did not want that looming shadow here, in this starlit grove. 

“Zevran, I love you.” His Warden said in return, tilting her head once more with the expectation of a kiss. It was something he could not refuse. “Write that down for me.” She said as their lips parted. 

She shifted, reaching for her pack which lay atop the pile of their clothes just to her feet. From it she pulled a small box, and rolled back toward him, bringing her face up to his own with one more kiss before she pressed it into his palm. 

“You gave me one.” She said as he opened it. 

Inside was a ring, a thin band of plain gold. He held it up, tilting it to reflect the glow of the dim lantern light, and his heart filled with wonder at it’s shine. 

“It doesn’t look like much, but it has a story, like yours.” He heard her explaining, and brought his eyes back to her to find her face unfathomably timid. “First thing I ever bought for myself, that.” He took her hand and pressed the ring back into it, returning it to her care. But as he pulled his hand away she caught it, and taking his hand in both of hers she slipped the band securely over one of his fingers.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it; a gesture that he had previously thought himself the master of. He felt a redness not caused by wine flooding to his cheeks. “Zevran, if I die,” the somber words interrupted the peace of their hideaway again, bringing dark shadows on their wings. 

“My love, you mustn’t talk so.” He insisted, hushing her with a kiss. “We will face the Archdemon together, and come back in one piece.” He pushed the words out confidently, but she pressed his hand to her lips again, gazing softly over his fingers to lock her golden eyes with his. 

“If I die,” she repeated, holding his eyes in her gaze, “I need you to understand what this has meant to me, what you have meant to me. I did not think I would ever feel so happy, so…” She trailed off, but quieted him when he tried again to interrupt the finality of her speech. “I love you.” She said it again, pulling his hand to her own heart, where the earring he had once given her was hung on a long chain. “Promise you will remember that.” 

His beautiful Warden, determined and fast-acting, the woman of few words. She was mighty, adventurous, tough, and had been brought up in straits as dire as his own. He had once thought she would be ruthless, brutal, in need of no one. And yet she had been trusting and caring to him, a fast friend, a passionate partner. Love had been a surprise for both of them, the feeling creeping upon them as the months wore on. His trusted, loyal, dependable, fearless Warden. Her words threw his heart into quicker beats, while the desperately pleading look on her face and the sureness in her grasp on his hand left him struggling to remember to breathe. There was no poem in his books that could describe how he loved her. 

“I promise.” He said with a quiet strength. “Until the end of my days.”