Zevran Arainai

||Role-Play||Ask Blog||M!A|| ||Semi-selective|| ||Multi-Ship||Multi-Verse|| [An Indie blog for Zevran Arainai from Bioware's Dragon Age Series] Magic can kill. Knives can kill. Even small children, when launched at very fast speeds, can kill. Be a darling and read the rules.

[anantivantale]

[In the midst of revamping this blog as well as my Varric one (wellshit-fromkirkwall), so please be patient while I sort things out!]

[anantivantale]

There’s a glint of what looks resembles hesitation in Zevran’s face but he shrugs it off like it was never there. The tavern would be an ideal recovery location, but  as far as kind intentions went, this location would be quite dangerous, if it was the same one that Zevran knew about.

He’d beat some group of human thugs there at Wicked Grace, deliciously, having taken a whole sack of gold as a reward. They’d been rather excitable about possibly stringing up a pretty little elf up for their own purposes that night, but unfortunately for them, Zevran always played to win. 

No matter. He would find a way.

“Hm, that sounds quite painful indeed. This leg,” He moves it slightly, feeling the pain to be bearable, for now. “It will do. It’s a leg saved by you, dear Lyrian, and for that I am grateful. Will you have to make off soon? I would miss you, of course. Very much, but I doubt you have all the time in the world to take care of a poor, injured, pretty little thing like me, all alone in the forest, do you?” 

It’s part guilt-tripping, part survival instincts. It could backfire on him, but worst case scenario, he’d be left to die by himself in the woods - if memory served him well, he was stranded well away from his closest recon personnel, who had been informed to await for news from him along the outskirts of Orlais.

Beyond the cozy little corner that he had slept in quite comfortably, the rain came pouring loudly, and Zevran’s gaze shifted out, beyond the thick vegetation, through tall trees that had stood for eons before him. It’s a strange feeling, being small, vulnerable and altogether too insignificant, and he’s not entirely sure if he hates or likes this odd ball of emotion that was slowly uncoiling within him. 

Perhaps it would all make sense later. 

[seafoamsthetic]

DRAGON AGE INSPIRED HEADCANON MEME - EXTENSIVE LORE EDITION

Send one for my muse’s opinion on:

⚡️ Magic and Mages in general;

⭐️ The Circle of Magi;

🔥 Blood Magic;

☀️ The Chantry;

❇️ The Divine;

🔵 The Templars;

✳️ The Rite of Tranquility;

🔴 The Mage-Templar War;

☯️ The Order of the Grey Wardens;

🔱 Spirits and the Fade;

🐶 Ferelden;

💎 Orlais;

🎲 The Grand Game;

🌱 Tevinter;

💢 Slavery;

🌺 City Elves;

🌿 Dalish Elves;

⬇️ Underground Dwarves;

⬆️ Surface Dwarves;

❌ Caste system;

📖 The Inquisition;

❓ Religion (one or more of them);

💋 Sexuality and marriage;

🌳 Barbarian cultures;

[secretsandhushedwhispers]

Civilization || Closed

[anantivantale]

Zevran hummed low under his breath while listening to Brutus talk, his explanation brief, but summarised easily. Or, at least he thought so. He hadn’t missed the pained expression on Brutus’ face, but he was wary not to have the strange man grow over-attached to him. Nobody knew where he’d be in a good fifteen minutes, anyway.

“So. Let me ... try to wrap my head around this. This Kosmo. Is some baby that you were provided to take care of. Joey is a relative of yours. And your main reason for coming to Kirkwall. Now, who is this Farrin? This conversation and explanation confuses me a little. How did you end up like ... like this? In this particularly sorry state?”  He gestured to Brutus’ dishevelled state of dress -- or undress. He was more likely than not, robbed, or enslaved at some point. Elves being snatched off the streets in a City like Kirkwall wasn’t a surprise, really. It would surprise Zevran, actually, if that wasn’t a normal practice. 

He didn’t approve of it, no, but it wouldn’t be shocking at all to learn about such an occurrence.

The next thing he would have to get out of the way after this explanation was whether Brutus would be staying. And, also, his name, proper.  

“I realise I have not introduced myself, which is very rude of me, or so I am told.” A hand, sun-kissed and scarred, extends itself outwards in the promise of a handshake.

“Zevran of Antiva is pleased to be of your acquaintance.”

[anantivantale]

When he wakes, it’s still pouring. In fact, it looks like the weather’s taken a big fat turn for the worst, and Zevran squints into the dim light of the forest, mostly flooded by darkness from the rain that threatens to drench the entire earth beneath them into a swamp.

The next thing that catches his attention quite unwittingly is the sharp pain in his leg when he makes an attempt to move it. Attempt, because he doesn’t quite succeed in actually shifting himself much due to the pain - it’s less intense now. Still hurts, but his vision is clear and he doesn’t feel his head spinning with the dull ache at the back of his skull anymore, which is a sigh of relief, because he knows those to be signs of lyrium infection that he really doens’t need in his life.

He glances around, and spots Lyrian well enough close to him, and waves in quite the silly fashion at the other elf, looking a touch too happy for someone who had almost succumbed to red lyrium poisoning mere hours ago.

“Good - evening, I think? Lyrian, yes? Thank you very much for saving my dear life from those terrible red, glowy crystals. You .... did not have to do that. Nevertheless! I am grateful. Ah, could I know when I will recover? Properly? As in properly, to walk.”

[anantivantale]

For a long moment, the pain seemed to stop growing. And then it really did, as Zevran felt the poison slowly halt in its tracks  - a blessing. A relief. Thank the Maker and his beloved Andraste for strange Dalish elves travelling by themselves across the forests of Thedas who possessed arcanic healing knowledge and abilities. Perhaps the old Elvish Gods were blessing him! Perhaps they were finally retrieving them back as their own -- perhaps he was finally ready to join his mother’s clan! O’ Blessed Day! 

He’s not entirely sure what drives him to say this but as he watches Lyrian pull out crystal after crystal, he can’t help but simply blurt out the strange little phrase that he’s picked up from the Dalish that he’s met in his life - childish, honestly. A tourist, learning how to say a single phrase by spending two weeks in some city they will eventually forget. “ Ma serannas.” A lump is in his throat when he speaks, though the back of his mind rationalises that as nerves. He shoots said elf a charming little grin and  a wink that half-fails because he’s verging right into sleep’s territory. 

“I think I will have to sleep a little bit.” His head lolls to the side comically and he presses himself a little furhter back on the rock he’s leaned up against, obviously one step into dreamland.

“In the mean time. I hope I see your face in my dreams. Good night, Lyrian.” 

And it takes less than a good five seconds for him to conk out into the fade.

[anantivantale]

Motherland

[anantivantale]

Zevran slides himself to the side for Eon to get a better look at the map and he hesitates to extend a helping hand because he gets the feeling that the Inquisitor doesn’t really want it. Nevertheless, he listens carefully, laughing at almost-accusation as he looks over the Qunari’s broad back, tapping his lip lightly while brows rose at the destination now in view on the map. Was that wine that he mentioned? Antivan wine? “Do you think that we could grab a bottle or two? That is, if circumstances allow us, of course, it wouldn’t do us very well to be running around cutting heads off, drunk on liquor, I suppose. Or,” He shrugs, and looks at Eon as if he might just be really considering the possibility. “Maybe liquor might help. I do not know, alas. We can use a carriage to get us there – it would be easier to get your parents out that way too, though it might reveal our location.” Zevran watches the trail down to Amalfi and the path that follows further south, leaning forward to point at a forested area slightly to the east. He considers his options; bringing the carriage would make them far too obvious, but it wasn’t an option not to bring it either if he wanted to transport all four of them out of the place. These were older folks who’d spent their whole lives in the surprisingly fresh lands of rural Antiva, not predators with prying eyes and skills sharpened to a fault. And if the Inquisitor’s parents died, he would have time to distract their killers before regrouping with Eon. “There. We enter here. When we are close enough, you stay in the trees and let me take care of the bad men, yes? You might not be complaining since you could end up quite dead, but two things, good Ser Inquisitor – Leliana does not take failure lightly, and neither do I. Si? Come, do not look so dour. We have a plan now! How about food, before we attempt to take on more Qunari? I am sure there is somebody here whom we can approach to keep both of us alive.”

[secretsandhushedwhispers]

Civilization || Closed

[anantivantale]

“I hardly think that piece of fabric you are wearing can be considered a shirt, O’-very-strange-one.” Zevran looks over his shoulder, trailing off into a small line of chuckles that nearly falls at the mention of a baby before the door unlocks soon enough for him – another elf greets him with a dagger that is lowered immediately upon recognition. Taking a step forward into the dimness, the blond holds Brutus a little closer to make sure he doesn’t try anything suspicious to shock the woman any more than his presence already has.

“Zevran, what are you – who is this? Why is this stranger here?”

“Una víctima, novio.” He nods, shooting a little wink in her direction. She still looks uneasy, but she hurries to close the door before someone else follows in, lighting up the candle by the door that she’d evidently snuffed out right before Zevran had entered.

“Would you please, prepare a warm drink? I will bring him up to my room; bring Subira and tell them to come with a fresh set of clothes.”

“I don’t like what this looks like, Zevran…”

“That is what you said to me before we kissed, no?”

She smacks him loudly on the shoulder before he manages to scurry up the stairs, laughing while making sure that Brutus didn’t fall right off his back. When he does enter his room, he grins, pleased to see that it had been left untouched.

A big bed sat nicely on the side, on the far end away from the window. Pieces of paper – documents – sat neatly on the desk with a quill in its well, and several stamps set aside. A chest containing clothes stood right at the end of the bed, and Zevran walked over slowly to let Brutus down in his chair, sitting himself on the soft cushion of his mattress and stretching his back out.

“Now, we have much to talk about. First, tell me about this … baby of yours. And why you would even choose to take care of such a creature in Kirkwall, no less?”

[anantivantale]

“Interesting is one way to put it, in simple terms.” Zevran somehow manages to wink past the pain, and he almost hears Morrigan’s voice groaning in the background, which truly indicates that the red lyrium must be taking its toll on his body, prompting him to quickly down the concoction, though not without a hint of disdain as he hands the make-shift bowl back to Lyrian with his lips drawn into a long, thin line.

“Oh, it is often strange how some things never stop tasting terrible no matter how lovely the hands that they pass through.” Did that make sense? Was it alright not to make sense? Another throb of pain passes through his leg and his body visibly tenses, muscle tightening under sun-kissed skin, fingers grabbing onto the grassy ground beneath him.

“Though – maybe, that thought can come later, when my leg feels less like somebody is carving it open, yes, I think that would be very good, please.”

[anantivantale]

Motherland

[anantivantale]

“Walk in cautiously? Will there not be people waiting for your arrival?” Zevran’s brows furrow at the lack of a plan, but he realises that there are far too many possibilities to plan for. What if they were attacked right at the docks? What if the Inquisitor’s parents were already killed? What if there were Inquisition spies on this very ship that they were staying on and they would have to brave the next four days with said enemies watching out for them in their sleep?

Many, many if’s and maybe’s. Far too many, and sailing ever so closely to the homeland of the Qunari race itself? Not a good way to go.

“I mean the ones we don’t want to be there, of course. Not that I’m expecting Antiva to be preparing a feast for you, but I think the capital will be notified of your presence, within the day, even if your Inquisition has tried its best to keep this little trip hush-hush for you.” He hums something at the back of his throat and clicks his tongue, knowing that they would have to move quickly to avoid discovery by both the royal family and the Antivan Crows.

“How far away is the journey from Antiva City to this place that your parents live in? I understand it is along the outskirts? Or I could be wrong, look at this map,” He reaches over and presses open a map onto the table shifted out from in between their beds, using it as a makeshift surface and marking down small X signs on Antiva, and its neighbouring cities.

“Show me, where it is. We should prepare an alternate route, or plan, if we are to be separated in any way. I can’t possibly return to Ferelden to Leliana with one less Inquisitor than when I started.”

[secretsandhushedwhispers]

Civilization || Closed

[anantivantale]

Zevran resisted the urge to roll his eyes, he truly tried. It’s not surprising, based on the general conditions the man comes from; Kirkwall is not as organised as the bigger cities with authorities overseeing them properly. Even Antiva, in all its glorified political upheaval, followed a system that had been tried and tested, true to its roots of corruption and hushed methods. 

Kirkwall. Kirkwall was truly a lawless city where too many fell into the cracks of ineptness. This man was an unfortunate soul who had likely been beaten up for a bad job, though his wounds seemed to have been inflicted over a period of time. Perhaps Zevran could get himself a new servant-boy. Not that they lasted long, for many reasons, but the city was getting him quite restless, and he still had some time to burn before he would be meeting with Alistair one last time...

“I really wouldn’t, good man, there is nothing to take advantage of you see.” He steps past two women in a narrow corner who make way for him to move across, both of them resuming their previous positions and conversation, as if they hadn’t been interrupted at all. A door is at the right end of the alley, and Zevran hefts Brutus’ weight up once more to make sure he’s not going to have the other falling onto him.

“You are talking about the Grey Warden-Mage, yes? The one never stops being angry? You must be, but I doubt you like it very much there with all that frowning and screaming and oh, so much crying. Let me get you into a chair, or maybe a bed, then a good someone to look at what happened to you, are you agreeable, yes?” 

[anantivantale]

“I think I would like committing myself to these far more interesting conversations--” He takes the concoction with a nod of thanks, and a wink shot up at Lyrian, lips pulled into a devious little grin that betrays the pain that is otherwise shooting up his leg.

“Though you are right, of course - I would imagine that my leg is feeling a bit neglected, so down this goes.”  

The Dalish can blush, Zevran denotes at the back of his head with a very satisfied smile; perhaps the situation is not so terrible afterall, considering that he’s stuck in a forest with a beautiful pale creature that warms him up after he nearly dies. 

Maybe it’s luck, or it’s deliriousness talking. Likely both. Whatever it is that Lyrian hands to him, it doesn’t taste nearly as bad as it looks, which is some sort of ... vegetation mash-up. He doesn’t question it’s medicinal properties because frankly, he’s way out of his element in unfamiliar grounds, and this is his best shot at surviving a red lyrium infection. He hands the bowl back, and stares at the injury for a moment, not quite feeling much until a while later, he realises that he isn’t feeling anything, not even the pain that’s supposed to be there in his open wound. 

“Oh. It does not hurt.” Luckily, common sense tells him not to go about touching red crystals of devastation as he blinks and readjusts himself.

“This is quite a nice feeling, being not-in-pain. I assume this is a good sign? Or am I wrong? I could be, though I would prefer not to be. Wouldn’t do any good if I was aggressively making eyes at you from a sad skull.”

[enjolrassuggestions]

the rumors are true. i am gay and i love revolution.

[anantivantale]

Zevran resists the urge to pout, Andraste’s bosom does he resist it with all his might. The ember from the flames dance fleetingly in golden eyes as they flicker up at the other elf, so similar, yet from a completely different world. A mage. An Apostate? Or Dalish? Common sense informed him that no Dalish would travel alone in the forest, and yet, this one did not seem lost, or nearly afraid of anything.

“Very well, you have a point.”

It’s not easy to move when one has red lyrium coursing through their blood, now he knows this by experience. Gingerly, he shifts himself, left knee up and his right leg spread out straight. Red crystals had somehow managed to dissolve against his skin, and Zevran took a deep huff before straightening his back against the rock once more, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is there a … position? You would prefer me in?” It is so very, very difficult to be serious sometimes, even in the face of possible death and abomination.

“If there is one thing I am good at, it is offering myself up in different ways to a handsome man such as yourself.”

[anantivantale]

“I was hoping for something with more flair, but Iron Bull is a good a stage name as any.” Zevran’s voice lowers to a hush as he hears voices outside introducing them as a sort of circus act. A small peak through the sides of the curtain reveals their small audience, already gathering by the front in frilly frocks with lace layered thick enough that it makes him want to throw up their tiny meal from before.

“… and the Cirque De Luna is proud to present to you our special double act – the Curious Jamboree!”

The name didn’t even make sense, and Zevranrolled his eyes at the disappointment of a title that had been assigned to them, tugging his robes a little tighter and grabbing his daggers.

“I shall see you back here, tonight.”

Sunlight blinds him for a second when he does take a step out, and it truly hits him – this is Orlais, in all its gilded glory. The epitome of beauty, grace, and a dagger to your face. Or was it to your back? More likely the latter, these Orlesians, dressed in their finest clothes, did not seem the sort who would be nice enough to inform you directly of your death.

“Ladies, and gentlemen!” He calls for their attentions, with two sharp blades in both hands. “How is everybody today? Doing extraordinarily well, I hope? Even if you are not, fear not! For Zevran shall entertain you!” The sound of a lute strums behind him and he is happy to hear that the coachman had picked up his instrument to an oddly familiar tune that’s almost Antivan-like in structure. It helps. And he moves accordingly to the sound of strings strummed by a skilled hand, moving further out into the crowd until he spots an exit. Having spotted his way out, Zevran throws his daggers, and he hears the people gasp, the throng of Orlesians now visibly entranced by his performance. A path is paved onto the ground, forming a barrier of sorts out for the Iron Bull’s grand entrance.

“And now, for our most anticipated programme of the day; the Iron Bull!”

[secretsandhushedwhispers]

Civilization || Closed

[anantivantale]

“Darktown, you say? Why would you want anything to do with Darktown of all the mouldy, rotten places in Kirkwall, eh?” Zevran’s tone is light, but he takes his time looking over the elf and the ensemble of bruises that decorate his body across several shades of dark blue and ranging well into black. Based on what he sees, these aren’t the sort of wounds one receives in a scuffle out in the streets and he draws his lips into a thin line before manoeuvring both of their bodies to have Brutus leaning most of his weight on his slighter form.

It’s a good thing he hasn’t been slacking on his form, now that he thinks about it, and he grips the other’s side up towards him to take the weight off his legs. Once they were secured well enough, he started walking, bringing most of Brutus’ weight with him and winking over to a man who nodded at Zevran and flipped a coin cheekily before leaving into an alley. 

“My quarters are not far from here, do you think you can make it up two flights of stairs?” 

[anantivantale]

A man was leaning against a large cobbled statue, attempting to keep himself standing. His legs were shaking and his face was strained. The brown tunic he wore fit him nicely though he was wearing a shirt under it as well. What parts of his skin were uncovered were purple-- prominent bruises. His wrists and neck were skinny like the man hadn't eaten a good meal in a couple days. "Nipardo... Mio caro... Could you help me stand? I don't think I can make it on my own."

“Nipardo… Mio caro…” Oh? Was he going to get lucky tonight? It had been a while since he last got hitched by anyone, though it’s more likely than not due to how shady Kirkwall was. Damn Alistair and his stupid little trips to the weirdest parts of Thedas. Meet in the Free Marches, he said. It would be a neutral zone, he said. Pfft. Neutral indeed, with Qunari waiting by the docks and a mage-templar situation that’s the worst he’s seen in a while. 

Maybe, maybe this guy won’t be bad enough for him to reject straight up.

“Si? Mi– you are not here to hook up, are you?” Because the man looks like the personification of death itself, and Zevran glances about quickly to see if anyone’s on his trail before hefting the stranger’s body up, brows knitted out of confusion.

“Friend, you do not look so well, perhaps you are lost?”