The Black Shadow

~ DRAGON AGE ~ ZEVRAN ARAINAI RP BLOG

[honestlyitsjustsam]

I’m so proud of what i’ve done. No regrets.

[quotemadness]

You belong to me, I have made you mine. I have fought for you within myself, from the beginning, and always anew, and perhaps forever.

Franz Kafka (via quotemadness)

@disgustcdnoisc

[zevran-theblackshadow]

what colour is your soulmark ? THE COLOUR YOU FIT MOST IS…   ORANGE  !

Out of all the colors, people with an orange soul color are the most social. They are happiest around people and prefer to be out partying than sitting at home on a Friday night. They are never short of friends and get to know people all over the world.

Orange soul colored people are always looking to excite themselves and often do dangerous or thrilling things to feel alive. They are heavily competitive and excel in sports and physical activities. They rarely self reflect, preferring to stay in the here and now instead of dreaming about the future.

Dealing with an orange soul colored person is pretty easy. They don’t hold grudges over simple things and prefer not to judge others. In fact, they’re most likely to ignore stereotypes and befriend anyone that will talk to them, regardless of sexuality, race, gender, or mark.

Due to their nature of never wanting to settle, they never stay committed to something for long, often bouncing from interest to interest. This causes them to constantly be looking for the next thrill, and they often grow bored with their environment quickly. Schedules are not their strong suit. They are also the most likely to give up on something should it not give them a sense of purpose.

TAGGED BY:    NOBODY TAGGING:     @disgustcdnoisc and anyone else

[zevran-theblackshadow]

Zevran: Why are you looting the corpses? We are in a hurry to save the wardens!

Sten: It's what Kadan would have wanted

[quotemadness]

I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still.

Albert Camus (via quotemadness)

[quotemadness]

Most of the time when we think we’re looking for death, we’re really looking for love.

David Levithan (via quotemadness)

[zevran-theblackshadow]

In Search of a Hero

AU Starter

@disgustcdnoisc

Fog settled over the port of Llomerynn, gray sea-mist rolling over the docks and spreading like a plague. The boats knocked into one another as the tide rose and fell, and the lanterns glowed faint in the thick fog. Perhaps to those unaccustomed to Rivain’s temperamental weather, one might believe they had stumbled upon a city overrun by the undead. On most nights the sea port would be bustling with activity, pirates and smugglers alike trading whatever stolen goods they had acquired over their travels, but with the storms halting all ships coming in and out of Llomerynn, tonight all dealings would take place in the port’s infamous tavern, The Salty Wench.

The tavern lights glowed a dull yellow as the assassin slipped between huddled tables, his sensitive ears picking up select conversations that held mild interest. Deals made in secret, plots of murder or theft, whatever the crime, it would take place in this seedy city. Llomerynn was a city for the wicked, which was why he was particularly fond of it. Antiva and Rivain had always maintained good relations with one another considering their proximity--in many ways it felt as if he were already home.

The knife pressing against his throat, the elf decided, was a rather nice touch as well. His palms raised slowly in the air as a lackadaisical smile etched onto bronze features. While he could not get a good look at the man who slipped behind him, two other individuals rose up from their tables and sauntered towards them.

The other occupants of The Salty Wench seemed unphased by the interaction, their attention quickly focusing back onto their own dealings. An occasional stabbing or brawl was far from out of the ordinary here. The floorboards seemed permanently caked with blood.

“Oh, what a delightful surprise,” The assassin drawled, his chin lifting slightly as the pointed end of the knife dug into his skin, “I am all for a little knife play. Rough me up, you dirty scoundrel!”

“Damn knife ear,” the human who held a knife to his throat spat out, his breath reeking of ale and salted beef, “keep talking and I’ll slice that tongue of yours from out your throat.”

“You touch ‘em and I’ll have yer head in ‘s place,” hissed the second man, his beady eyes peering out underneath the fat of his brow. The heavyset man wielded an axe and raised it threateningly in the air. “That’s my bounty an’ you ain’t touchin’ it.”

The third of his admirers, a rather sallow looking man, gritted his teeth in response to the other two. Of the three Zevran felt he was the most capable, judging from the way he carried his broadsword like an extension of his own arm.

“The elf’s coming with me,” he stated with finality, and for a moment the assassin noted a wary glance exchanged between the other two.

How intriguing.

“Now, now, my burly friends,” the Antivan drawled, his heavy accent slurred from one too many bottles of honey mead, “there is no need to fight over me. I am fully capable of spreading myself amongst you three--and spreading myself in other ways too, should you so desire.”

Judging from the lack of enthusiasm upon his captors’ faces,it would seem that a  peaceful solution was out of the question. Zevran’s fingertips danced upon a blade near his upper thigh, hidden underneath the intricate ebony designs of his leather tasset.

“I suppose we could each cut off a piece of ‘em,” the knife-wielder hissed, “I ain’t got no instructions to keep him alive.”

“Only part that matters’ the head, and I’m not leavin’ without it,” the axe-weilder replied posessively.”You lot can fight over the rest.”

“I thought I made myself clear,” the sallow-faced man replied, his gray-green eyes seeming to darken underneath the faint tavern lights, “I am talking this elf with me and I’ll gut anyone who stands in my way.” His broadsword raised high, the warrior swung down his silverite blade towards the heavy-set fellow, who barely managed to parry the attack with the long handle of his axe.

In the midst of the chaos, Zevran finally managed to wiggle his hidden dagger from it’s sheath. With dexterity he twisted his foe’s hand, snapping his wrist and forcing the man to drop his weapon. The elf was about to bury it deep in the neck of the knife-wielder when, much to his surprise, there was an interruption. Eyes the shade of molten honey filled with intrigue at the newest addition to this manhunt.

“Well, well...you are certainly a sight for starving eyes,” the elf greeted, his cheshire grin stretching across pearly whites.

Tonight was about to take an intriguing turn, he was certain...

[zevran-theblackshadow]

To Trick A Trickster (God)

[zevran-theblackshadow]

 Dragon Age AU starter

(An old starter I worked on long ago where Zevran is hired by the Inquisitor after the events of the game to act as a spy under Solas’ forces. The RP never quite got off the ground. -sighs- I am still proud of it though and thus I am being vain and sharing it again)

Morning light spilled across ghosted tips of the mountain pass, painting the world in its soft glow. The wind, in contrast, howled with a vengeance, as if it wished to topple the lone traveler off the cliff’s edge and into the white abyss far below. With a firm grip on leather reins the rider steered his horse forward, the low hum of a foreign tune  upon his tongue to lull the spirited beast from panic. His silverite helm curved forward in mimic of a crow’s beak, shielding his eyes from the harsh wind and bits of frost that clung to his person. The Frostback Mountains bore no sympathy for man or elf or whosoever dared to traverse it’s ridged back, taking many the foolhardy traveler into the embrace of eternal slumber, souls long forgotten under layers and layers of an icy grave.

Upon reaching the apex of the mountain pass, the rider was rewarded for his efforts. Soaring above jagged peaks lay the stone walls of his destination, grey towers stretching towards heaven like fingertips in praise of the Maker. Or, depending on one’s interpretation, the towers kept the sky at bay, shielding the world from its eventual collapse.

Skyhold, as the fortress was so justly named.

The traveler flashed a grin, a gloved hand running through the silver mane of his mount. “Shall we see what surprises await us, Chiaro?” He questioned, a puff of white air escaping with each word. Why was it that his travels never took him to warm lands with summer wine and clear seas like his homeland? Though perhaps time colored his memory. After all, what land could compare to the fondness of nostalgia? “Personally, I long for the comfort of a bed and a decent meal. What say you?” The horse whinnied in response, lifting it’s leg to beat a hoof upon the snowy trail. The rider let out a jovial laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling like fine paper. “A good point, Chiaro. One can only hope the women (and mares, in your case) are as breathtaking as the fortress itself. Come, come, the anticipation is killing me.” Digging his heels into the belly of his mount, the rider bounded across the bridge with the thundering clash of hooves against stone.

The main gate loomed above his head as the traveler at long last reached the entrance. The heraldry of the Inquisition rippled with the wind in a flurry of umber and gold, the Watchful Eye in the center of the banner bearing into him, as if uncertain what to make of this strange fellow. Far above, a voice called out to the cloaked rider. “Reveal yourself, traveler. What brings you before the Inquisition?”

Tilting the beak of his helm, the rider revealed his face–skin, kissed by the sun itself, paired with eyes of a molten honey color and a flash of mischief in his gaze. Reaching into a small pouch on his hip, the elf raised a single scroll into the air, the broken seal of a nightingale melted atop the paper. “I am expected by none other than the illustrious Spymaster of the Inquisition, or so this letter has lead me to believe,” He began, each word curled with that Antivan accent of his. “I am an old friend of the Nightingale and have traveled a long way to abide by her request. Now, my horse is rather starved–I should like to grant him rest and a fine stack of hay to fill his belly, if you would but lift the gate for me.” A long silence greeted him. The Antivan wondered if perhaps they might deny his entry, but after a moment a grinding sound visited his tipped ears as the gate began to ascend.

Handing Chiaro off to a rather sour-faced horse master, the elf was instructed to meet the Lady Nightingale in the rookery. Streaks of light crisscrossed through the tower as the elf made his way up spiral steps. The boards underneath him would, usually, erupt in a groan from the slightest pressure of weight upon decaying wood. But shadows and their secrets were lifelong lovers of the assassin, a romance born from the obscurity of a starving boy on Antiva’s streets that thrived in the years to follow as a Crow. With catlike agility, the elf crept up the winding staircase to the rookery, the minimal sounds he created masked by the fluttering of raven’s wings. Reaching the top, his gaze fell upon the back of the Lady Nightingale hunched over her desk, the dim flicker of a candle bouncing light off the chainmail of her tasset. One step, followed by a second–the elf inched closer to the Divine’s Left Hand, gloved phalanges curling around the hilt of his dagger with a devilish gleam in amber hues. He breached no more than five feet when the Orlesian’s voice penetrated the silence.

“If you must attack me, Zevran, please wait until I am finished with this report.”

A melodramatic sigh escaped the assassin, his hands raising in defeat as the elf stalked around her desk. Removing his helmet, hair spun of pure gold fell past his shoulders. Zevran settled upon a chair across from the Spymaster, a visible frown forming upon his lips as he gazed up at her. “You could have at least done me the honor of feigning terror. A small shiver, perhaps? A gasp from those divine lips of yours would also suffice.”

To this, Leliana said nothing, though a thin brow arched as she turned another page of the report. Wisps of blood orange hair curled against her chin as she contemplated its contents. “You have become lax for an assassin. Perhaps your freedom has made you careless?”

The elf grinned from ear to ear as he rested his chin on the palm of his hand. It seems the spymaster’s tongue had sharpened with age. “If I were being serious, my dear Leliana, you would not have heard a sound before my blade pressed against your throat.”

The former bard put down her report, sky-blue eyes lifting off the sheets of yellowed paper to meet his gaze. “And if I were being serious, you would have ceased breathing long before you climbed those steps.”

The two rogues regarded one another in a stretched silence, broken only when a smile wriggled its way onto the Nightingale’s face. Zevran had a feeling that smiles were rare for the Chantry sister these days. The elf rubbed his chin with a delighted grin. “You are a changed woman, Leliana.”

His words seemed to have struck a note as the Nightingale’s gaze shifted past him, the curve of her smile set aside for a more somber expression. “I had no choice. Many times I wished to turn from this path, yet still, the Maker pulls me to him.” Slipping past the Antivan, Leliana approached an altar of the Maker, his lifeless eyes seeming to stare out into the distance. A hand reached out to brush against the carved ripples in his gown, stopping just short of contact. “There is one more thing I must do. Until it is completed the Maker will not grant me peace. It is why I have called you here.” Her head turned to meet his questioning gaze. “You must have heard the rumors. Of Fen’Harel.”

“Ah…” The assassin leaned back in his chair, the sharp tone of a skeptic in his voice. He had indeed heard of this ‘Dread Wolf’ long before the Inquisition. His brief time with the Sabrae clan in Kirkwall had taught him well the stories of this trickster god of lore. But he seemed just that, a warning for Dalish mothers to whisper to their children to ensure their safe return home. He held back those thoughts, however, for the moment. “You wish me to kill a god, then? Is that not a job better suited to your Inquisitor?”

“I am hoping it doesn’t come to that.” A voice called from the stairway. Zevran and Leliana turned to see a small elven woman with piercing grey-blue eyes. The Antivan was immediately swept away by her presence. She was not so much as stunning as she was awe-inspiring; the authority of command from her voice alone, the swirling mysteries behind the crystal depths of her eyes. He had felt this sense of reverence before, so many years ago, when he had stood beside the Hero of Ferelden herself. Zevran immediately stood from his chair as Leliana closed the distance between them, her head nodding to her second guest. “Inquisitor, this is Zevran Arainai, the assassin I spoke of.”

Inquisitor Lavellan turned her gaze towards the golden-haired rogue, a ghost of a smile appearing as she offered a sole hand for him to shake. Her fingertips were cool to the touch–the crisp scent of lyrium clinging to her robes. The faint primrose of her cheeks indicated that the Dalish had just finished with morning training. There was also an emptiness in her demeanor that was highly unsettling for the rogue. He could not figure out what it was that bothered him. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I have read reports of your work in Antiva,” she said. “Rumors of a ‘Black Shadow’ hanging over the heads of the Crows seems to have shaken the infrastructure of the guild. Quite a reputation to build for one’s self.” Her smile, he realized, does not reach her eyes.

The assassin shrugged in faux modesty. “It was a simple choice, really. Either I spend my life running from the Crows, or, I take my future into my own hands. I sleep better knowing my enemies fear me more than I do them.”

The Antivan tugged lightly at his gauntlet gloves and stepped closer to the Inquisitor, the thick gurgut webbing slipping off dextrous fingertips. He offered a sweeping bow. “If we are to speak of impressive titles, however, I would say you are the winner-Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition, saviour of the world. Truly, a formidable woman. And let us not forget our dear Leliana: the Lady Nightingale, Left Hand of the Divine. Spymaster for the Inquisition!” With his hands now free from their captivity, he captured the Inquisitor’s palm in a tender grip, a predatory gaze in honeyed hues. “Certainly the natural course of things is for the three of us to make love until early morning….”

“Zevran,” the spy master retorted, a warning in her tone and daggers in her gaze..

“I only speak the truth, cara mia! Women such as yourselves should be admired by painters, copied by sculptors–”

Leliana interrupted with the raise of her palm. “–Exalted by poets?  Are you now going to tell us that our beauty would ‘turn the eye of the Maker himself?’” There was a sparkle of amusement in those oceanic hues. “I was there when you used the same phrases on Morrigan, if you don’t remember.”

The Inquisitor let out a restrained chuckle. “Leliana warned me about you. I see her advice was sound.” Slipping her hand free from his grasp, the Dalish mage cleared her throat. “Let us get back to the task at hand, however. I’m afraid our mission is far more complicated than an assassination.”

Zevran shrugged in that lackadaisical manner of his. “Killing is what I do best, however, I have been told it is a terrible hobby.” The Antivan crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you need of me then, if not my daggers or my sexual prowess? I will have you know the price will vary depending on the length of time I must dedicate to this task.”

“Price is of no concern,” The Inquisitor stated.

Leliana cast the Herald a skeptical look. “I am certain Josie would be happy to hear that,”the spymaster muttered.  

However, the Herald’s gaze remained fixated upon Zevran alone. Gesturing towards the staircase, the Dalish indicated her desire for him to follow. “This isn’t a discussion for open air. Some of our own agents can’t be trusted.”

Leliana nodded gravely as she slipped past Zevran to stand beside the Inquisitor. “The war room would be the safest place to talk.”

Lavellan turned away and began the slow descent of the spiral stairway. As his gaze fell to the dangling emptiness of the Inquisitor’s left sleeve, he wondered if this elf would share the same fate as the Grey Warden; a brilliant flame silenced by the winds of change. And he wondered, further, if the rumors of the Inquisitor’s love for the Dread Wolf were true. Happiness, he thought, is not for those who fight for a cause greater than themselves.

And here he was, getting wrapped up in this tragic affair.

Ah, well. It’s not like he had anything better to do….

—–

TWO WEEKS LATER–

THE DALES,  FIVE DAYS SOUTH OF LYDES

Sun spots danced in his vision as the foliage overhead parted way to open skies. The elf glanced upward at the endless blue, his gaze following a flurry of birds as they fled from his presence. Here, in the heart of the Dales, beasts ruled the land. He was merely a visitor, forever under the watchful eye of wild wolves that tracked his course. Late at night, with only the comfort of fire, he could see their onyx hues reflected in the flicker of the flames, pearled teeth ready to snap his neck should the elf grow careless. Each night he lay several traps lest the wolves grow bold while he slumbered, yet so far they kept themselves merely in the shadows, slinking behind and around their unwelcome guest.

But it was not just the wolves that ran rampant, according to Inquisitor Lavellan. Magic too dominated every inch of the soil. Even for a rogue with no ties to the Fade, the earth beneath his feet seemed ancient, as if it held stories from a time when the Evanuris walked its path. Here, Leliana told him, they believed magic from the days of Arlathan masked the ruins of a forgotten temple. A temple that now hosted one of the many strongholds of the Dread Wolf’s army.

He understood now why the task could not be given to any of Leliana’s spies. The Antivan had no connection to the Inquisition outside of Leliana, a woman whose secrets wound so tight that they could not escape unless she wished them to. Born of elven descent and native to a country swept far from the political eye, there were few alive who knew or remembered his ties to the Hero of Ferelden. The bards often excluded him in their tales, preferring to focus on the Warden’s sacrifice, the sphinx-eyed witch, a bastard soon-to-be-king, and the Sister Nightingale. In one rendition he’d been switched for a female and Dalish–he supposed the gloves had a part to play in that–while in another he and Oghren were secret lovers (he’d written a letter to the dwarf immediately, a naughty one at that, since he knew the dwarf’s superiors at Vigil’s Keep would see the letter long before Oghren did). And let us not forget that the best assassins are those whose identities remain secret. Alas, there was no one better suited for the task. While that wasn’t necessarily a comfort for the Antivan, at the very least it swelled his pride.

It was with welcome relief that the rogue came upon a spring brook. The faint bubbling of water across smooth rocks interrupted the natural stillness of the forest. Leading Chiaro to the edge of the water, the Antivan slid off his mount and knelt onto the wet dirt. Bronze fingertips dipped into the sparkling fluid, feeling the ripple of the current as the water pulled west to an unknown destination. As he cupped the life-giving substance to his lips, Zevran was reminded of the eyes of the Inquisitor’s, crystal and blue like the water he drank. And he was reminded of tears that she would not shed for a name she would not speak.

His assumption had been correct: the Inquisitor was in love with this supposed ‘elven god’, a god that he was now tasked with earning his trust.

The wind rippled as the arrow cut through the air, the pointed edge aimed precisely at the assassin’s spine. With a roll of his wrist the Antivan unsheathed a lone dagger, the veridium blade glittering emerald as he twisted around to slice the projectile in half. Splinters brushed his jaw as the elf sprang forward and drew forth his second dagger, the heavy weight of an Antivan fire grenade in his left palm.

A devilish grin spread across tanned features. “What a dance we play, the hunter and the hunted. Are those wolves your pets, keeping an eye on all who venture in this forest?”The question was met with only the chirping of a bird far above his head, a heavy silence settling like a blanket over the clearing. Beside him, Chiaro neighed with discontent, a nervous tick as the horse became aware of the tension growing. With a quiet shush, Zevran stood slowly from his fighting stance, waving the hilt of his dagger as he did so.

“I have no intention of harm, my friends. My name is Taliesen,”  he began, dropping both daggers upon the ground and lifting his hands innocently in the air. The bomb he dropped as well, though with far more care as to not set it off. Better to use a dead man’s name than his own. “I have traveled a long way to seek my elven brothers and sisters, those who crave to rebuild that which we have lost.” He recited the next words carefully, as instructed by the Inquisitor, his gaze wandering across the shadows of the forest for wheresoever his attackers might lay.

“I abandon my ties to this world and choose the path of Din'Anshiral.”

[disgustcdnoisc]

I moved further than I thought I could              But I miss you more than I thought I would

It’s peculiar, how the world passes you by when you’re traveling, sometimes on automatic controls, your body taking over because your mind is too exhausted to even fully process your surroundings anymore. Trees, hills and a handful of quaint forest cabins all whizzed by as four pair of hooves created a fast, harmonious echo through the valley they traveled across. The Seeker’s gaze wandered over her shoulder, scanning the features of the person behind her, red streak across the nose and part of the cheeks, scruff around the lower half of his face…it was strange to think that this was the person Varric had described in his stories, the Champion of Kirkwall. Yet…the hidden depths of his expressions told many more stories of troublesome experiences. She knew then that this was the person she had been looking for. The future leader of the Inquisition. 

Come nightfall, what had been a galop and some trotting later, turned into more of a walking pace, until eventually, Cassandra suggested for them to dismount and search for a good spot to set up camp for the night. They had already crossed the Waking Sea and traveled for the better part of a day, so there would only be about half a day’s worth of travel left, but the horses needed rest, and so did they. As much as Cassandra would have preferred to get to know the Champion, relatively few words were exchanged between the both of them before they turned in for the night, the thought of an early morning wakeup and travel ahead fresh on their mind. After all, it wasn’t just Leliana who had traveled ahead of her to be present at the Conclave…

Regalyan. Galyan.

The second time she called him, he responded, instinctively arching his lips into a smile upon recognising her voice. 

“Cassandra…” 

Maker, how long had it been since she had last seen him? Too long, surely, and being able to see him again, touch him—it was akin to fresh drops of water after the longest trail through the desert. Being in public, their greeting was a demure one, but their fingers interlaced, and she could swear something physically sparked between the two of them. She had made it in time to see him before the Conclave, but as her duties as Right Hand of the Divine required her to join Divine Justinia at the Conclave, she made a silent promise to herself and her Mage that she would save the real greeting until after the meeting had been disbanded. A kiss on the cheek was what she parted with, blissfully unaware that it would be her final kiss for him. 

As it turns out, travel is not the only time when time seems completely irrelevant, and events simply…pass. One blink of the eyes, one sharp breath, and moments had passed like fine grains of sand escaped from within clenched fists. An attack, defense, the brightest green light, sharp, searing pain—so. much. pain. A familiar voice, crying out for help, and another, calling out her name. 

Galyan. 

I’m here. I’m here— 

Gloves seared into the scorched flesh of her fingers, she still reached out to him, still found him and held onto him for dear life, fists clenching around what was left of his tunic, her iron will clinging on to the last remnants of life, as though it would have made any difference…any at all. The blast had hurled them away from impact, heat had engulfed most of the Conclave’s attendees by now, and perhaps in a final act of mercy from their Maker, they had found each other again. The last thing she saw before her vision glazed over and even a Pentaghast’s will was put out like the faint flame of a bedside candle, was his face. Regalyan’s face, barely recognisable save for his eyes. Eyes that, until he had taken his very last breath, spelled nothing but love for her. 

Galyan— 

I’m here. 

A sweltering ache woke her from her slumber, and she felt so many things at once. Agony, emotional more so than physical, but she had thrashed about and tangled herself in the sheets, and toned, caramel-skinned arms had her firmly locked in place…trapped. 

“Shhh…Lady Seeker, I’m here, I’m here…” 

It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts and realise that she wasn’t trapped, she was— 

“You are safe.” 

Safe. She was safe. Her gaze found his, but with the same unbearable history no doubt visible behind her eyes like the pages of an opened book, she quickly broke contact again. These dreams, these alternate timelines of what could have been, they had plagued her ever since the Conclave, but she had never spoken of them, never shared them. She had not shared her bed since, not in her personal quarters, not where come nightfall, all of her walls would break down. She could have known this would happen, should have known, and yet…perhaps this was exactly what she needed. His warmth, his calming arms still firmly locked around her in an unexpectedly caring embrace. 

And just this once, she let the situation be as it was. No damage control, no distancing herself, but in stead, she sought out the very core of his embrace by resting her forehead against his chest, eyes falling shut as she allowed for his soothing touch to drape over her like a blanket. 

Moments later, her shoulders shocked lightly and the salty trails of her grief rolled ever so slowly down the side of his chest, to disappear into the sheets beneath them and dissolve there, not a trace of her momentary weakness left in sight. But for that moment, weakness was not so bad; after all, she had been strong for so incredibly long, even the strongest of fortresses was bound to crumble under such duress. 

Oh, how she crumbled. And how remarkable that it was the Antivan who was witness to it all. His hands, as it turned out, would be most capable of rebuilding her, memory by tiny little loving memory, moment by moment. 

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be 

              Right in front of me

                    Talk some sense to me

@zevran-theblackshadow

[quotemadness]

You are in my blood. I can’t help it. We can’t be anywhere except together.

Francesca Lia Block (via quotemadness)

@disgustcdnoisc

[rainbowsoapart]

those dragon age origins feels

[disgustcdnoisc]

❤️💞💝 ( We shall conquer the world with our fluff)

💞- A memory about their children 

“One more time!” 

Cassandra had never been the type to need much support other than that of her own resilient mind, not really one to share any type of pain she was going through—let alone with a man. After Regalyan, breaking down the stronghold she had built around herself had proven particularly difficult…but Zevran had taken on the task, and quite successfully, at that. His gentle hands had undone the bulwark around her heart and tugged lovingly at her heartstrings until she’d fallen for him. And that is where they were now, hazel eyes meeting with sweet honey-coloured gaze in search of support. He flashed her the mellowest of smiles, raising a hand to brush some stray, dark strands of hair from her face. 

A wave of feverish agony interrupted their moment, causing her face to contort as a visible sign of pain—yet she made no sound. Her breath held as she bore down and her fingers around Zevran’s, she squeezed his hand so tightly, it was sure to leave a mark. She felt light-headed, exhausted almost, but then she’d been at this for the better part of a day and night. The sun was about to rise again, and with the first rays of light, came relief for her. After so much effort, she could breathe again, the pain subsided…and her eyes glazed over, watery with emotion, as her newborn daughter was placed into her arms. 

Kicking and screaming was how she made her attendance known first. She was, after all, a daughter of Cassandra Pentaghast. When she laid in her mother’s arms, however, her father arched over the two of them to kiss her forehead, and then her mother’s , she quieted down until everything surrounding the young family was serene, and the Seeker and the Antivan had every chance to admire the perfection that was their newly born daughter in peace and quiet. Perfect little hairs that seemed to take after her father’s, little hands that instantly curled around Zevran’s finger when he reached out to her. And lips that would no doubt blurt wits beyond her age, when she would learn how to speak. 

“Justinia. We shall name her Justinia.” 

Coarse as her voice was, Cassandra paused for a moment to meet gaze with Zevran’s, a blissful smile adorning her lips. The child resting on her chest and left arm, she reached to cup his face with her right hand. 

“Justinia Antonia Arainai.”

Because not only had she wished for a child for some time now; her wish was to bear him a child that would carry his name. A legacy, a connection stronger than even the bond between them.

A family to call his own.

[zevran-theblackshadow]

The Seventh Rose - In Shades of Memory

The First Rose

The Second Rose

The Third Rose

The Fourth Rose

The Fifth Rose

The Sixth Rose

@disgustcdnoisc

Nimble fingers twisted the vine to curl towards the stairway, a lone petal detaching from its bud and swaying to the floor. Soft filtered light spilled through the overhead window and painted caramel skin of the elf in a dreamy light as if he were but a statue carved from the brilliant mind of one who could see beauty in a block of marble. True that the corners of his eyes had creases like a crow’s claw, and the dimples upon his cheek seemed to grow deeper, but these days he was a matured sort of handsome, or so the elf liked to tell himself

The floorboards creaked with heavy, sleep-laden steps. He didn’t bother to see who the noise might belong to.

“Good morning, patatino,” Zevran greeted his son, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips when the boy sighed. “I made your favorite breakfast. A bit cannibalistic, no, considering you are a little potato yourself.”

“Father,” Rinnalon groaned before letting out a long yawn. “It’s too early for your jests. And I hate when you call me that.” He must have stayed up late reviewing his scrolls again. 

Turning towards the russet-haired boy, the elf sent him a quizzical look. “Father? Are we at a formal ceremony? I haven’t even brought out my good armor!  Whatever happened to  Babbo, hmm?”

“I’m not a child anymore,” the boy said, crossing his arms over his chest, his lips settling in a familiar frown. My, the elf thought, noting the way his son’s brows seemed to dip the same way his mother’s did when given unpleasant news, I wonder if Cassandra has been teaching him the art of glowering? All he needs is to master a disgusted noise and the training shall be complete.

“True. You are a young man now, Rin, but you shall always be my little patatino. Was it not yesterday when I would wake up to you and your sister jumping on my bed screaming ‘Babbo, Babbo!?’” He reminisced. The elf pressed a palm dramatically over his heart, as if his son had pierced him with a poisoned arrow and the wound had sunk deep, deep into his chest. “I am a poor man now, for my son to deny his father a simple pleasure.”

Rinnalon flushed and stared down at the wooden floorboards, his tense shoulders seeming to settle a bit. He nudged the white petal that had fallen nearby with the edge of his big toe. After a momentary silence, Zevran returned to decorating the stairwell, figuring his son would lose interest. He was surprised when the boy spoke up once more.

“Why is it always white?”

“Hmm?”

“The roses,” Rinnalon began, his voice faltering slightly. “You choose the same ones every year. They’re always white.”

The question earned a bittersweet smile. Zevran added one more rose before turning to sit upon the last step. He gestured for Rin to join him. The boy sat down, hugging his knees to his chest and staring expectantly up at his father. How peculiar it was to see a mirror of his own honey wine hues staring back at him, somber and thoughtful. Rinnalon had always been a kind boy with a quiet disposition, his nose buried deep in books, yet there was passion behind his eyes only those who took the time to know him might see. Justinia had his sharp wit and her mother’s commanding presence, while Rin carried the dreamy romantic that lived in both of them.

“Today is a special day for your mother and I.” Zevran began. “I suppose it is a day that is important for most lovers, being Valentine’s Day, but the meaning is...different for us than others.”

He reached over and tenderly cupped his chin, admiring his son’s Nevarran features. What a precious boy, to take after his mother so. “You remember what I told you and your sister about your names?”

Rinnalon nodded in response. “Yes.”

“And what did I say, patatino?”

“That they were special names,” Rin began, and Zevran could see pride swelling as the boy spoke. “That our names carried memories with them.”

“Yes, that is correct. Justinia Antonia and Rinnalon Regalyan,” the elf stated, his ‘r’s rolling with an Antivan tongue. He sighed and released Rin’s chin, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “And your first name has a special meaning for me, my love.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Truly. Long, long ago there was….someone rather special to me.” 

He hesitated, before deciding that it was time for the boy to learn the importance of his name. In truth, Zevran rarely, if ever, mentioned anything about his past in front of the children. For all they knew, he’d lived in Antiva most of his life but left to find a new adventure, stumbling upon the Hero of Ferelden and, from there, offering his services to the Inquisition. He could not bear the thought of his children knowing of the suffering he’d endured. During his youth, he’d viewed his training as a sort ‘rite of passage’, something to be proud of, but now that he was a father, now that he had little ones past the age of his first kill...no, they need not know. Perhaps someday, but today he would keep the darkness of his past tucked far away.

“She was, much like your mother, a force to be reckoned with,” Zevran stated, chuckling softly. “She would never back down from a challenge, charging head first into whatever danger might await. I cannot tell you the number of times I almost lost my head chasing after that reckless woman. But it was what drew me to her, after all.” He sighed, hanging his head. “Fiercely devoted to her cause, my Rinna. She would have changed Antiva for the better.”

Rinnalon had been leaning closer and closer as his father spoke, his gaze filled with all sorts of questions. “What happened to her?”

“Ah….well….” Zevran crumpled into himself at the question, seeming small, for the first time in Rin’s life. But the elf recovered quickly and turned his gaze back towards his son.

“At the time, we were both pawns to a game neither of us realized we were participating in. I was deceived, and the cost of my foolishness was her life.” The elf plucked at one of the roses, pulling it free from its stem. He held the rose in the light, admiring the faint tones of yellow. Scattered veins ran across each petal, like blood trails spilling across an even surface

“ I spent many years lost. It was not until I met your mother that I learned to forgive myself. Her acceptance soothed me, her love healed me.” Cupping the lone rose in his palm, Zevran brought the flower to his face, the petals soft like velvet. He took in the scent and Cassandra immediately flooded his vision. “Mama is a hero in many ways. She is the Hero of Orlais,  the Right Hand of the Divine, one of the leaders of the Inquisition. And she is the person who gave me reason to hope for a future outside of my suffering.”

Rinnalon stayed quiet as he sat beside his father, processing the new bits of information. Zevran reached out and ruffled his hair. “Both of your names carry not just the memory, but the spirit of those we loved.  Regalyan is the name of a man whom your mother loved very, very much. It would be dishonorable of me to speak on mama’s behalf, but I am certain she would love to tell you more of the man who inspired your name. Like my Rinna, he returned to the Maker’s side sooner than he should have. Mama’s heart closed up for a long time after that. Truly, it was as if our pain was one and the same. And it took meeting one another to finally heal from the scars of our lost loves.”

Zevran handed the rose to his boy, smiling as Rin handled the flower in his palms like a precious gift. “The white rose has many meanings, Rinnalon. It is often used for spiritual purposes representing purity and innocence--rather boring stuff, really. But a white rose has other meanings: it is a symbol of remembrance and new beginnings. To leave a white rose is to say, ‘I am thinking of you, always.’”

The elf placed a hand on his knee, propping himself up. He winced as his knees didn’t seem to agree with his sudden movement. Oh boy. That was going to really bother him in a decade or two. He stepped back from the stairs to admire his handiwork. The candles flickered like small beacons, beckoning him home.

“The reason why I decorate our home in white roses today is to honor the love between your mother and Regalyan and the love between Rinna and I. In a special place, Rinna stays with me. If I had not met her, I would not have appreciated Mama for all of her strength in the face of adversity, I would have overlooked the gentle heart behind the brave face she presents to the world. I would have stayed in Antiva and never met the love of my life. And so, once more, the white rose holds another precious meaning for me: a new beginning, a new life with Mama and you and Justinia. You are everything I could want in this world, Rin. You are my hopes and dreams and my future. So these roses are for you and your sister, too.”

Outside the house, he could hear the clambering of hooves as the horses and their riders headed towards the stables. Perfect timing.

“Ah, I believe that is your mother and sister returning. Shall we greet them with a grand gesture?”

Rinnalon’s face lit up. “I’d like that, Babbo.”

--

Zevran pushed open the door, welcoming the sight of his two lady loves. “My warrior women have finally returned home! I did not think my heart capable of missing you more than I already have.”

The Antivan grinned as he approached his daughter, laughing as she leaped into his arms. He spun her twice, lifting her above him. Justinia was almost at his height these days. He tried not to think about that too much. “Did you have a grand adventure, my darling?”

He placed a kiss upon her forehead and whispered in his daughter’s ears. Justinia nodded, sending her mother a knowing smile before running inside. Turning towards his wife, Zevran approached her with smooth steps, lifting his brows in an appreciative gesture. “You truly are the Maker’s finest gift, Cassandra.” He leaned forward as if to kiss her, his lips a breath away from hers. Wrapping his arms firmly around her wait, he dipped the Seeker in his arms, as if the pair were straight out of one of Varric’s novels. He grinned with the mischievous gaze of a man up to no good.

“Our first kiss was similar to this, no?” The elf chuckled, before he swept his arm underneath her legs, carrying his Nevarran beauty to the door before she could protest. “And I believe our wedding night went something like this too.”

Carrying his love inside, the masterpiece he’d been working on at long last came to life. Vines swirled across the stairway and over arched windows, white roses blooming like an audience to their love story. The air carried the scent, sweet and heady, while the candles lit up the house in their soft golden glow. From above, rose petals fluttered down like fresh snow, landing in his hair and shoulders. He glanced up and gave an appreciative wink to Rin and Justinia as they tossed the petals from above the stairwell.

Zevran met Cassandra’s gaze, studying her features one by one. Her eyes, her lips, the sharp curve of her jaw---her face was  a map that lead to a treasure he’d been searching for all his life. “Welcome home.”

I am yours, always, Cassandra. No longer a shadow, no longer a weapon for others to use or a coward who cannot embrace his own feelings. I am simply complete.

I love you, I love you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

[oolongteamix]

Seeker of Truth

[roguelock]

zevran arainai || antivan crows || elf assassin

You tend to get up to interesting things. You meet interesting people and then you kill them. I’m game to tag along, if you are.

[springsarts]

“I’ve been with only one other man in my life. A mage with whom I adventured when I was very young. He died at the Conclave”.

Regalyan D’Marcall and his last moments looking at the newborn Breach.

I was very emotional drawing him and now feel realy exhausted because it’s so sad… He’s quite a nice guy and I enjoyed him much in “Dawn of the Seeker” movie. 

My Deviantart

By me a Ko-fi

[rp-meme-glaceon]

Peer into my muse's memories

❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile

💙- A sad memory that makes them cry

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty

💜- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad

💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing

💕- A memory about their significant other

💞- A memory about their children

💓- A memory about their friends

💗- A memory about a good deed they did

💖- A memory that made them feel special

💝- A memory that made them feel loved

💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding

💟- Wildcard!!!