a bajillion points for dem zevran thighs
so it’s zevran week. (YAY!) and since zevran was basically why i got sucked into dragon age in the first place, and since he’s one of my all-time favorite characters in anything ever, this thrills me. especially because i was nothing but a lurker while playing origins, and never joined in on discussions—just sat in my pajama corner, reading threads and fic and staring at art and adoring everything from afar, without actually contributing to any of it. it makes me sad that such things passed me by at the time and i never dove in, but now this will be my attempt to do something i have always wanted! …which is write about zevran! payroo held my trembling, sweating antivan hand throughout all this. it is all her fault!
Five Things That Never Officially Happened in Antiva
Coming back was troublesome—but that was a literal assessment, a physical one, and not in the general sense of physicality that Zevran preferred. There were storms that rocked the boat—also not the general sense of boat rocking that Zevran preferred—and sent the galleon off course for a time, while Zevran felt the lash and sting of salt water against his skin, against the heat that same skin held from the sun.
This was Fereldan weather, not Antivan, yet it followed him to the shores of Antiva City all the same, the old warmth of young arms missed especially in the night—physical assessments and boat rockings aside.
Then, the bounty of the docks and the stench of leather opened its arms, and Zevran realized it was possible to come back, even if it was not easy. Three old friends attempted to kill him that first night; yet what the sea could not manage, they could not, and from their dying breaths he heard news of the latest attempt on the Warden’s life.
As though any could manage it, he thought, and laughed to himself, which troubled his enemies—keeping them on their toes even when they were trussed up tight was itself a fine tactic—though there was something in Zevran’s chest also trussed, like a Feastday goose, an old Fereldan custom that had become colloquial, if not natural.
‘The difficulty, my old friends,’ he told them, testing the tip of a gifted dagger against the tip of a gifted leather glove, ‘is not that the Crows lack imagination—ha ha, no; it is simply the same imagination they display time after time, the same targets, the same methods… You see my disappointment, yes?’
Officially in love with Zevran week because of this post, ugggh I just love, love, love how you struck such a nice balance with Zevran’s dark background without actually, you know, making it over the top. But this entire fic was just so dark, the imagery of the Warden and Zevran watching the murder of crows flying away was so striking and it’s going to stick with me for a while.
Also poor Zevran spending who knows how long on his own trying to deal with his own problems with only a cat for company? Heart was breaking for him, but of course everything ended with a nice high note with the Warden and Zevran reuniting.
I am just so torn between Zevran and Morrigan now.