Jorath lay flat on the large boulder at the outskirts of their camp, gazing up at the stars. He smiled to himself, imagining their counterparts reflected against the dark surface of the Black City in the Fade, stars that, so far as he could determine, only he could see. I wonder which one is Kaavith's soul? Perhaps my dear mentor had such a black heart, his star does not shine as do the others...
He sought the star to which he always gave his greeting. Greetings, Narinia, little sister. How go things in the Fade? He shifted, tugging at his robe to prevent discomfort. I'm still a Warden, little sister. I've seen more of the world now in person than we ever dared dream. Have you been watching, there in the back of my mind? A chuckle quickly shook him as his hands reached above his head to extend into a feline stretch. Sometimes I feel you there, peeking out, you know. It is... comforting.
A rustle to the side caught his attention, distracting him from his dialogue with Narinia, and he smiled. "Going into town for a bit of fun?" he inquired. "I've heard that the Pearl can be entertaining."
A smooth chuckle answered, getting closer, before Zevran finally came into his peripheral vision. The elf had taken care with his appearance, though perhaps not in the way most people would recognize. Rather than making himself look immaculate, he had arranged his appearance to look slightly, but not too, disheveled, and perhaps a little careworn and haggard. "I prefer not to pay for companionship, my friend," the Antivan replied. "But, yes, I do intend a 'bit of fun.'" His eyebrow raised. "Care to join me? The night is long and the men are lithe, supple, and quite well dressed, at least, where I intend to go."
Jorath laughed. "No, you know I don't enjoy cities. All those souls around..." He fought off a shiver. "Go enjoy your game of 'poor little abused elf servant that needs a sympathetic bosom.' And make sure to get her shirt, if it comes to that." He smirked. "Although why you persist in trying to convince me you go into town for anything other than a woman is beyond me."
"Ah, but one day perhaps you will believe me, no? And then I can have my wicked way with you as we know to be all but inevitable," the Antivan laughed. "I shall be back before dawn... probably."
Jorath waved him away with a smile and a last Good luck upon his lips, then returned his attention to the stars, talking with his sister as he waited for a sufficient amount of time to pass. Once he knew himself to be in the clear, he slid off the boulder, his robe riding up only slightly from many evenings of practice, and made his way to the main part of the camp. He nodded in acknowledgment of his companions, enjoying the flinch in Alistair's face and the embarrassed flush in Leliana's as he moved towards his goal. The empty spot where Sten had once stood didn't bother him in the slightest, glad as he was to be rid of the chaos behind that smooth facade. He felt Morrigan's eyes upon him, measuring him in all their golden glory, but he heeded his sister's warning with that one. One day, I will knowall of what you want from me, you enchanting witch. Then, possibly, I will let you submit to me. He smiled. Ah, what a glorious night that will be.
He arrived at his chosen destination, a tent from which the faint aroma of leather emanated. He paused outside the entrance for a moment, pulling forth his sister, asking her the question. When she replied in the affirmative, he carefully knelt in front of the seemingly innocuous tent flap, his left hand removing a small squeaking object from a special pouch he kept at his waist as his right hand removed a small vial of red liquid from a special hidden pocket in his collar.
Quickly removing the stopper, he closed his eyes as the heady scent of blood struck his nose, momentarily giving him pause. Shaking his head slightly, he summoned a small channel of magic through the blood, causing a small tear in the Veil to appear. A small white light sprang up, a light with eyes and curiosity. He smiled at it, coaxing it to step over to his side of the Veil, then seized control of it, brutally pushing the tiny spirit into its new cage, the terrified mouse he held in his left hand, observing the abomination thus created with a clinical gaze. It will do for my purposes,he decided.
The abomination, comprised of one part fringe denizen of the Fade, one part terrified brown mouse - and thus, quite simple to control, as long as one had the augmentation of blood - whimpered as it hit the leather and linen, the sound the only indication that it had activated the traps Zevran had left in place. It spasmed as it hit the ground, twitching spasmodically as the contact poison and darts did their dirty work. Smiling to himself, Jorath took the limp and fading abomination into his hands and pulled the last spark of its magic into himself - breathing deeply as he did so to strictly control the wave of pleasure - as the last vestiges of its corporeal form ceased to exist.
Marvelous.
Brushing the dust from his hands he stood and pushed through the tent flap. Zevran's tent had, thus far, been spared his analysis, mostly due to his natural deference for a fellow killer, but curiosity had finally gotten the better of him and, at his sister's prodding, he had planned his invasion during Zevran's next night on the town, the only time that Zevran was not watching Jorath.
Settling himself on the tent floor, he looked at Zevran's belongings, his eyes immediately going to the leather backpack that Zevran always carried personally. The fact that he left it behind in his tent surrounded by traps when he indulged his carnal nature only increased Jorath's curiosity about it. He reached out and hovered his hands over the bulky bag, waiting for his sister to declare it safe to open. When she did, he swiftly peeled back the flap, shifting the bag to take advantage of the small light ball he summoned with but a thought.
Within, as he had rather expected, was a meticulously clean and well maintained portmanteau of poisons and antidotes, carefully labeled in obscure marks, mostly likely Crow scratchings. His hands gently caressed the glass vials, removing each one to sniff at the contents, identifying each one readily, even the more exotic mixes. Oh, perhaps he didn't know the particular names of the concoctions, but he knew how to craft each one, expertise gained from long nights in the Tower's Storage area, using his pilfered key to gain access to all manner of items normally forbidden to apprentices.
Convinced that this could not be all the assassin concealed from him, he carefully closed and removed the portmanteau from the large bag, and carefully began to probe the depths of the bag. He found only two items, both well concealed behind darted compartments, though he only required clever fingers and not magic to avoid the poisoned points. He held the two items in his hand, considering them.
One was a carefully folded up piece of paper, the other a lock of soft hair black as night . He brought it to his nose and sniffed. Blood. He knew that scent anywhere. His other hand gently brushed the hair, feeling it, sifting through it, comparing the strands to the hair he had analyzed over the years. Female. Likely an elf.
Satisfied that he had answered all he possibly could about the hair from what he currently possessed, he turned his attention to the piece of paper. Opening it, he found only two terse sentences. You are in his confidence. Why are they not dead yet?At the bottom of the paper was emblazoned the silhouette of a crow.
He felt the cold metal of a blade on his neck.
"Ah, Zev," he said calmly, folding the piece of paper back to its original complicated configuration. "You're back later than I expected." The blade didn't waver. He smelled the magebane with which it had been anointed, could picture the utter concentration on the man's face, along with the finely honed calculation he knew so well. Carefully returning hair and paper to their original locations, he inquired coolly, "Did you have a pleasant trip to the crossroads and back? Which poor merchant's wife did you steal a shirt from this time?"
Now the blade moved, closer against his skin, though the point did not yet cut through. "You took my bait I see." There was no smugness in the tone, only a subtle question. Why do such a thing if you knew what I intended?
Jorath shrugged slightly, not enough to move the blade. "A baited trap is only as cunning as its prey." He turned his head to look at the elf, deliberately causing the blade to slice through his skin. The blood began trickling down his neck. "Have I not always treated you as an equal because you, unlike the others, understand the necessity that is death?" Even as the magebane began to take hold, the power of the mage's spilled blood filled the interior of the tent. "Have I not always told you of all my plans because you, unlike the others, understand that pain must sometimes precede death?" He took the warp and weft of the blood's magic, weaving subtly, invoking the power of repetition, the power of the pattern of three in words spoken. "Have I not always told you of my desires because you, unlike the others, share them as well?"
The suggestion - for that is all it was, a suggestion of control - filled the air around them, weighing on Zevran. He felt the assassin fight back, felt his hand tighten on the knife, felt the tension against the blade. He knew the instant that Zevran won the battle - as he had hoped, though this did not mean that Jorath had in any way made the task of breaking his spell simple - and regain full control of his own mind again.
The knife withdrew. "You... you must win a lot of money in Wicked Grace," the assassin said, a look of grudging admiration in his eyes as he cleaned and sheathed his dagger. "You just bluffed with no cards in your hand."
Jorath smiled, the grin tugged askew by the grotesque scar that radiated around his left eye. "I always hold all of the cards. It is usually not until too late that my opponents figure out that I have been playing chess all along."
"So," the elf assassin murmured, "where does this leave us? I have seen the way you look at the others. You view them the same as the Maestros view all their underlings: mere toys to play with, vessels of potential, but no more. I saw what you did to the Templars, to the Dalish... You have no tolerance for fools or the blind." His eyes glittered as he looked at the tattoo between Jorath's eyebrows. "You chose the design of the black widow well, though you are male and not female. Quite the venomous fellow, aren't you?" Turning slightly, he tied the tent flaps, ensuring none could enter, or, for that matter, leave. "And what am I, in your world of power and control, mmm? What place can such as I have?"
The mage smiled. "You understand that world far better than any other I have yet met. I offer the option to be a part of it, rather than at its mercy, should you so desire."
A hand stole up and traced the radiating lines of the scar on his face lightly, sensually. "Ah, that word... desire... quite persuasive, I think." The other hand came up, caressing hair the color of flame and blood in one place. "I learned the lesson of that lie before we met, that desire can be something else, that it can be... innocent, or without pain..." He moved closer. "My eyes have been so opened, if you sodesire to keep them in such a position."
Slowly Jorath kissed his own fingertips, then placed them on Zevran's lips. "Have I not said that you share my desires as well?" A possessive look passed over his face as Zevran closed his eyes and shivered. "But the time for talk, well, it has now passed. Now is the time to act upon this... desire."
Although no further words were exchanged that night, still much was communicated. From his little sister, of course, he hid none of it, to her endless delight.
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One of my secondary characters, Jorath is both fun and creepy to write. If you'd like more stories of him, let me know!