"If one more person is an asshole about me being a woman or an elf, I'm going to let the darkspawn eat them all," Rivka growls, her hands clenched into such tight fists that even her short, blunted fingernails are doing some damage.
Why is it so shocking that all Grey Wardens aren't human men? Garahel, who'd killed the Archdemon and ended the last Blight, was an elf. Sophia Dryden had been the last Warden Commander in Ferelden before King Maric invited them to return. And even if you were ignorant of these facts, why on earth would you openly doubt the ability and willingness of the only person offering to help you?
It made her want to strangle people. With her bare hands. Or walk away and let them deal with their petty problems on their own. It's not like she has anything better to do, oh no, she doesn't have a Blight to stop with one other warden and some violent tag-a-longs.
She hears the distinct sound of accented laughter and spins, glaring at Zevran. "I will put Alistair back on cooking duty and tell him that you love his stew."
The assassin gasps with mock horror, his hands coming up to dramatically clutch at his chest. "Such cruelty, my dear warden. No one would ever believe me if I told them how you torture me so."
Rivka huffs, fiercely resisting the urge to smile. He is already far too aware of how he affects her; she doesn't need to give him any more knowledge of how much power he holds over her emotions.
He walks toward her, his hips swaying to some internal rhythm. "How can I distract you from these nefarious plans, hmm?" He's in front of her now, his lips curled in a smirk that's too affectionate to live up to its name. "A massage, perhaps?"
She laughs, unable to hold on to her anger any longer, and steps willingly into his open arms. "Only if I actually get a massage this time."
"Oh but of course," he says, his voice low and silken. "Anything for you, my dear warden. Anything at all."