Last time I played through Redcliffe with a Dalish Warden, I couldn't help but be miffed by the general forwardness of the humans. It didn't fit into the world view of my chosen Warden at all, so here's what would've happened if we had the option of being more Dalish in the games.
Just a side note: Dear To Me isn't abandoned, despite the last update being in January or so. I simply can't seem to do a decent enough job of writing it.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything concerning the Dragon Age-series of Bioware.
Warning: some M!Warden/Zevran, though nothing really explicit. Still, you've been warned.
Riellon clenched his fists, tension in the whole of his body but his face remained blank. The bann was tattling on, yet he didn't hear the words.
The gall. The sheer, unbelievable gall of these shems! Settlements just like these were always the ones that cried out loudly whenever a clan of Dalish camped in the forests nearby. They were always those who drove them away with their pathetic militia. Because they feared the Dalish, feared them so intensely that they couldn't sleep while the sails of aravels were visible over the tops of the trees.
Now this village – Redcliffe – practically begged for their help, begged so that they might survive until morn. Riellon pressed his lips together so tightly his jaw ached.
Hate, cold and putrid, sat in his chest, made it hard to breathe and harder still to look at this human. He was glad he hadn't brought Alistair with him – the disgustingly soft heart of the shemlen would have made declining their pathetic pleading so much harder.
The bann had stopped talking, Riellon realised belatedly, and regarded him warily.
"Warden?"
At Zevran's low inquiry, Riellon blinked and turned his hard stare away from the human. He hadn't bothered to remember the name. Why would he?
"I realise," the bann spoke quietly "that asking you for assistance is not befitting. But I beg you, Grey Warden."
Riellon glanced upwards, at the statue of the human prophetess. Andraste. Even he knew the name of the woman who had freed the elves, only to find that her followers looked to destroy elven culture again years later.
His fingers hurt and he closed his eyes briefly. He wanted so desperately to leave these shemlen to their fate.
They treat your people worse than one would dirt. Shemlen don't deserve help, the hateful part of his mind whispered maliciously.
You have a duty, insisted rationality, Stay the night, defend the village and get into the castle come daylight, this will be quick and you will have the first of your allies.
Riellon flexed his fingers, the leather of his gauntlets creaked.
"There are no darkspawn here. This delay is needless." The qunari's voice was impatient and he couldn't blame him. But there was simply no way for them to defeat the blight with only their treaty allies. Riellon knew the number of his people, but he also knew that – at best – only one clan would be present in the Brecilian forest. There were no hundreds of warriors to be had from the Dalish, realistically all they could hope for were twenty or thirty. Judging from all the knowledge that he'd gathered about the Circle, the templars wouldn't let many more than a dozen mages out of their sight. He knew nothing about the dwarves but Riellon expected the worst.
You have a duty.
Creators, he didn't want to do this.
You have a duty that cannot be forsworn.
These were shemlen. Mythal, what is it that you demand? Justice? Protection?
A hand closed around his arm, just above the elbow. "My Warden, are you alright? Warden?"
You have a duty.
Riellon took a deep breath and glanced sideways. Zevran's face didn't betray his feelings but there was the smallest hint of worry in his eyes and his fingers tightened imperceptibly.
Riellon would have smiled at him reassuringly but his facial muscles wouldn't obey.
"I'll help you," he murmured, his tone inexpressive, his eyes studying the familiar face of the other elf. Zevran blinked, a small frown marring his forehead.
"I'll help you," Riellon repeated, louder this time, swivelling his head to look at the bann. Zevran's hand slipped from his arm as the bann beamed.
The clan sent you away to stop the blight. You need an army to stop the blight. You have a duty.
Before the bann could finish thanking him for his assistance, Riellon turned on his heels and strode out of the chantry with long strides.
That doesn't mean that they don't deserve to rot in hell.
The next straw came when they entered the tavern and met its owner. Who had no intentions whatsoever to join the fight and help the villagers, gladly letting others take over.
"Why should I care? No, no, no, I'll get down in my cellar as soon as dusk sets in."
Riellon could feel his still heated blood start boiling at once as Lloyd kept talking. The hate from before surged up abruptly, not even climbing slowly but rather hitting him full-force. He saw red. Enough.
One jump and he was on the counter. One kick and Lloyd shouted in pain and went down. One movement and he had his bow drawn taut and arrow pointing dead-centre at the human's forehead. He bared his teeth as he fixed his prey as unblinkingly and focused as a predator would. Llyod froze and the heady scent of fear permeated the air, making Riellon want to purr. But he was no cat and he didn't. Instead he drew his elbow back a tad more, ready to let go of the arrow and be done with it.
"No, wait, please!" Llyod's eyes bulged with panic but the human didn't move. Smart enough to listen to his instincts at least.
"Ar tu na'din," Riellon snarled viciously "shemlen'alas, ar tu na'din!"
Deadly silence reigned in the tavern and his mouth quirked into a cruel parody of a smile, with too much teeth shown and the promise of pain in his eyes.
"I-I-I don't understand Elvish," Lloyd finally stammered. Sweat beaded on the fat human's forehead. Riellon sniffed in disdain. "I-I-I-"
"Do not," he interrupted harshly "think that I will hesitate to kill you, shemlen. We will aid your village but I've been itching for some shem blood for a good while now and you'll do nicely!"
Lloyd shrieked in fear as Riellon's arm twitched but he didn't let go of the bowstring and no, that hadn't been planned. A warm, calloused hand had gripped his right calf firmly, grounding him, jerking him back to a reality where he couldn't just kill a shemlen because he felt like it.
"My Warden," his captor murmured coaxingly "he can be of use. There's no need to waste resources, no?"
Riellon heard: There's no need for you to give in to weakness, no?
A spark of a different, just as dangerous kind of anger coursed through his veins, anger at a prey lost, at a hunt interrupted.
"There is," he replied scathingly "if the resources aren't capable or willing."
Zevran's hand massaged his tense calf cleverly but he refused to give in. The irrational anger spiked a notch.
"Ah," he could practically hear the persuading smile on the assassin's face "but I would bet my leather boots that this man would be willing now, my dear Warden."
Lloyd nodded frantically. "Of course! Of course! I'll be out there tonight, fighting!"
Riellon stared hard at him, feeling his jaw twitch uncontrollably. There was no legitimate reason to kill the disgusting shem now – if there'd ever been one – and his frustration made him grind his teeth together.
Then, suddenly, he lowered his bow and took one look around the tavern. Terrified humans everywhere, staring at him like he was Fenharel in person. Riellon took a deep breath.
"Get out of here!" he barked. They started. "What good will you pathetic vermin do your village if you're too drunk to even recognise your enemy?"
Nobody answered the rhetorical question as they scrambled to get out of the tavern.
Riellon took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bow and arrow hanging loosely from his fingers. The hand on his calf wandered up a few inches and he suppressed a shudder; then a thumb started to stroke the hollow of his knee. He nearly stumbled on the counter as his leg threatened to give out under him but he held his balance, opening his eyes to send Zevran a glare.
The Antivan chuckled, his lips curved into a lascivious smirk, eyes hooded as he stared at him.
Riellon's breath caught in his lungs as a spark of desire flooded him and he forced himself to look away, somehow escape the spell – really everyone had cleared out. Including Sten and Shale.
Another hand gripped his other calf and then those hands suddenly tugged hard.
Riellon yelped loudly and entirely undignified and then once again and quite a bit louder when his back and buttocks collided with the counter's wooden surface.
"Creators," he cursed, irritated and tried to free himself of Zevran's grip. The assassin had other plans, however, and he got pulled off the counter with one short yank that made him squeak and flail for balance "What in Arlathan are you-"
He didn't get to finish his sentence as hard, unyielding lips crashed against his in a bruising kiss. Grumbling his unwillingness, Riellon leaned back as far as the counter would allow, but all that did was causing Zevran to latch onto his throat instead, kissing and sucking.
His eyes rolled back entirely of their own accord, hips bucking and a deep, heady groan escaped his throat before he even realised it. Zevran's triumphant chuckle reverberated through his body.
"You're so very feisty when pissed off, my Warden," Zevran purred, hands wandering as lips traced his jaw. Riellon's jaw muscles twitched as he gritted his teeth together when those lips and teeth returned to their marking. He hissed as the other's hands stroked over the quite loose leather armour that covered his arousal.
A breath, then another and then he gathered what resistance he had and pushed Zevran away. The Antivan didn't seem perturbed, licking his lips as if he'd just had a taste of a delicious treat and gazing at him with those dark, sensual eyes.
"We have things to do." Riellon was aware of just how breathless he sounded. As a slow, predatory smile made its way across Zevran's face, he couldn't help but shiver, then glare balefully. He didn't appreciate feeling like prey.
Zevran stalked him with slow, carefully measured steps. For each one Riellon took backwards, he took one forwards.
"I think, my Warden," Zevran's voice was like honey, tingling pleasantly across Riellon's very being "there is nothing left to do but wait. And why wait when we… can distract ourselves from the horrors to come, yes?"
Across the whole tavern the one fled, the other hunted. Riellon's heart beat a fast staccato and excitement coursed through his blood. Just a few more feet until he hit the wall of the tavern. He licked his lips and saw Zevran's rapidly darkening eyes follow.
He shivered.
The assassin pounced.