Zevran walked silently beside Alistair, Briar trotting along between them, the huge mabari panting slightly in the heat. The elf kept his eyes on Owen, the tall mage stalking along some little distance ahead of them, Mara hurrying along at his side. It had been three days since the mage had issued his challenge – for Zevran to pursue him – and the elf had yet to decide how best to court the man. If it was simply a matter of getting the mage's attention, well, he was well-practised at that. But he knew he had Owen's attention already – had, in fact, had it for some considerable time before he himself had finally become aware of it – and was at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed as a result. A woman he might shower with flattery and gifts and little attentions, but he was certain that would merely amuse Owen, not further his interest. And he very much wished Owen's further interest.
He shivered slightly, though the day was warm, remembering the kiss they'd shared the night before the party had left the Brecilian Forest. It had featured in his fantasies – and at the beginning of several quite intriguing dreams – every night since. Pinned down on the ground, Owen's body a heavy, near-immovable weight over his, disarmed of his knives, his mouth being so thoroughly and above-all expertly plundered by the mage... He'd been achingly ready to proceed on to more interesting things from there, and the mage had just stood up, issued his challenge, and walked away. Curse the man!
"We should reach Redcliffe either late tomorrow or early the next day," Alistair remarked. Zevran grunted in acknowledgement, and Briar blew air out his nose in disgust. Alistair grinned at the hound's response. "At least we won't have to worry about your shape-shifting giving out at an inopportune moment; you're holding it really well now," he said to the mabari.
Briar's muzzle stretched into a doggish grin, his ears and tail lifting, and he pranced for a couple of steps before resuming his usual walking pace. Jowan had been in his mabari form since they'd set out this morning, and had now held it a good two hours longer than he'd ever managed before; unless he and Alistair had to spend an entire day in Arl Eamon's company there would seem to be little danger of the Arl finding out that the mage was in his vicinity again.
"I wonder if the dear Arl wrote to the Circle about Jowan, as he'd planned to do," Zevran mused.
Alistair grunted. "Probably. He was never one for idle threats. I just hope Greagoir and Irving didn't let him know that Jowan was still with us – hopefully Ser Gervais made it clear to them that we were keeping his presence a secret from the Arl."
Zevran nodded. "Yes, if he did learn the mage was still in our company, it might not be too large a mental leap for him to grow suspicious of our black-haired, grey-eyed friend here," Zevran said, nodding at Briar. The mabari snorted in agreement. "Assuming, of course, that he recalls what the mage looked like, or has any idea that shape-shifting magic is possible."
Alistair nodded. "Well, Morrigan changed to her spider form a few times during the battle to save Redcliffe village from the undead – it's easier to hack them apart when they're all tangled up in webs and can't fight back. So I wouldn't be surprised if he's aware of it by now. I doubt any of the knights or villagers missed noticing a spider almost as big as me taking part in the battle."
Just then Mouse, Arren's grey mabari, came romping back to them from his usual place at the front of the party with Arren and Morrigan. He came to an abrupt stop in front of Alistair and Briar, and barked, tail wagging furiously. Briar's ears perked up, and he turned to look hopefully at Alistair. Alistair grinned. "Looks like I get to take the boys hunting again," he said. "See you later, Zevran," he added, before following the two hounds off into the grasslands edging the road.
Zevran grunted and nodded. If Arren was sending out hunters, they must be getting close to where the elf planned to stop and make camp for the night. He considered their previous passages along this stretch of road, and was certain he knew the spot they'd be stopping at, a small copse of trees surrounding a spring-fed pond. Which meant a chance to bathe again, the first since they'd left the forest and its frequent lakes and streams behind.
Well, if he couldn't pique the mage's interest in him given nakedness, water, and some artful use of soap and lather to work with, then he was loosing his touch.
Zevran was pleased to find that they were indeed camping in the spot he recalled. He was less pleased when he realized it was his turn at cooking duty. Granted that just meant re-heating the pot of never-ending stew and adding things to it, by the time he'd finished peeling, chopping, skinning, and disjointing – Alistair, Jowan and Mouse having returned carrying a small antelope the mabaris had chased down – he'd have missed his chance to bathe with the rest of the men. He muttered more than a few colourful curses at the lost opportunity as he browned pieces of meat on a spit over the fire before adding them to the pot, and began cutting up the remainder of the meat in thin slices to dry as best he could.
He heard the others returning from their bath, and glanced up, then muttered another oath as they walked into sight. Every single one of them was wearing just their leggings, bare chests glistening with water dripping from wet hair as they talked and laughed together about something... surely he must have done something to displease the Maker, to have been denied the opportunity to bathe with them today.
He did take the chance to run his eye over the tall mage – his mage, he could not stop himself from thinking, though if he was honest with himself that had yet to be truly determined – admiring his physique. The mage seemed skinny compared to Sten, but truthfully he was in fine shape, his shoulders noticeably broader than Zevran's, and likely to fill in more now that he'd begun learning the arts of the arcane warrior and wielding a sword. His long blondish-brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the moment, not obscuring his ruggedly handsome features for once. His chest was covered with a curly mat of hairs of the same colour, and just as the scruff on his chin was a darker brown, so too did his body hair darken lower down, the trail of hairs leading downwards from his navel to disappear into his leggings showing starkly against his pale skin.
He wondered what the man looked like under those leggings. The one time he'd had a chance to see before, when they'd bathed together in the lake near the Dalish camp, he'd been distracted by thoughts of Mara's exotic beauty and simply hadn't chanced to look. And now that he was interested in the man, he'd missed a second chance to find out. He found himself wondering how proportional the mage was for his height, and felt a brief frisson of anticipation at the thought of how large a cock that would make for. He'd taken on large men before, but never that large.
He lifted the lid and stirred the stew again, taking an appreciative sniff.
"Smells good," a voice said from right behind him, making him jump. He turned his head to scowl up at Owen, who had once again moved far-too-quietly up behind him when he wasn't looking. He could well believe what Jowan had told him about the man's past as a cut-purse in Denerim; he certainly moved with grace and silence enough to have been a rogue before his powers manifested. "Sorry," Owen said, giving him a thoroughly unabashed grin. "I'll try to remember to scuff my feet next time."
Zevran snorted, and turned back to the pot, feeling all too aware of the mage looming right behind him. He could smell him, a hint of clean water and a pleasant citrus scent from whatever soap it was the man had used. It made him all the more aware of just how grimy he himself felt after several days on the road, and of the reek of his own still-unwashed body. He must look a sight, with his hair lank with body oils and his clothing smudged and dusty from the road. Hardly the best conditions in which to be attempting a seduction.
Owen was still standing right behind him. He rose to his feet, turning to look up at the mage, who was standing just that little bit too close, forcing him to crane his head well back to look up and meet his gaze. The nearness of all that delicious clean flesh that he couldn't currently touch annoyed him almost as much as how intimidating he found the other man just by reason of his size. He'd fought him, bested him in the fight, and yet still felt wary of the man's physical presence. "You wished something?" he asked sharply, wishing the mage would either back off or get much, much closer.
A slow smile crossed Owen's face. "Just beginning to wonder if I scared you off," he said softly. "Three days and you haven't made a move yet."
Zevran swallowed nervously. "Just... considering how best to proceed," he said.
Owen stood a moment, looking at him thoughtfully, then slowly smiled. "Just don't wait too long," he cautioned the elf, then turned away and strode off to his tent.
Zevran watched him go, biting back further curses, then turned to check the stew again. It needed something, he decided. A little wine, perhaps, to thin it out a little and give it better flavour. He'd ask Wynne if she had any left when she returned from bathing with Mara and Morrigan.
