Hello!
This story is from my old account that I no longer have access to, due to my email getting hacked. So I am re-writing it! I did read all of the reviews and I will work very hard to improve my grammar and spelling mechanics this time around. I am changing some things, as it has been 3 years since I wrote this originally and my skills have improved (I think).
I hope you enjoy.
When night had fallen and he was finally able to act, he had to shake his head. Here? Really? Could his target not have found even slightly more reasonable lodgings? Alas, he had gone to the bottom of the barrel, and only slowed his pace during the dead of winter. Zevan wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, trying to stop the shivers running up and down his spine. "Braska!" The Antivan swore as a gust of wind blew the hood of his cloak back.
This is just another shit-hole, he reminded himself, as he found the window his target was. His lithe but half-frozen fingers jarred the window open enough for the tiny elf to slip into the warmth of the room.
If only it had been warm. Instead, his leather covered feet touched down in a room no warmer than the world outside. Then the stench hit him, oh dear Maker, the smell! It was a mix of piss, wet dog, the sorts of alcohol that only Oghren would have drank and unwashed bodies.
He found the source of the smell almost immediately, it found him, rather. A man propelled the elf to the side in a diving dodge, before he rose his hands up to show he was unarmed. The roughly two-hundred pounds of muscle did not seem to care and lunged for him sloppily, nearly throwing himself against the window Zevran had climbed through. "Who the—Why are you here?" The voice was unmistakeable, but the face no longer seemed to match.
The elf laughed, it was hilarious in an awful way to see this man drunk. "I come on behalf of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, I seek an audience with you."
"I dun' care what that bitch wants…" He was slurring and unsteady on his feet, a meaty hand falling onto the rickety bed frame to keep him up. Zevran almost wanted to knock the man out for his own sake.
"Now, my dear Alistair, is that how you greet an old friend?"
"You are no friend of mine," Alistair grunted harshly, his honey brown eyes narrowing suspiciously at the elf.
Zevran ran a tanned hand through his long tresses of sun-kissed hair, holding back the sigh forming behind his lips. He took the next few moments to look around while the drunk attempted to get himself steady. The room was filthy, as was the man who had rented it. Alistair was dressed in a loose tunic that must have fit him once; his face was dishevelled and covered dirt, once neatly cropped hair now hung loosely around his jaw, the beginning of a scruffy beard covered his face from the nose down, his eyes bloodshot and the tip of his structured nose a bright pink from the alcohol. He was almost unrecognisable. "I beg you Alistair, merely listen to me."
He huffed and crossed of his arms, leading Zevran to believe he was giving leave to speak. Taking a deep breath, Zevran began: "As you may have heard, the remaining Hero of Ferelden has become the Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, hm? Well.. a situation has arisen, and they need someone to take her place. Someone who was there during the Blight."
Alistair's face was unmoving. "So why are you here, Zevran? I am no Grey Warden."
The grin that had been playing on his features died into something more serious, his eyes stopped their glittering and his hands folded on his thighs as he gathered himself to his feet.
"I can see that," He drawled, before shaking his head. "Alistair, they need a new Commander. Emily Cousland is dying."