I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
Just a slip of a thing, barely under five feet, Evaria Cousland, Aria to her friends, proudly stood in the practice yards, her fallen opponents laying haphazardly on the ground. She lifted her chin at the winces given to her by Fergus and her father and audacity to flash a cheeky smile. They shook their heads and sighed, unable to resist returning the grin as they watched her toss heals to her "enemies".
Long since bound to silence, the sparring partners would no more relay her mage abilities than betray their royal duty. The fact that most of them were half in love with his slip of a girl didn't escape Bryce Cousland's notice either, and in fact, was probably more of the reason his daughter still graced their home, instead of the tower.
A guard approached from the left and he watched the man from the corner of his eye, while nodding towards his daughter. "Get cleaned up Pup," he said dismissively as he was handed a note. She looked up from helping another partner off the ground, her blond curls falling lightly over one shoulder. "In a moment, father. I can't leave them unhealed." He smiled again and tucked the paper in his breastplate. Evaria the merciful, he should have named her. "When you're finished, come see me in the great hall."
He left her then, his brow furrowed in thought as he made his way towards the guest that awaited at the gates.
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She watched her father exit, her head tilted in question. The soft tendrils of hair brushed against her neck, exasperated she pulled them back quickly into a pony tail and tied a knot quickly, before flashing a quick smile to Fergus and a wincing one to her opponents. "Next time, boys. You'll get me next time," she tossed over her shoulder as she exited the training yard.
Sweat and grime had collected on her person and she'd never been more grateful of the bath awaiting her in her room. Kicking aside her boots, she shimmied out of her practice leathers and stepped daintily into the hot water. Desmereldan, her favorite
elf servant - but more of a friend and confidant, had sprinkled roses and lilacs into the water. She shook her head a the courtesy. She was a warrior, no time for such frippery.
The tub drew the tension from her shoulders and soon she lay dormant in the water. The steam rose up, bringing pink to her cheeks and she sighed softly into the air. Water tumbled over her shoulders and slid down her body as she rose. The cold air
causing her to scramble from the tub and seek her towel.
Once she was dried off, she slipped into a soft leather skirt and peasant blouse, pulling it on her shoulders and tying it demurely at the cleavage. Soon her mind began to wander to the yard, puzzling over the letter her father had received and his quick departure thereafter. Her face was still pulled in thoughtful repose as she drew a brush through the rampant, wild hair and tucked it into a safe bun.
Making her way to the great hall, she sidled along side Ser Gilmore, her friend since childhood. "You're wanted in the kitchens. That bloody dog of yours has been driving Nan crazy." He smiled at her and attempted to hold her hand. She shook it off, kindly and pretended to check her hair. "Of course, Gilly, let's go get him before she serves him up for dinner."
She ruffled his hair and smiled pleasantly at him, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and nudging him with her shoulder. "Nan is always making a fuss over Alejandro, but she knows he wouldn't hurt anyone without my call." She patted his arm absently as they made their way to the kitchen.
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The last time she had spent any amount of time in the great hall was on her eighteenth namesday, the previous year. She'd scowled at suitors most of the night - much to the chagrin of her mother and father. This time, when she entered, the hall was barren save for a few guards, her father, Arl Howe and one other man - a fighter of some sort. Her booted feet echoed against the grey stone floor as she made her way over to the small group of men.
Her first thought was that he was tall, the second was that he had the warmest smile she'd ever seen. The last thought as she stared at his white teeth, was that he stole her breath, just the slightest bit. The noise of other conversation lulled and
her father turned to them both as the stood face to face.
"Duncan, meet my daughter," her father was saying and she smiled, daintily, as if on queue, holding out her hand. "This is Duncan, Pup. He's a Grey Warden. Come to see Ser Gilmore."
"Pleased, Ser Duncan," she heard herself say as she curtsied quickly and held out her hand. How she managed to breathe long enough for the words to escape, she'd never know. "A Grey Warden?" The rest of her thoughts were displaced as his hand
took hers and she felt the warmth seep through. Suddenly her hands were clammy, and she was fifteen again, nervously awaiting her fist kiss, she quickly withdrew her fingers from his calloused grasp.
Sure that her anxiety transferred into her eyes, she avoided meeting his for a time, darting her gaze and smile to Arl Howe and nodding in greeting. When she finally managed to pull her gaze back to his, something in his eyes made the pit of her stomach heat and the center of her core dew.
Tearing her eyes from his, she looked to her father, smoothing her hair back from her face and wiping her hands against her skirt as covertly as possible. Deciding that clasping her hands in front of her was the best option to hide her trembling fingers, she gently laid them against her lap as she turned to him once more. "I hear you are searching for warriors? Evaria Cousland."
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While he was by no means bored of the discussion of politics, the entrance of the Bryce Cousland's daughter was a welcome respite. The red velvet drapes that clung to the walls like rivers of blood, were no match for her perfect ruby lips. He found himself licking his own and wondering at their flavor. The corner of his mouth ticked up as he bowed to her. "We are indeed, Mistress Cousland," he replied, his fingers rubbing against the palm, still tingling from her grasp.
Her mouth widened in a smile, and his heart leapt in his chest. "And mages, rogues and beautiful teryn's daughters as well," he added. She was exquisite, with eyes like the sea after a storm and cheeks pink with the flush of pleasure. He suddenly pictured them reddened with desire from his lips. So engrossed in this image, was he, that he almost missed the tairn's reprimand.
"You'll not be taking my daughter, Duncan. Her mother would never forgive me. Unless you're invoking the right of conscription..."
Duncan said, "No need to concern yourself with such thoughts, Bryce. I've come for the Gilmore lad and would not force such a burden on your lovely wife." He smile was conciliatory and he found himself somehow grateful that he wouldn't be facing her
probable death at the joining process. He did, however, make a mental note to revisit this particular area more often - for recruitment purposes, of course.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his skin suddenly hot as images of her alabaster legs curled around his waist danced before his eyes. "I-I-I think I'll ret-retire to my chambers." He bowed deeply and made his way back to his room.
Hours later, feeling rested from a short nap and clean from a hot bath, he made his way to the dining room. Dinner, however lavish, was an exercise in torture. The Cousland girl looked bored through most of it, which didn't stop her endless torment
of him. He watched as she trailed a delicate, red fingernail along the top of her glass. Much to his discomfort she then dipped the nail in the wine and sucked it off her finger slowly.
During desert, fat juicy strawberries were plucked off her platter and gently nibbled between soft rosebud lips. A tongue darted out to clean off cream. By the time the last of the serving trays were taken away, he was blotting his brow with his napkin and excusing himself once again, claiming a sudden stomach upset.
He slammed the door behind him, his hands under his skirt before he's even reached the bed. Her taunting lips are his hands as he strokes slowly, lying back on the bed with his eyes closed. He's never been this hard, certainly not for just an imagined
coupling, but it's not long before he feels the tight coil heating in his core. When the release came, he choked out a gasp, his fingers working fast as he spilled over his hand and onto his clothing. He lay there, breathing heavy, a slight smirk on his face. The tendrils of sleep slowly winding around and dragging him into the twisted agony of darkspawn dreams.