Author's Note: Since Apollo Wings and Raven Sinead really wanted this to continue, I have made this previous one-shot into a five part story. Thank you to all who read this, whether you review or not. Just knowing it gets read is satisfaction enough. Happy reading!
Disclaimer: Zevran, his insatiable appetite for bosoms and orneriness, and Dragon Age are not the productsof my imagination. I do not own them, but I do love playing with everyone's favorite pervert.
Well, I am surprisingly not dead. Hmm, or maybe it is not so surprising. Not to be cocky or anything, but I am rather good with my tool….and my dagger as well. I am rather shocked with our survival, truly. You see, our group ventured out early this morning, so we would not be caught unawares come nightfall. Normally, I would say that travel by night would be better. Night is the best cloak you can have. But, as these are rather…unusual…circumstances, everyone elected to venture into the Brecilian Forest in broad daylight.
Now, as you are probably wondering, this was a very painstaking job. Normally, our group is tactless; we charge, we fight, we win. End of story, and end of enemies. But we were not up against your average clueless bandit giant man-eating bear. We, under Zatharian's orders, were facing werewolves. Werewolves…they are not so common. Actually, they are incredibly rare. In Antiva, fishmongers would tell tales about this beast, scaring the little whelps and waifs around and making older folk laugh. I myself once heard a rather brutal story about werewolves, in one of the many brothels in my homeland. So, I was not entirely keen to go hunting my possible death. After all, Ferelden would be a cold, hard place if Zevran was gone. The poor women…
Ahem, anyway, we armed ourselves wisely and headed off into the infamous forest. Almost as soon as we entered the dark place, Darkspawn ran out at us. Reyn motioned us into positions quickly and led our force to theirs. We clashed for a brief time; afterwards, our fallen foes stained the earth with their foul bodies and dark blood. We headed further in, encountering more of the accursed creatures and some spiders as well. They were rather easy to kill, but I will admit to feelings of amusement when Leliana gave the spiders a wide berth, sticking to our fearless leader's side. Turns out, our feisty bard is afraid of spiders. Of all the horrors we have seen, and probably see more of, she picks spiders to fear? I will try to quench my laughter, but it is harder than I thought.
We finally carved a path of retribution through the forest, settling towards just outside of the center. There were twists and turns every which a way, giving us trouble. We picked the right path, and a mysterious gray-ish fog rose up, blocking the rest of the path from view. Whispers sounded on the edge of my consciousness, seemingly coming from the ominous cloud. Of course, being the intelligent elf that I am, wished to survive longer and die in a death befitting myself. That does not include death by creepy, whispering fog. My companions agreed, and we doubled back. Now, our group…we attract evil things. Probably because of Morrigan. We are walking along, looking for a way to the center of the forest, when a tree pops up.
Now, I know I partake in spirits. Usually, it is alcohol that has a kick. But, even drunk and sleeping with random fellows (not exactly new; I do that sober too) I have never envisioned an actual tree attacking. Well, though it gave up a good fight, we made bark out of it. After fighting more of these giant twigs, called Sylvans I am told, we ended up reaching a copse in the trees. The clearing had a small little hut- like structure sticking out of the ground, and a gnarled tree stump a little bit in front of it. I thought I could see something shiny glistening in the light inside it; naturally, my curiosity made me want to find out what it was. Just as I had stuck my hand in the stump (not as pleasant as it sounds) a hermit came forward, warning me away. Now, I know I travel with some interesting companions (a noblewomen/warrior, Grey Warden, Chantry Sister turned bard, a giant slobbering hound and a malicious though horizontally pleasing witch) this man was quite crazy in comparison. He kept asking answers to questions and questions to answers, so we quickly made our retreat.
We finally found a different area, and made our way over to another clearing. In the center stood a huge oak tree, unlike any other tree thus seen in the forest. Its golden leaves were quite pleasing to the eye, and we went out towards it. We fought more Sylvans along the way. Well, to our great surprise and near heart failure, the tree could talk. In rhymes. It wove a tale of sorrow at the loss of its seed (trees still have these?) …oh, acorn. My mistake. He told us that the crazy hermit had taken it, and informed us that if we brought his acorn back, he would gift us with one of his branches, giving us clear passage to the werewolves' lair. Oh, joy. We get to see the insane stump dweller again. So, like the errand boys we have apparently turned into, we went back to Crazytown. We ended up trading a scarf for the acorn (I sincerely hope the husband of the dead-elf-turned-canine is not too put out) and ran back to the poet-tree. He sung his gratitude, and gave us the branch. Our ticket to our destination in hand, we went back to the strange fog mentioned earlier.
Steeling myself in case I walked on the other side missing a limb or other precious body part, I along with my companions entered the rolling waves. Like the tree had said, we were able to walk right through. Swiftrunner, a werewolf we had become quite acquainted with (he threatened us, sent wolves to kill us. Nice doggy) He talked some more, gave more warnings…the usual. We did not listen, killed some more wolfies and entered the doors to the lair. Boy, did those werewolves need a lesson in hygiene. Dust and gore was everywhere. Oh, and some old picked on bones. A dead-elf child spirit also came into our path. We stayed clear of him. We fought through wave after wave of disgruntled werewolves, mowing them down. We pushed on, traveling deep into the underbelly of the lair. Finally, the Gatekeeper came out with an offering of peace. If we stopped making kabobs out of his friends, he would take us to Witherfang. I was somewhat skeptical, mostly because of putting my dagger between many wolves' shoulder blades, of following behind him and his fuzzy posse.
Ever the peacemaker, Reyn agreed and we followed the small contingent. We stepped through a large door, entering a fairly large room with vines poking out of the ground everywhere and hanging on the decrepit old structure. The wolves gathered in the room snarled and growled at us, shouting obscenities laced with gooey slobber. In the center stood Swiftrunner, several unknown wolves, and a beautiful green woman. Despite her somewhat sinister appearance, I was utterly transfixed by her bosom. I had never partaken in green ones before, but I never back down from a challenge. I made a mental note of them (I finally came up with the name, "Fine Vines"), and continued eyeing away. I heard snatches of the conversation while my ogle fest was commencing. Apparently, our favorite Dalish loon Zatharian had placed the curse on the wolves because of his children's tragic death at the hands of humans. Enraged, he invoked a spirit to do his dirty work and curse a new and entirely blameless generation for the wrongdoing. The spirit pleaded with us to try to change Zatharian's mind, or she would disappear and the elves would surely succumb to the disease and die.
So we fetched the Dalish leader from the entrance and questioned him. Turns out, spirit bosom…I mean, lady, was speaking truth. The spirit and Zatharian traded words, growing harsher and harsher. Turns out spirit babe is also Witherfang. Of course it did not deter me; everyone has a wild side. Reyn used her coercion skills and managed to convince Zatharian to break the curse. Bad part, he died. That's going to be fun to tell the Dalish…The spirit of the forest vanished as well. I did not even get to first base! Ah, the things I go through for my companions…
The werewolves, no slightly less hairy humans, thanked us and ran off. We left the Elven Ruins and made it back to the Dalish in one piece. Danyla, now Keeper, agreed to ally herself with us in the fight as Loghain. Hmmm, she was quite good-looking herself. While the rest of my group rest and listened to congratulations, I made my move upon the lucky Keeper. However, before I got to the part in my speech about how ravishing she was and how the moon and the stars compared to her divine beauty, she shot me down like an arrow to the knee. All these women…turning me down. Is it a Ferelden thing, or have I lost my touch? …nah, she must be sapphically inclined like Leliana and our red-headed Warden. Maybe she would be willing to join them? Oh the delicious thoughts my mind conjures! Well, that is all to recount for now. We head for Arl Eamon next. Reports of his illness will hasten us forward at dawn. But for now, my tent and my images call to me.
Farwell,
The Possessor of Nine-Lives, Zevran