Sooo, this ended up being longer than I thought, herp derp. Zevran gets two more POV chapters before I switch back to Catherine; the entire Circle bit is going to take awhile and be all about her, so I figure that'll be okay. Enjoy!
At dawn, Catherine had announced that she would take the voluptuous red-head and the beautifully well-formed Chantry boy along with Zevran himself to the main city. It was clear to him why she was avoiding bringing the more noticeable companions, but he did not understand his inclusion; it hadn't been too long ago that Loghain had hired him, and any number of his men could have seen him, never mind the man himself.
When he brought the issue up as the Warden was double checking her pack, she simply handed him a cloak and said that he'd be 'earning his keep' in Denerim. Zevran was intrigued by what she meant, but he couldn't let go of the opportunity to ask if he was going to work out of a whorehouse or be a freelancer. Again, she surprised him; rather than rolling her eyes or giggling shyly like most women would do, she said, "I figured we'd find someplace public to test your skills; by your bragging I imagine my screams would convince every woman in Denerim to spend their coin on you." She had said it so completely and utterly deadpan, the assassin couldn't help but be impressed.
The walk to the city was oddly pleasant, if a tad aggravating due to the soft lover's whispers between Alistair and Leliana. He spent his time behind Cat, under the pretense of being lecherous and taking in the glorious roll of her hips. Technically, he had been doing just that, but his real goal was to watch her in this leader role, something that Zevran didn't see such a... free spirit as Catherine enjoying.
Being who he was, and being from where he was from, the elf was used to people – especially women, due to how delicate they were perceived to be in Antiva – having multiple sides and masks and roles that only a master could really keep track of, and even then, those people tended to have nothing under all those disguises.
With Catherine, it was different. Admittedly he hadn't known the woman very long, but he was an abnormally observant person, even for a Crow, and he felt he had a connection to her - something that intrigued him as much as it disturbed him. The mage was confidant to the point of well-deserved arrogance: her posture was straight, chin held high in way of knowing superiority, and her gait, while purposefully sexual, was also enhanced by the powerful strides of her entrancingly long legs. The leadership role seemed to settle on her her shoulders like some decorative shawl; it was there only to make her look better, not as a burden, and this fascinated him.
On the few occasions they were able to be relatively alone during the four hour walk to Denerim, her body language never changed in the slightest - to keep the illusion of command firmly in place, Zevran surmised – but tension lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to dissipate. She sporadically made eye contact with him, follow by a hardly noticeable tug at the corner of her mouth.
It was maddening how confusing Catherine was; Zevran knew plenty of people who thrived of the potential of danger, many of them found being with an assassin to be exceptionally unsafe, but he didn't get that same vibe from the dark-skinned beauty. Was she inviting death? Were her glances subtle pleas for release, or was she simply testing him, seeing if he would take the bait?
The only woman – the only person or thing, even – to ever throw him off so entirely had be Rinna, and that realization cranked up his already quite ratcheted paranoia to even unhealthier levels.
As they reached the gates of Denerim, the two lovebirds went off – something to do with a sister? - and that left him alone with Cat, utterly bemused by the entire situation but professional (and experienced) enough not to let it show.
The mage crossed her arms under her breasts(that was entirely for show, he just knew) and looked out toward the market. "Right. I have supplies to pick up, new fabric to shop for, need to check in with the guards – see how much we need to pay them to keep them quiet – find this Genetivi..." she rambled to herself, counting off her errands with her tapered, feminine fingers.
She locked eyes with him. "You," the word was punctuated with a point towards him, "will be going through the market and pickpocketing."
Zevran felt his face scrunch in distaste. "Pickpocketing? Surely you jest. I say we find a relatively clean stall, have wild sex that would put your Fereldan whores to shame, and then I shall tend to the undoubtedly unsatisfied population of Denerim while you count our spoils." He grinned lasciviously, though truly, he was only half-joking; wild sex with her anywhere would likely be loud enough to bring a number of callers.
"Perhaps I just don't want to share you, Zevran." she replied with a playful half-smile, before jerking her chin out towards the multitude of what he assumed were minor nobles, a thin brow arching in challenge.
A throaty chuckle rumbled from him. "Ah, my kitten, you needn't worry." With flourish, he lifted the hood of his cloak, forward enough to hide his face, but not too forward to make it look like he was intentionally hiding, and bowed. "I am at your disposal, no matter the... service you need."
"Mmm," was her response as she turned to walk away, "Leliana mentioned Denerim's best whorehouse was The Pearl, down by the docks." And with that, she was gone. No subtle glance over the shoulder, no teasing about 'needing release', just the faint scent of cinnamon she left in her wake.
The assassin could do nothing but comply with her command, as humiliated as it was. It wasn't as if he hadn't pickpocketed before, it was that he was beyond that now, or he had been. He needed to remind himself that he was, in fact, no longer a Crow, thus his benefits were now gone and he was back more akin to his first days in their organization – even more worthless than he was as an elite murderer of the uppermost echelons.
Deft hands an a distracting smile made it easy for him to gather a small fortune in gems and sovereigns and other baubles in a matter of a few hours – sooner than he anticipated. With no real idea when Catherine and the others would be finished, he began his way toward the docks in search of The Pearl, if only to sample from Ferelden's bouquet.
The next days were spent in the drudgery of travel. Their fearless leader had announced that they would be heading to the Circle Tower – or as she so lovingly called it: "that phallus shaped stone prison" - in an attempt to save this Arl Eamon's life. When Alistair asked why they shouldn't head straight for Haven - the village they had learned of through Brother Genetivi's abandoned researched – Catherine simply scoffed and said that she had more faith in Wynne and Arella than she did in Andraste being some prophet who's burnt remains would bring rainbows and kittens to the rest of the world. The remark earned her some scalding glares from the more pious members of the team, though the scantily clad, yellow-eyed woman – Morrigan, was it? - looked as if she was biting off a chuckle.
They spent all of the second day in a full march that immediately reminded Zevran that he was far more used to short excursions in rather comfortable settings than hours upon hours of hard walking. Still, he couldn't complain; he was amongst incredibly good-looking companion and happened to be alive for the time being – life was... decent.
Catherine, apparently, agreed with his line of thought: she organized the formation in such a way that Sten and her mabari took point, followed by Alistair, with him and herself behind them, and Morrigan and Leliana taking up the rear. As such, Zevran and the devious little kitten beside him, had a rather enticing view of the virginal templar's backside – truly, he couldn't be blamed for what happened.
"I'm impressed by the view here in Ferelden." he remarked offhandedly, pointedly not looking at the scenery, but at the firm buttocks ahead of him.
Unsurprisingly, Catherine caught on immediately. "Oh, yes. I'm rather fond of the foothills in the horizon, especially."
His brow furrowed in mock-thought. "Foothills, you say? Are they not more akin to mountains, my dear?" Zevran's brow rose subtly, it clearly said, to those who knew the language: 'How far are you willing to go?'
Catherine, of course, was fluent in the language of innuendo. "Mountains are too... hard. Stiff. Unyielding. Do you not prefer the gentle curves of the hills?" she gestured an hourglass figure and countered with a risen brow of her own.
Zevran's amber eyes fixed on her cleavage, smirk tugging at his lips. "Do not mistake me, kitten, the curvature of the foothills are..." he sighed wistfully for effect, "breathtaking. But I happen to... take in all sorts of landscape. From narrow valleys," Those eyes flickered directly to said valley between her breasts, before he turned back to Alistair's backside and gesturing flamboyantly, "to plains and mountains and everything in between."
Various forms of giggles and choking sounds were heard behind him, he simply grinned and watched Cat for an answer. Just as she opened her mouth, (in a rather lovely 'o' shape that he was entirely too distracted by) Alistair cut in.
"You two realize the only thing we have around us right now are trees," he gestured to the right without looking back, "trees," to the left, "oh, and some... more trees!" Zevran couldn't see it, but he was quite sure the man was pointing towards the horizon. "You all need to get your eyes checked." he grumbled.
Before the assassin could pounce, Catherine did.
"Oh, no. We were talking about your ass." she said simply. "You look great in those new trousers, by the way, did Leliana pick them out?"
Alistair stopped as if he'd been glued to the ground, whereas Sten and Damon just kept going. Leliana came to stand by Catherine's side, biting her lip in a smile, shoulders shaking, while the witch stood awhile back in a form of detached amusement.
"You... you what?!" he cried indignantly, turning to face the little mage. Catherine just shrugged in response.
"It's a compliment. Don't get your smallclothes in a twist, Al. We were simply admiring the landscape." she completed the sentence with a heated appraisal of his body. The red-headed woman's face was turning an impressive shade, similar to her hair, from keeping laughter at bay, even the witch was chuckling to herself.
Alistair, for his part, was shocked. Looking between Zevran, Catherine, and Leliana, glaring at them all. "Maker's Breath, I am not some piece of meat in a butcher's shop! Quit--"
That was all the 'violated' man could get out before all four of the spectators doubled over in laughter. Zevran hadn't laughed so hard in his life. There were tears and his stomach ached and all of them eventually got to the point where they were gasping for air.
The templar made a frustrated growl, before turning and stomping off after the now far-ahead qunari and dog; Leliana followed right after him, attempting to grab his hand only to have it weakly shook off.
A tittering Morrigan went off soon after, leaving Cat and Zevran still chuckling pathetically – more a whine than anything – drawing in ragged breaths and leaning on each other for support. After they got themselves under control, they wordlessly moved on after the others, though smiles were still plastered on their faces goofily. It was one of the oddest things he had ever experienced in his years – he had no shortage of laughter, but it had never been with a woman, or more importantly, a woman he was interested in.
While he was musing over this fact, he caught Catherine's gaze, and they ended up laughing all over again, well within the earshot of their victim. His enraged noise of indignation only made them laugh louder, and Zevran forgot what he was thinking about.
