Disclaimer: Bioware owns all, I earn nothing.
WARNING: This story has TWO MEN FALLING IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER AND EXPRESSING SEMI-HEALTHY DESIRE FOR EACH OTHER'S BODIES. If you don't like homoerotic romance PLEASE BACK OFF! If that kind of thing makes you go start praying at the porcelain gods in a hurry, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Please exit quietly using the "Back" button, thank you. Please note that if you decide to continue, we do not supply brain bleach, so bring your bleach brand of choice before your eyes start drifting further. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a nice day.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks to my grammar fairy/editor, Scarylady1. Your advice and patience are much appreciated.
Of Whoresons and Nobles
Chapter 36
Zevran was, by nature of his upbringing, a very cynical man. One did not rise to his level of proficiency and power in the Antivan Crows without being at least suspicious, if not outright paranoid, about the motivations behind people's actions.
Take the way Arl Eamon seemed to welcome their little ragtag team of adventuring misfits with wide open arms, for example. Zevran could imagine Bann Teagan doing so without any sort of motive, but the elder of the Guerrin brothers was an entirely different sort of character; there was a quietly shrewd look in the man's eyes that reminded him of a, slightly more pleasant, Master Ignacio.
It was clear, at least in Zevran's point of view, that the main reason Eamon had been pleasant to the Warden was not because the Warden saved his life, but because the Warden held a good deal of influence over the thoughts and actions of a certain blond-haired warrior.
Eamon wanted someone who had a claim to the throne by blood in order to challenge Loghain's rule, that much was clear, and Alistair was the obvious choice. It was an idea that Alistair was clearly unenthusiastic about, judging from the sullen look on the young man's face when that subject was first brought up in Redcliffe.
The Warden, curiously, had not chosen to comment on Eamon's suggestion. Zevran saw a calculating light in his lover's brilliant eyes as they flicked between Eamon and Alistair, but the Warden had remained silent over the matter.
There were times when Zevran would give his own arm to know what the Warden was thinking; this was one of those times. Unfortunately, despite his subtle questioning, the Warden remained tight-lipped about whatever had been on his mind when Eamon suggested Alistair as the replacement king. So Zevran had reluctantly dropped the subject, much to the Warden's thinly-veiled amusement.
But now...
He watched as the Warden paced restlessly back and forth in front of the fireplace of their shared guestroom at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. Every inch of the Warden's frame, from his hard eyes, to his tightly-clenched jaw, to his fisted hands, brought to mind a hungry, frustrated, disaffected predator that seemed perfectly, dangerously ready to savage something, anything, that deserved it.
Considering what had happened when Loghain showed up at Eamon's doorstep, Zevran was more surprised that the Warden had, thus far, been this restrained.
Zevran had long known that, beneath the stoic, occasionally charming veneer, the Warden was a fiercely passionate man, and that passion sometimes manifested itself as a vicious temper; witness that scene with Isolde at Redcliffe. His temper rarely slipped its leash, however, and the Warden had been careful to rein it in very tightly.
Until several days ago, that is.
From his perch at the top of the steps in the entrance hall, Zevran glanced at Eamon, who was speaking with both the Warden and Alistair in quiet, restrained tones. He noticed the arl's brief but frequent glances towards him, and smiled with amusement.
Eamon clearly had no idea what to think of Zevran, or his continued presence at the Warden's side. He wasn't surprised; pointy-eared, well-armed, and clearly foreign, he stood out like an Antivan red carnation in this, very Ferelden, city, and the Warden had made no secret of the little 'arrangement' they had between them. Only a blind nug would be able to miss the warm, almost too-heated glances that they often exchanged, or how the Warden always managed to find a way to be near Zevran, far apart enough to not offend social norms but far too close to be called "professional" or even "friendly".
Seemingly absently, Zevran's eyes drifted around the room. Nothing unusual or suspicious, and the guards posted at the door seem competent enough.
The atmosphere, on the other hand, was tense. Charged. The Warden in particular looked ready to jump out of his skin; his eyes kept darting about the room, and his lips were a thin white line.
"... little choice but to show himself. To oppose us directly," Eamon was saying, and Zevran turned his attention back to the conversation. "He will strike back at us. The only question that remains is how soon?"
"Any time now," the Warden muttered. He frowned, drawing in a deep breath, before letting it out in a huff of frustration. "I hate politics," he said, to no one in particular.
"Really?" Alistair said with false shock. "I thought I was the only one, what with being declared heir to the throne and all."
"It is your rightful heritage, Alistair," Eamon said. "Your blood-"
"Does not mean that I'd make a good king," Alistair snapped. "Did it even occur to anyone that I might not even want to be king?" He gave the Warden a glare. "And why are you not saying anything about this? I thought you knew how I felt about all of... this."
"You're the only one who has a stronger claim to the Crown than Loghain or the Queen," Eamon said, before the Warden could reply. "I told you, you have a responsib- "
"My responsibility is to put an end to the Blight," Alistair said, ire flashing in his eyes. "I am a Grey Warden, Eamon, and I cannot be both a King and a Warden at the same time."
Eamon's eyes narrowed. "Be reasonable, Alistair; you can't just walk away and let Loghain win. If you do not- "
"Enough," the Warden said, sounding equal parts weary and irritated. "I don't like this any more than you do, Alistair, but we don't have a choice."
"But- "
"I said, enough." The Warden gave Alistair a stern glare. "Right now, we have no alternatives, so unless someone better decides to come along and say hello, you're the only person in the whole of Ferelden who can actually remove Loghain's claim to the throne without having to organize a massacre of the entire Bannorn."
Alistair frowned, and then let out a sigh of disgust. "Oh, fine, do whatever you want."
"I am so pleased to have your approval."
Zevran chuckled quietly at the Warden's deadpan expression, even as Alistair's lips curved in a half-smile. "Some friend you are," Alistair muttered, although there was no real annoyance in his words. "Abandoning me to the mercy of Ferelden politics? I'm thrilled to know you really are that reliable."
"What can I say? I don't like to disappoint," the Warden promptly replied.
Alistair rolled his eyes and threw a half-hearted punch at the Warden's shoulder. At the precise moment the doors of the main hall were thrown open, and a group of heavily armed people walked in.
Zevran's eyes fell on the newcomers, and he felt his blood chill.
Face as hard as stone, Loghain strode towards the three men gathered at the foot of the stairs, flanked by an equally hard-faced woman, and a familiar hook-nosed, beady-eyed man.
The long months since their last meeting had not been kind to Arl Howe, but he still carried that same air of smug self-importance, still had that vicious glint in his eyes and the cruel sneer that constantly hovered around his mouth.
Feeling a tight knot of dread form in his belly, Zevran glanced at the Warden, and instantly that dread was replaced with alarm.
The Warden's face had gone blank, and Zevran saw his eyes glaze over with killing intent, saw the gauntleted hands curl into fists.
Without thinking, Zevran darted across the room and placed himself at the Warden's side, closing a hand around the Warden's right elbow before that arm could reach up towards the greatsword strapped to his back.
He felt the Warden tense beneath his hand, before the other man turned to glare at him. Keeping his own face devoid of expression, he shook his head warningly.
The Warden's eyes flared with temper, but to Zevran's relief, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
Satisfied that his lover would not react far too hastily, Zevran stepped back, deliberately letting himself fade into the background, prepared to face what would surely be a colourful confrontation.
"Colourful", however, turned out to be too mild a word to describe what had happened. Loghain's accusations of treachery, and barely concealed insults, against Eamon were hostile enough, even without the Warden's gritted out comments about Ostagar, but when the Regent had introduced Howe as the Teyrn of Highever, Zevran had been very glad to be standing close enough to grab the Warden's arm again.
The Warden had not fought the restraining grip, but Zevran had felt the barely checked violence rippling through his lover's body as he snarled about blood rights and hanging. Howe's reaction to the Warden's anger had been snide and insultingly dismissive, his taunts clearly a deliberate attempt to incite the Warden.
It was with considerable relief that the hard-faced woman, Ser Cauthrien, interrupted the little spat before it escalated into a bloodbath, but Zevran did not let go of the Warden until, after several more choice threats to Eamon, Loghain had departed with his little party in tow.
After that 'bracing' encounter, as Eamon put it, the Warden had thrown himself into a frenzy of activity to obtain more resources for their attack against Loghain, beginning with several entertaining (and highly profitable) cloak-and-dagger jobs for a rather shady fellow named Slim Couldry. It brought them coin and not a little infamy, but none of their little escapades seemed to calm the inner turmoil that seemed to be constantly eating at the Warden, and Zevran found himself worrying over his lover's state of mind.
The fact that the Warden kept falling into bed in an exhausted stupor each night did not make Zevran feel any better.
"You know, my dear," Zevran murmured as the Warden continued to pace, "there are better ways to celebrate your new 'title' than to wear down your feet."
"I don't think being called 'Dark Wolf' is exactly worth celebrating," was the quiet, growling reply.
"Why not? Because it reminds you too much of your old 'name'?"
The Warden shot Zevran a glare, but he did halt, which was the point. "That's not the issue here."
"No," Zevran said in agreement. "But clearly you do have an issue, or we would be doing something much more... productive." He let that word roll off his tongue with sensual promise, and punctuated it with a crooked smile as he leaned against a carved post of the large four-poster in their room.
The Warden stared for a moment, brows furrowed in a frown, before he let out a sigh and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he muttered, running his hand through his hair, a gesture Zevran recognized as one the Warden made when stressed. "I hate this... doing nothing, when we should be doing something. It feels wrong." Suddenly, the Warden let out a vicious snarl and turned, slapping his palms on the mantle of the fireplace. "How can I be standing here doing nothing when the murderer who destroyed my family walks free?"
Zevran studied the stiff lines of the Warden's back. "It isn't wise to strike at Howe, with so many allies at his back."
"I don't care." The Warden whirled around, his face a pale mask of fury and hatred. "That man betrayed my father, had my family killed in cold blood, and he flaunts his ill-gotten title in front of me like a back-alley whore flaunts her wares! Yet I stand here, and I cannot do anything about it!"
"So you would rather get yourself killed in an ineffective attack against him, than to strike a decisive blow?" Zevran snapped. He straightened away from the bedpost to face the Warden squarely, feeling the leash on his own temper start to fray. "Listen to yourself, Warden. Striking him now will not help your cause. This is not you talking."
"Don't you dare tell me how I should be talking!" the Warden roared. "What gives you the bloody right to govern me?"
The leash snapped.
Zevran didn't even realize that he had stalked to the other side of the room, or that he had reached within arm's length of the Warden, until he heard the loud slapping sound and felt the stinging pain on the back of his hand.
The Warden's head whipped to the side at the force of the slap; the anger of his face was gone, replaced by a shock that mirrored what Zevran felt.
"Enough." Zevran's voice sounded raw and rough to his own ears. "I don't own you, my dear, but you are being a fool."
The Warden blinked; he frowned slightly as he looked up at Zevran, a hand reaching up to rub at the blooming red mark on the side of his face, but he looked more confused than angered.
Sighing, Zevran shook his head as he reached out, grabbed the Warden's wrist, and before the other man could protest he started to pull him towards the door.
He could feel a stare bore into the back of his head, but he steadfastly ignored it. Thankfully, his lover simply followed him without much resistance as he took them both to the small training room in the estate.
It was late in the evening, almost sunset; the room was, as Zevran predicted, completely deserted. Smiling slightly to himself, he pulled the Warden in, and released him to bolt the door securely behind them. When he turned around, he saw that the Warden was looking at him, arms crossed and wearing an expression that looked stuck midway between annoyance and amusement.
"Is there a point to this?" the Warden asked.
Zevran shrugged. His teeth flashed in a vicious smile. "You clearly have a lot on your mind, my dear. I'm thinking a few rounds right here and now would take the edge off your temper, yes?"
"Are you inviting me to spar with you?"
"You sound surprised," Zevran said with false innocence, making his way to the centre of the cleared space in the room.
"Maybe because I am. Why sparring?"
Zevran laughed as he laced his fingers together and stretched his arms up over his head. "The Crows are harsh on their members, yes? Sometimes we arrange sparring matches, to work off stress. It also helps settle grudges amiably, without actually resorting to killing each other, so it has some practical use." Satisfied that his arms were stretched properly, he let them drop, shaking his hands to loosen up his wrists. "It's all supervised, usually, but since I trust you are not going to try and kill me..." He raised his brows challengingly.
The Warden snorted, but he was rolling his shoulders, his fingers flexing. "Are you sure you really want to do this? I'm half-a-head taller than you are, and far heavier besides."
"My dear, you may have a bit more reach than I do, but I have flexibility, so we are evenly matched, at least physically. I'll say that I even have a slight advantage over you, since your love of oversized weapons means you rarely need to do proper hands-on work."
"... oh, very well." The Warden sighed, shrugged. "Well, if you want to—"
Suddenly the Warden dashed forward, his fist flying towards Zevran in a quick jab. Trained reflexes allowed Zevran to avoid it with a twitch to the side; it roared past his ear, before the hand snapped back.
"— do that, we might as well get started," the Warden finished, his bland voice contradicted by the strangely hungry smile on his face.
Zevran rolled his eyes, before he darted forward and down, dropping below the Warden's guard and flicking his hand out, lightly pressing his knuckles into the Warden's belly.
The Warden danced back, the smile vanishing. "All right, that's below the belt, right there."
"I never claimed to fight fair, my dear." Not wanting to be a still target, he let his feet prowl a few steps to the side; the Warden slid to face him, alert eyes watching him.
They circled warily around each other for only a few heartbeats, but to Zevran it felt like hours; he felt his blood rush in anticipation, the hairs at the back of his neck prickling.
The Warden rushed at him again, and he stepped back, but not enough; the Warden's arm slammed hard into his stomach, making his breath whoosh out. He was swung around, until he was pinned back against the Warden's body, his arms held down by a stronger, thicker one encircling his chest, while a soft laugh ghosted over his ear.
A flash of memory of what happened in Redcliffe, of being caught in a similar embrace, made his heart pound from more than just battle lust.
Except he didn't have his arms pinned down then, which meant the previous method of breaking away would not work. He could slam his head back, but he was loath to break the Warden's nose, and he had no doubt that sort of attack would truly rile the Warden, which was not the point of their sparring.
Smirking, he slid his hand back, between their bodies, and let his fingers close, in both warning and promise, around his lover's balls.
The Warden's reaction was exactly what he wanted; with a yelp, the larger man stumbled back, pushing Zevran away in a hurry.
Laughing, he let the momentum carry him for a while before he firmly planted his feet, facing the Warden with a safe distance between them.
The Warden was staring at him with an incredulous expression. Interestingly, his eyes were darker than they were earlier. "You bastard," the Warden said, his voice just a touch breathless. "That's very below the belt."
"That was the idea, yes." He watched as the Warden tugged at the waist of his trousers, no doubt to make room for the enticing bulge that was starting to form. He waited until his lover's gaze rose to meet his, and once it did he held it, baring his teeth in a purely predatory smile as, in a slow and deliberate show, he ran two spread fingers up the front of his own trousers to rearrange the hint of an erection there.
He had the pleasure of watching the Warden's eyes go round with shock, before a sharp grin turned them into narrow slits. "Ah, I see. So that's how you want to play this."
Zevran lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, knowing that he still had that feral smile on his face and not bothering to hide it. "Nothing gets the blood pumping like a little fighting."
"I could think of several other things," the Warden murmured, wearing a too-intent grin of his own. "But since we're here—" He attacked again, and despite Zevran's hurried retreat, his fist managed to thump against Zevran's chest, making him cough and stumble back several steps. "—we should at least fight properly," the Warden finished, beckoning to Zevran mockingly.
"Fight properly?" Zevran laughed. "Oh, I'll show you how I fight properly—"
He sprung at the Warden, and they started to fight in earnest.
They were, as he had predicted, evenly matched, and despite their best efforts neither of them managed to actually successfully overpower the other. Zevran didn't know how long they had been dancing, but after a long while, where the only sounds in the room were the thuds of flat blows and the hisses of harsh breaths, he soon became uncomfortably aware that his tunic was clinging to his skin where it was dampened with sweat. His cheek ached with what threatened to be a bruise by morning, and there was a throbbing ache in his forearm where he had caught a punch with the full weight of the Warden's strength behind it.
The Warden fared no better, however; the other man often had to flick wet hair out his eyes, and he visibly curled his body protectively over his left side, where Zevran had sent a snapping kick that he had not bothered to blunt. But even in the dim light of late evening, Zevran could see that his eyes still glittered brilliantly with too-sharp intent, and the wolf's grin still held a vicious, wild edge. The bulge in his trousers had swelled to distracting proportions; Zevran's own cock was hard enough to throb beneath the rough wool of his own clothing.
The Warden lunged again; barely thinking, Zevran threw himself forward, towards the charge, ducking at the very last moment and sidestepping neatly past the Warden's hip, letting his hand slide roughly over the other man's stomach as he passed by.
Not letting the Warden recover from the momentum, he dropped down, his leg outstretched and swinging around in a wide arc. His ankle hooked around one of the Warden's, and he only needed a light tug to send the far-heavier man sprawling face-down on the floor. He pounced, straddling the Warden's waist and, before the other man could react, he grabbed the Warden's right arm and jerked it up and back as far as it could go, while his other hand grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed the side of the Warden's face down onto the cold stone.
"Ow!" the Warden gasped, thrashing beneath Zevran, whose response was to yank the arm up a little higher. With a hissing sound, the Warden stilled, breathing harshly through clenched teeth.
Lips twisted in a lopsided smile, Zevran leaned down to nip half-playfully, half-mockingly, at the shell of the Warden's ear. "Yield?"
"You damned son of a bitch," the Warden gritted out.
"Son of a whore," Zevran corrected, amused despite the rush of blood demanding that certain needs be satisfied, and the heated pressure of the Warden's back against the hardness of his erection. "I didn't know my mother long enough to say for certain that she is, in fact, a bitch."
The Warden snorted out a laugh. "Fair point. All right, I'll yield."
Zevran smirked, giving the ear one last nip, before straightening and starting to loosen his grip—
—and suddenly he was on his back, the impact of his head hitting the floor making him see stars, and the Warden's face was a bare inch above his, the manic gleam in the other's eyes made more intimidating by their closeness
"Not," the Warden whispered, his breath flowing hot above Zevran's mouth, before claiming that mouth in a hard, demanding kiss.
No tenderness here, just a fierce demand of lips and teeth and tongue that was savage enough to be almost bruising.
Zevran laughed into the kiss, a wild sound that had nothing to do with mirth and everything to do with pure excitement, and he grabbed the Warden's hair with both hands, pulling them closer, deeper.
The Warden was a hot, heavy weight above him as hands reached down and pulled Zevran's tunic up as high as it could go without breaking their kiss, callused fingers leaving trails of heat over damp skin as the tunic ended up bunched under his arms, exposing his belly and most of his chest. It didn't take long for the wet fabric to feel uncomfortable; Zevran broke off for a moment to hastily pull it off him and throw it aside, before he reached for the Warden and did the same to the other man's tunic.
The Warden didn't struggle, but only long enough that Zevran could pull the sodden wool off. It barely slipped out of his fingers before the Warden fell full length onto him again, burying his face in the side of Zevran's neck and drawing parted lips lightly down from a pointed ear to a sharp collarbone, before he simply... stayed there, panting harshly over the very top of Zevran's chest, the sensation of hot breath over rapidly-cooling sweat making Zevran shiver from more than the chill of the stone floor pressing against his back. The hard length of the Warden's cock rested fully alongside his, the thick material of their breeches doing nothing to dampen the overwhelming heat of his lover's body.
"Warden," he hissed, grabbing the much broader shoulders hovering above him in an attempt to push the other man off so they could strip properly—
Except the Warden chose that moment to buck his hips, biting hard into Zevran's shoulder at the same time, the dual sensations of pain and pleasure making Zevran yelp, and then suddenly they were moving, the Warden's hips grinding down against his, seemingly without any regard for the clothing they still wore. "Warden!" Zevran gasped, his hands grabbing, clawing, at the Warden's back, summoning up his rapidly vanishing wits to protest, "We don't have to—"
But it was easy, so easy, too easy to just let his body undulate of its own accord, matching the Warden's rhythm, and the friction was brutal to the point of bordering pain, and it was too hot, and too much, and the sheer passion of it destroyed whatever objections he could think of. Groaning, he threw his head back, hands sliding down to grab the Warden's flexing behind as he bucked up against the other man. The Warden bit his shoulder again, harder this time, and his hip pushed back against Zevran's.
What is this now, rutting against each other like a pair of untrained bucks? Surely there are better ways to take your pleasure, Zevran heard a mental voice admonish him, at the same time his hazy, scattered mind dimly told him that maybe this roughness was what the Warden needed, and then he gave up thinking altogether and instead fell back into the familiar rhythms of physical intimacy, breaths coming out in harsh pants as they both strove for immediate gratification, their arms and legs everywhere and Zevran could easily turn this into a much more graceful dance with a few practiced moves, but he simply couldn't stop—
Lightning raced up his spine, and the last threads of his control snapped; with a harsh shout he came hard enough that his mind blanked, at the same time the Warden's teeth sank hard enough into his shoulder for him to feel the burn of torn skin as the other man let out a throbbing cry of his own, their cocks jumping and pulsing and shuddering against each other, and then it was done.
When Zevran felt his mind drift back lazily, he was pressed down onto the cold floor, the Warden sprawled half over him and half beside him. His breeches felt sticky in certain places, and later he would be very irritated in what he had just done in a perfectly good pair of breeches, but at the moment he simply continued to catch his breath, a hand running absently over the Warden's back.
"... Maker's breath," the Warden growled out breathlessly.
"Hmmm," Zevran replied, feeling a smile curve his mouth. Rolling to one side, he glanced down at the Warden, feeling more than a little amused. "Well, now, that was rather exciting, don't you think?"
The Warden stared at him in what, under normal circumstances, would be an incredulous expression, but the laziness of his recent orgasm simply gave him a mildly-puzzled look. But that frenzied, too-sharp edge that had been haunting the Warden for days was finally, blessedly gone. "That wasn't part of your plan, was it?"
"Maybe, maybe not," Zevran said lightly, and chuckled as the Warden half-heartedly swatted at him. "I certainly didn't plan to gain a few new bite marks."
Immediately the Warden looked ashamed. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Zevran leaned over and lightly kissed the Warden's words away, tongue swiping out to taste the leftover tang of his own blood before he drew back. A distinctly dark part of him shivered at the taste; a part of him that he determinedly shoved aside. Not now. "Ah, my dear, I've had worse. It's nothing more than a surface wound." He reached up and touched the most recent bite mark, feeling the skin already starting to crust over. "It'll heal well enough on its own, I think."
"You think?"
"... perhaps that was a wrong choice of words." Before the Warden could argue further, he lightly cupped the Warden's face, thumb brushing over a high cheekbone. "Do you feel better now?"
The Warden was silent for a long while, his eyes losing focus. Zevran waited, patiently, as his lover appeared to quietly examine his thoughts. "... yes," he said, eventually. Eyes clearing, he glanced at Zevran, quirking his lips in the barest of smiles. "Yes, I think so. Thank you."
"It was entirely my pleasure," Zevran purred. He sat up, grimacing as he felt the mess in his breeches shift. "Well, since we are quite done here, why don't we retire to our room and freshen up a little, hm?"
The Warden made a disgusted sound, sitting up as well. "A bath," he announced, as he got to his feet. "And food. I'm starving."
"That I can agree with," Zevran said, grabbing their tunics, tossing the much larger one in the Warden's direction. Without really thinking about it, he glanced back at the spot where they were lying down, and he felt himself snicker. The stone was shiny with sweat, and the shapes they made left no doubt about what had just happened in anyone with half a brain. "Now that will be something for the guardsmen to see when they return here in the morning."
"Well, we can't have that happening." The Warden let out a laugh of his own as he dropped his own tunic on the marks and swiped it across them with his foot.
By the time they left the room, quietly chuckling to themselves, the only remaining imprint was in their minds.
~ to be continued ~
Author's Note:
Hey, listen.
LISTEN.
I'M NOT DEAD!
Hello again everyone, new and (hopefully) still loyal readers! I'm BAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKK.
For the little while at least. I've been, hm, ridiculously busy on the fanart scene, as those of you have been following my deviantArt account (link to said account in my profile, by the way, or you can look for DragonReine on deviantArt, if you are curious). Since I opened up slots for commissions, I've been swamped with lots of art requests, and in particular I've been busy working with a fellow fanfic writer, Which is ridiculously awesome and all, but that, on top of some very time-consuming day-job work, my writing had slowed down to a complete standstill.
Until recently, that is.
Since my art techinque has been improving, I am able to work faster, and that also means I have more free time to type out chapters. It's going at a snail's pace at the moment, sorry, but I'm just letting anyone who wants to know that I have not and will not abandon OWaN.
Thanks for dropping by, and hope that you will stay around to read more of OWaN!