Chapter 6: Points
The horses were frisky in the brisk autumn air and they pulled and snorted at being kept to a trot. The two elves were not many miles from the Dalish camp when the valley they were riding through opened into a long meadow. With only a brief look of challenge Aithne gave her sturdy mount his head. Zevran grinned and crouched low on his gelding's neck as they leapt to follow. Hooves pounding and blood racing they flew across the open ground scattering a covey of grouse and a bewildered fox in their wake.
Laughing they pulled their blowing steeds up just shy of the trees. Aithne watched her lithe companion as he settled his mount with a deft touch, his tension from the morning's confrontation shed with the exhilaration of the impromptu race. "Zev, I apologize for dragging you into that mess with Rill. I had no idea he felt that way."
"It was nothing. He was just another narrow minded fool. I do have a question though; you spoke of Vir Tanadhal. It is not an elvish expression I am familiar with."
"It is the Way of the Three Trees, a code Dalish hunters live by." With a distant expression Aithne recited the verses.
"Vir Assan – the way of the arrow
Be swift and silent
Strike true, do not waver
And let not your prey suffer
That is my way
Vir Bor'assan – the way of the bow
As the sapling bends, so must you
In yielding, find resilience
In pliancy, find strength
That is my way
Vir Adahlen – the way of the wood
Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness
Respect the sacrifice of my children
Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn
That is my way
Remember the way of the hunter
And I shall be with you."
"Vir Tanadhal helped guide me through the blight and its spirit still directs me. I may not follow all my clan traditions anymore, but I still find wisdom in much of our lore."
"Speaking of lore, I am surprised you shared so much with your Keeper. Surely it is a risk for more people to know of Morrigan's ritual?" Zevran finally voiced the concern he had carried since the previous night.
"It was, but Marethari is like a grandmother to me. She has kept secrets for the clan all of her life and I have never known her to share them. We need more information on the Old Gods, information not colored by the Chantry. I fear that knowledge is lost, like so much else, but there is a scroll in the pouch she gave me that may have additional guidance."
"You think she found more information after we spoke last night?"
"I hope so. I doubt there would be much need for her to send the scroll otherwise. She also restocked our provisions, I am sure you noticed the saddlebags were heavier." Aithne was grateful, after nearly a month on the road their supplies had become rather sparse. The scroll intrigued her. Its shape and weight were distinct in the pouch but she had not found time to examine it yet, perhaps she would in camp tonight.
"I admit the supplies are welcome, I was getting rather sick of rabbit and onion stew. It is too much to hope for that she might have sent some spices? Ferelden food is rather bland… no slight to your cooking my dear Warden." Zevran's expression was a little wistful. It had been a long time since he had savored the exotic flavors of Antiva — their meal with the Dalish the previous night had contained a few familiar flavors, enough to stir his palate with memory.
"I will have to look, she may have. My clan has traveled extensively and does not always stay in Ferelden. We often traded for spices and medicines with clans from the north." Casually reaching for her bow and nocking an arrow she fixed on a spot in the trees across the meadow. With a quick motion she let fly once, then twice. "If you don't like my cooking you can try with these grouse." Riding over she retrieved the hapless birds that had drawn her attention.
Off balance for a moment Zevran quickly recovered. "Your cooking is wonderful. I was referring to the unending quantities of lamb and pea stew everywhere we go. I swear it must be the Ferelden national dish — ugh. Still, if you wish I will cook tonight. Just remember the one meal I made during the blight resulted in half the party declaring it was poison and trying to drown themselves after the first few bites." Zevran was sure they had exaggerated — it wasn't that spicy! He did savor the recollection of Alistair turning bright red with tears running down his face as he attempted to consume the contents of an entire waterskin in one gulp.
"That was a delicious meal, I even had seconds" Aithne grinned. "You must have missed that while you were helping Wynne." Zevran would never admit it but he had a soft spot for the older mage. When he had seen her discomfort he had rushed to pour her some wine, the alcohol was much better at taming the fires the spices lit. He had even cooked some porridge for her once she recovered.
"You liked it? I thought Sten had finished it." The qunari had seemed to enjoy the dish, at least as far a Zevran could tell.
"Yes, I liked it very much. I think the peppers you bought in Denerim were a little strong for the uninitiated though."
Her comment startled Zevran a little. Aithne was very observant but he had assumed that she was too wrapped up in Alistair's little farce with Goldanna at the time to notice his brief shopping expedition. "They were the only peppers available. How was I too know they don't use such things in Ferelden?" In truth he had suspected, it had seemed a good way to get a jab in at the naïve former templar. He had underestimated the effects on the rest of the party though and it had not been his intention to cause Wynne distress.
"It's settled then, you cook tonight." Aithne gave him a satisfied smirk and passed him the two birds. "That means you can clean and pluck these." Turning her horse she left him there holding the limp grouse.
As the day progressed Aithne was needled by a building sense of unease. They were sitting on a stream bank for lunch the feeling suddenly clarified. "Darkspawn."
"How close?" Zevran had learned to rely on her warden sense during the blight. They had hoped the darkspawn threat would recede after the death of the Archdemon but the incursions had continued. When Aithne had traveled to Amaranthine to see the Grey Wardens settled in their new base they had discovered a new threat — sentient darkspawn. Even after the deaths of the Architect and the Mother a few of the newly aware darkspawn had continued raids on surface lands.
"They are a way off yet — but moving in this direction. We need to intercept them." Finishing her cold venison she rose.
"How many?" The two of them were formidable but a large band might be too much of a challenge.
"Feels like a smaller group, perhaps a dozen, maybe a few more." Visage grim, Aithne tightened her gelding's girth and swung into the saddle.
"Just a little fun then." Slipping a couple of poison bottles into his belt for easy access, Zevran followed her.
Several hours of swift riding brought them close to the band. Tying their horses they stealthily crept into the forest to intercept the forward scouts.
"Shall we compete for points?" Zevran's usual pre-battle enquiry was greeted with a brief smile.
"Sure — emissaries and alphas two points, all others one." It was their usual scoring system, one that had garnered laughs from the Orlesian wardens until they had seen the two rogues in action. "Stakes?"
Zevran paused — it was time to up the ante. He had played the game conservatively until now and impatience gnawed at him. "Loser gives the winner a massage."
Aithne gave him a speculative glance. With Zevran those stakes were higher than a massage she was sure. Loneliness and desire, twin weaknesses, clamored to be heard. It had been years since Alistair — years of waking in the night, cold and alone, wrapping her arms around a pillow wishing it was hard muscle, strong arms, a beating heart. These past weeks alone with Zevran had drained her resistance, forced her to acknowledge she might desire more than friendship. Her weaknesses silenced the portion of her conscience that suggested she might just be using her dear friend. They also silenced her fear of being hurt again. "Sure."
Stunned Zevran fought the race of blood from his head to his groin. He had not expected her to agree. Feeling like a virgin on his first trip to a brothel, he struggled for control — there were still darkspawn to fight, he just wasn't sure if he wanted to win or lose, either way could have…possibilities. It took all of his years of Crow training to force himself to refocus on the task at hand.
Silent as wraiths, part of the forest, they crept up on the unsuspecting scouts. A quick movement to tip the head back, and a dagger slice destined to sever the windpipe along with the major vessels, ensured that no sound alerted the remainder of the darkspawn band. Hiding their prey under the autumn leaves they circled around to the tail of the group.
Aithne gave a quick signal to Zevran. "Careful — emissary," then melted into the shadows behind a trailing genlock. The Crow assassin mirrored her movements until he was in place. Their earlier maneuver was repeated, four darkspawn down and the band still had not been alerted.
Creeping up they slid into position again. This time luck abandoned them as a nervous hurlock turned just as Zevran struck. The hurlock went down but not before his strangled cry echoed through the rest of the warband.
Aithne threw herself forward intercepting the next hurlock as it turned, a dagger finding the left kidney, leaving it sprawled and bleeding on the forest floor. Zevran spun forward to another target, his sword cleanly removing its head. Leaping forward he landed in the middle of a group of darkspawn. Whirling and stabbing he left all of them wounded before leaping out again, melding with the deepening twilight.
Using Zevran's distraction, Aithne raced forward to the emissary before he could release a spell. Strikes in quick succession left it bleeding and dazed but still upright. Refreshing the poison on her blades with a deft motion she moved in for the kill. The emissary cursed her as she stepped around to backstab and waves of weakness spread through her limbs. Drawing on her willpower she dove in for a critical strike, sliding beneath it and thrusting upward into a femoral artery. Seven down — no eight as she saw Zevran's current target fall.
Darting in and out they lead their opponents in a deadly dance. Unexpected strikes, slipping in and out of a target's vision, an occasional swift kick to a sensitive area and poison, these were the tools they used. A lightly armored rogue could not go toe to toe with a heavily armed adversary and win; it all hinged on swift, deceptive movements and well placed strikes.
They did not escape unscathed. A mistimed dodge sent Zevran's forehead directly into a pommel strike from a huge hurlock. Aithne earned a dagger slice to her upper arm when she lost track of a genlock rogue. Still they felled their enemies with speed and efficiency. The twilight shadows had scarcely grown longer by the time the last darkspawn lay still.
Covered with gore and trying to ignore a rising headache Zevran grinned. "Seven for me."
"I had seven as well, but one was the emissary. Eight points — I win." Aithne had forgotten the stakes briefly in the heat of battle. They were brought back suddenly as Zevran moved forward desire glinting in his eyes.
"I believe I owe you a massage."
The Antivan's seductive voice bypassed her brain and centered on a spot much lower. Demanding that her body behave itself Aithne spoke. "Perhaps we should clean up and make camp first. I, for one would prefer not to be covered in darkspawn blood."
Zevran's smile expanded. "A bath, then a massage, good idea — very relaxing."
Aithne's body and brain collided, fought and surfaced with the same idea. "I know of a hot spring not too far from here — if you do not mind riding in the dark."
"I am always up for a hard ride my Warden." Zevran's voice caressed her suggesting things that she had tried to forget.
Blushing yet again she led them back to where their horses were tethered.
They paused briefly before riding out to clean and apply poultices to their injuries. The cut on Aithne's arm was short but deep and had bled freely. Zevran had an abrasion and a large bruise coming up on his temple. He was not about to admit to the headache – she would only use that to delay his payment. After all he had lost fair and square, he owed her the massage.
They rode several hours past dark, wearily working their way into a tiny meadow along a small river. As they wound their way around the small cliff face next to the river, Zevran noticed a few fallen trees arranged into a haphazard fence. Aithne dismounted once they were through and closed the gap with a thick branch. "This place is often used as a hunting camp by the Dalish. The horses can graze freely here and we will not be disturbed. The hot spring empties into the river just above the overhang." She indicated an opening in the cliff right next to the river.
Reaching the overhang, where the soft limestone had been eroded by the acidic waters of the hot spring in ages past, Aithne motioned Zevran toward the firewood piled in the back of the opening. "I will tend the horses if you will start the fire. I believe you owe me dinner as well."
"A pleasure, my dear Warden." Zevran was a master of seduction. He could not have engineered things better. Taking the saddlebags and setting them near the stones that demarcated a fire ring he busied himself.
By the time Aithne had finished tending the horses he had the fire going and was sorting the packages of herbs and spices that Marethari had indeed supplied them with. The Keeper had been generous; a few of the items she had given them were rather expensive. Perhaps she did view his grey warden as a granddaughter after all.
"Why don't you get out of your armor and bathe while I cook" he offered. The scene was not yet set.
Aithne watched the blond elf for a moment. She was as nervous as the time she had confessed to Alistair that she had never "licked a lamppost". Gathering her courage she set her armor in a neat pile and pulled a threadbare towel out of her pack. Her spare shirt and pants and some scented soap she had found at a shop in Denerim followed. Stepping down to the river's edge she welcomed the mist curling off the heated water in the frosty air. Without a backward glance, she shed her blood covered clothes and let the familiar waters welcome her.
Zevran restrained himself from following, her bath would give him time to finish his preparations.
Drying her hair with the towel Aithne walked back up the stony slope to the fire. Zevran was pulling the spiced and breaded breasts and thighs of the grouse out of a pan where he had fried them in halla butter. Laying them atop a nest of grains and mushrooms he poured wine over the whole thing and placed the cover over the small cast iron oven. Setting the oven on some coals near the edge of the fire he rose, amber eyes vulnerable in the firelight. "Our meal will need to cook a while yet. If you don't mind, I would like to clean up as well."
"The water gets warmer as you move upstream closer to the spring, be careful, it is hot enough to burn if you get too close."
"So many things are my Grey Warden." With that cryptic comment he turned toward the river.
Aithne surveyed their little camp while Zevran bathed. He had laid her bedroll, open flat, near the fire. His was still folded but near enough to grab with a casual reach. Nervous she cast around for something to do. The savory scent of the roasting grouse drew her attention to the campfire. Maybe there was something. A few minutes later she had two apples cored and placed in her other tiny cast iron oven, a pat of halla butter in each, a drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon, nothing fancy but it would do for dessert.
She was just placing the second oven on the coals when Zevran emerged from the mist near the river. His hair wet and chest bare he resembled the stories of river spirits she had heard of as a child. Advancing lithely toward the fire he held her with his gaze. Reaching her seat he drew her toward him until they were standing eye to eye. "I think it is time for me to pay up." His words whispered like silk along her skin.
"You are sure Zev? That hurlock got in a good hit." Her fingers brushed the purple bruise on his temple.
"Perhaps you could kiss it better, no?" Silk again, and the uniquely Zevran scent of spices and leather.
It was madness, yet so appealing, "Perhaps." Tentatively she drew his head down and laid a soft kiss over the bruise.
Pulling her down to the blankets, with gentle fingers and soft lips he paid in full.
Acknowledgments as always to Bioware, I own nothing.
Huge thanks to my beta Tarante11a, she keeps me from publishing gibberish. If you have not yet checked out her "Rogue on the Rocks" I highly recommend it.
The next few chapters should be up fairly quickly, I spent most of the weekend writing so I have 2 more after this that just need polished. I am also planning on editing my ealier chapters once "Awakening" is out for story consistancy. The timeline will need to back up a bit I think.
Thanks again to the folks who contribute to the wiki. I could never find all the wonderful lore just by sorting through the old forums.