This is to all those who review, read, favorite and alert this story: ya'll make my world go 'round. Especially when I get reviewed, because that makes me go spinny, happy, jumpy dance all around the house.
Title: A Murder of Crows 10/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO
Summary: F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things.
AN: Let's see... Moving to Germany - check. Told hubbys' traditional Chinese parents - check. Listened to them freak out - check. Amazed by hubby layin' the smack down on his mother, verbally - check. I have the best husband in the world.
Also, I have gained my revenge against bellaknoti for having made the nugtossed/plotbunny I tried to give her that wound up being A Guild-ed Cage as she boomaranged the damn thing back at me. Heh. Fishies Out of Water shall be coming to a post near you!
bellaknoti aka our Comma Fairy has put her little stamp of approval on this now.
XXX
Murder 10
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Rolling Lahar over, Zevran pushed her left leg so the knee touched her chest, while massaging her calf and foot. Taking care to stretch each of her joints, the Antivan also rubbed oil into her skin. Leliana was giving Lahar's arms the same treatment of stretching, and massaging protective oil into the tiny mage's delicate flesh.
"Zevran, I have a question for you." Her Orlesian accent was thick on the Ferelden words.
Closing his eyes, the Antivan sat on the bed, pulling Lahar's leg up to his shoulder, rolling his thumbs into the muscles of her thigh. "Hmmm... the last time a woman said she had a question for me, I wound up being partially disemboweled. Auck, well – I like to live dangerously. Ask away, my lovely Orlesian flower."
"Well..." The red-head leaned down, pulling muscles and tendons along Lahar's various arm bones. "It was my understanding that the Crows didn't tolerate weakness. Especially not something like this."
"Hmm, weakness," he mused, switching to Lahar's other leg. "You are correct, weakness is not tolerated. But, is this weakness?"
"She is defenseless, unable to fight. That would be weakness, correct?" The bard moved to work on the other side of the bed.
"That would be where you are quite wrong," he countered, shifting so he could gently remove her shirt; it was one of his, that he had sacrificed to be a nightdress for her. "She is not truly defenseless, and she is fighting. We just cannot see it. It is in the Fade, this battle of will. So, no, she is not weak."
"Well, wouldn't the Guild deem her to be?" Leliana grabbed the bowl and wash cloth in it, assisting him clean up the sweat from the Warden's body.
Zevran thought about it for several moments, then shook his head. "No. They would understand that one of their number was going through some battle, and until it was proved that the person in this state had failed in that war – they would care for the injured party." Shrugging, each swipe of moist cloth was followed by a dry one, blotting away moisture. "Lahar would be considered too valuable to waste - just as she is to us - so we shall not waste such a vital resource."
"Important to us, or important to you?" The question made his hackles rise, but was amusing.
"Ah, my fair lady – who else would we follow? I would not follow any of the others, Sten would not follow any of us either, Alistair would not know how to lead, and Morrigan would kill anyone who irritated her," he said, snorting. "So, that leaves Lahar to lead, from those of us that could conceivably step forward, as you or Wynne would never think to do so. Even if our fair Warden weren't a good one, she would be the only one we could all agree upon, one way or another. So... she is vital for all of us, in our individual ways." Quirking a smile, he added, "Besides, she is my ticket to freedom from the Crows, and holds my personal oath of loyalty. I would be remiss if I did not look after her."
Leliana made a tiny moue of distaste. "Are you sure it has nothing to do with that Bonding ritual? She is your wife..."
Ah, you are not so stupid as you play at, he thought, smile broadening. Straddling Lahar's legs, Zevran set to oiling her torso. Wives are nothing at all to one such as I, unless we choose them. I may be a Master Crow, and be within my rights of choosing a wife, but that does not mean I ever wanted one.But... it did bear thinking about. The Crow knew he was inordinately protective of the mage; then again, what he said had been true. Lahar was his ticket to freedom, and even if she never released him of his oath, and even if he simply stayed by her side, she was a pleasing enough master that he could happily deal with her.
Once the two rogues were finished, Zevran picked Lahar up, while Leliana changed the sheets. "I still think it's very sweet how you are with her, even if it is for purely selfish reasons you do this."
"Hmm, as the saying goes – the best poisons are the sweetest." Tugging the covers up to Lahar's shoulders, he tucked them firmly around her.
They got her fed quickly, and Zevran was pleased at how Lahar appeared to have not only ceased her weight loss, but to be gaining some. When they finally left the Dalish, she would need all the reserves that could be packed on. Even Rinna had more meat on her, he reflected, brushing some of the young woman's hair from her cheeks. I suppose it would be too much to ask if your breasts were bigger. He was glad that the Orlesian was gone from thearavel, and would not witness the casual way he ran his palm over the sleeping mage's bosom.
Settling down, Zevran curled around her protectively, stroking her cheek with his thumb as he began to drowse. Just as he was drifting off, there was a tiny shift beside him. Eyes popping open, he saw Lahar's face had turned towards his, her eyes fluttering as they struggled to stay open.
"Lahar? Mi cielo?" Scooting to sit up, taking Lahar with him, he pulled her tight to his chest. "Lahar?"
"Mmmmnuh," she murmured, blinking drunkenly.
Swallowing his shock, the Crow, took her pulse. "If you can understand what I am saying, grunt."
He got a little snort. "'ehvrahn."
"Do you need anything?" He shushed her with a finger over her lips. "I will say a word and if you make a noise I will assume you want that. Do you understand?"
"Unmf." One lid slid closed in a blink, the other remaining open, pupils flexing large then small.
"Water." No response. "Food." Again, no response. "Healing." No response. "Piss." Again, no response, and Zevran could tell Lahar needed something. "Fresh air?" Yet again – nothing. Stroking the side of her cheek, he admitted, "Mi vida, I have no more ideas..."
Her eyes fell closed completely as he whispered, running his hand over her forehead and cheek. As he began to draw away her eyes opened and she made a noise. Zevran was at his wit's end, and was almost ready to go seek Wynne's assistance, as much as it would gall him to.
"Nuuu," she moaned, twitching in his arms.
"I am here mi diosa," he tried to reassure her, touching her cheek once more.
And again she relaxed. "'ehvrahn."
Locking onto that, he looked at her intently. "Touch? Is that what you need?"
"Umnf." There was a twitch of her head, in what could almost be a nod. "Mo'."
Running his fingers over her face, Zevran leaned down, pressing his lips to her temple. "Is this what you want?"
"Mo'. Mo'," she murmured, wiggling in his arms weakly. "Schkinnn..."
Surprised, Zevran looked down at her, tipping her head back gently. "Skin?"
"Umnf," she grunted, blinking rapidly.
Slowly, he set her down. "A moment, I am right here."
Quickly the Antivan stripped down, and pulled his shirt off of her, tossing all of it to the floor, then slid under the blankets to press close. A relieved sigh came from his little mage. He shivered. She's freezing! Wrapping himself around her, tucking her face into his neck, Zevran twined his legs with hers. Rubbing at her back, his mind raced. She wasn't this cold earlier... Then again – she was not awake...
She was like ice, as if she had let loose one of those ice storms, and they were stuck in it. Zevran shuddered, body shaking in reaction, but they both would need his body-heat. Blankets, we need more, blankets... However, he couldn't do anything about that without leaving Lahar's side. After a particularly bad set of shakes rocked Lahar, Zevran winced, knowing that there was no hope for it - he would have to find something else to help her warm up other than himself.
"Preciosa, I have to get more blankets, something to keep us warm," he told her, grimacing. "Do you understand?"
"Unmf." There was a tiny nod. "'Esh."
Slipping from the bed quickly, he went to the door, ignoring his nudity, and called out to the first of their number that he saw. "Alistair!"
"Huh? What? Oh dear Maker Zevran – you're -"
"Blankets, hot rocks, something – Lahar is freezing, bring them in now!" He only stayed in the doorway long enough to impart the message and see that it was understood.
Racing back to the bed, he dove under the blankets, enveloping Lahar in his arms once more. Slim fingers dug into his sides, and Zevran repositioned her hands so that one was on his backside - At least it's warm back there... - and tucked the other one into one of his armpits.
Alistair opened the door to the aravel warily, not looking up. "Ah, Zevran, I've got a few blankets..." The Templar glanced up, then was clearly taken aback. "Uh. Whoa, I can see your breath."
Keeping his jaw locked, he ground out, "How very astute. Bring the blankets over here, and call Ser Prize in. If you can find Morrigan, have her warm some rocks and tuck them between the blankets."
The large shemlen did as he said quickly, dropping his usual oafish act. Zevran's skin burned with the cold, and he had to force himself to not breathe too quickly, to concentrate on maintaining his core temperature. A meditative state came over him, the same kind that had been drilled into him by the Guild during the various endurance training that all initiates underwent. Antivan winters were mild, but the waters of Rialto Bay would plunge to frigid levels. Aspiring Crows would have to link arms and float in the shallows, letting the waves wash over them; sand would grind into their bare flesh, and a few would become hypothermic. On rare occasions, someone would die of it, but that was very rare, indeed.
Around him, he could hear the others coming and going, but he paid them no mind. He was awake, and they were doing as he had requested. The bed creaked as Ser Prize wuffled and crawled up to snuggle against Lahar's back. Almost twenty stone of mabari generated a lot of heat. With the addition of the spell-heated stones that Morrigan tucked between layers of blankets, Zevran could feel the temperature slowly rising in the air around him and Lahar. As small as the aravel was, it couldn't accommodate many people at once. Truly, more than two people, other than those on the bed, was too many. However, the others kept crowding around, and at some point, Zevran realized that, while his mage was still very cold, she had begun to hide in his chest.
Nuzzling at her crown, he pitched his voice very low and soft, for her ears alone. "Lahar, mi cielo, mi vida, mi diosa, do you want me to ask them to leave?"
Lahar had stopped shaking by now, her body limp and getting warmer and warmer, but she had yet to make any more noise. Cupping the back of her head, Zevran rubbed his face close to her ear, repeating his quiet question. For a reply it was wordless, but he understood the sudden clenching of fingers, and the minute shaking of her head.
"Alright, that is enough," he said, using that voice of his, the one that no matter how quietly he spoke, would still cut through a crowded room. "I shall take over from here."
Morrigan hovered a moment, then nodded decisively. "I shall take your turn hunting with the scouts."
Alistair fidgeted around uneasily. "Maybe Wynne or Leliana should stay with her tonight?"
Zevran tugged some of the covers up a little further, to cover Lahar even more. "Alistair, as much as I appreciate your assistance, I do believe that matters are under control now. Please, some privacy."
The elder mage had yet to speak, but she was clearly waiting for her opportunity. "I should check over Lahar, now."
Ser Prize grunted, scooting so he could lay his massive head on his mistress' hip, staring at the old woman.
"I understand, Wynne, truly I do. Apprentices grow up so fast, and do so many adult things," he responded, using a gentle tone of voice, as though he were sympathizing. "But eventually they do stand on their own feet, and being too protective is more detrimental to their development. I believe our fairest Warden is at this point, and she is currently in the good hands of her husband."
Wynne's lips thinned down to a narrow slash. "You are not her husband."
"Oh, to the contrary, I am," he said, maintaining an even tone. Carefully Zevran pulled his arm from under the pile of material, showing off his forearm. "Tagged and bagged, as we Crows used to call being married, and the Dalish lay visible, permanent proof in their skins. This, right here, gives me the right to tell you when you are not welcome or are unnecessary in my shared, private quarters. Now please, I do not wish to have a verbal battle with you at this time; I've much more important things to take care of."
From the vicinity of his neck, Lahar made a barely intelligible sentence. "Plesh, gu Wun."
"If you are sure dear." Wynne came closer, leaning over the small bed, and it made the Antivan's skin crawl.
However, he could do nothing further, entangled as he was, and on his side, without making him look bad to Lahar, even though the hand that had strayed under the pillow was gripping a knife, ready to roll over and plunge it into a waiting neck. He forced his muscles to relax, eyes falling into a lazy hooded countenance, his ears pressed tight to his skull. He was waiting, and listening – prepared. Logic dictated that Wynne would do nothing, however, that did not mean that every instinct he had would simply go away.
"m'Feen, Wun." Another garbled sentence, but its meaning was clear enough for even the devoutly obtuse.
"Alright then; goodnight dear." Straightening, the Circle mage left.
Finally!
Ser Prize glanced at him and Lahar, his abnormally intelligent eyes almost human. Then he, too, made to leave, hopping from the bed, and coming over to Zevran, pressing his cold wet nose to the arm that was still over the pile of blankets. Twisting so he could scratch the large mabari behind the ears, he gave the beast a smile.
"Ah, so you won't be staying? Would you be willing to guard the door then, my friend?" he asked, rubbing the short, bristly fur on the dog's head.
"Wuff!" he responded, coupled with a quick wiggle of his big butt.
Lahar clumsily pulled her arms from around him. "Let 'im oot?"
The bronze elf had to concentrate for a moment to understand the tiny Warden. "Yes, I shall let him out. I think you and I shall be able to stay warm enough now, with all these rocks in the bed, without his assistance, yes?"
"'esh," she mumbled, slowly wiggling in the bed.
Her motor skills are nonexistent, he thought, going to open the door for Ser Prize, who only went far enough to flop down at the foot of the little folding steps. She was warm until she woke up, then went to pure ice, and her speech is garbled at best. It was distressing to say the least. Never, in any of his encounters with someone waking from catatonic states – well, more coma than catatonia – had he seen such a response. Not that any of them had been ready to jump head-first into action right after wakening, but even so, they generally had some actual control over their bodies. Then again, none of those I ever knew were mages. Pausing long enough to pour some tea from the skin that hung by the bed into a clay mug, Zevran gulped it down, before quickly refilling it. Mages in the Guild... are always separate. I never actually knew any mages until Lahar. Lifting her to sit up partially, he bid her to drink the contents of the cup. Strange creatures they are. Burning with so many fel energies, consuming them from the inside out with each spell they cast. No wonder blood magic came to be – better to burn someone else out than oneself, if one has the ability...
Setting aside the cup, he looked back to her. "Is there anything else you desire, mi cielo?"
"Schkinn, plez," came out in a huff. "Tooch, ankur, meh."
Leaning in, he tried to translate. "Ankur? Anchor?"
"'esh." This was accompanied by more wiggling that almost dislodged the mountain of cloth atop her.
"Shh, do not struggle, encantadora," he admonished gently, scooting under the blankets once more.
As soon as he was under, she was wriggling closer, her face pressing into the crook of his neck. Closing his eyes, the Crow sighed, breathing deep. The scent of the herb-infused almond oil he had been using as a protectant for Lahar's delicate skin had mixed with her natural fragrance. Snow and the tang of ozone, blended with amber and roses, was light and sweet, rising from her skin as he stroked his hands over her shoulders and back, soothing her the only way he knew how.
Lahar sighed into his neck, and the nerves in his skin shivered in reaction. Of course, the Crow had gone long stretches without any intimacy in his life, but those were cases where he had chosen celibacy, and so the fact that it had been more than three weeks was presenting itself to him, rather rudely, as his elven mage merely breathed on him.
It was the sensation of woman – awake, aware, naked, pressed to him – and her erratic breathing as he petted her that was beginning to drive him to distraction. Ah, Zevran, you must control yourself. There is time for that later. Allow her to convalesce somewhat before you try anything! That, and... He wasn't sure if she was aware she was even doing it, but every few seconds her tongue would lick her lips, and brush over his skin.
Finally he could take no more. "Mi vida, por favor, nunca mas, have mercy."
"'evrahn?" She squirmed weakly against him.
"It has been, some time... and you are... your mouth– it is..." He stumbled, searching for a tactful way of telling her she was giving him blue balls. "I am aroused at the moment, and what you are doing is making me even more so."
Lahar stilled - listening to him, he could tell, even though he couldn't see her face - and then, very deliberately, licked him again. Already painfully hard, Zevran twitched, shifting his hips carefully once more so that he wouldn't be pressing his burgeoning erection, wouldn't invade the young woman's personal space. For his consideration, he got a weak nip right over the vein in his neck, and a flopping hand moving to his hip and squeezing.
"Pequeña, it has been weeks, my tolerance for teasing is not very high," he tried to warn her.
"Tooch, want, need," she mumbled, lips moving with the partially slurred words.
Zevran rolled so that he was hovering over Lahar. "You are in no condition for such things, mi diosa; I would not wish to hurt you."
His resolve was crumbling, and they both knew it... not that Zevran had been very resolved in the first place. It had been a near thing, a time or two in the last few days, when he almost decided that the satisfaction that came from his hand would be better supplemented by availing himself of the convenient body nearby. Technically, by Dalish custom, he would have been within his rights, however, Zevran had a feeling that Lahar would have found out – in fact he probably would have told her himself – and that she would have felt violated. So, he had refrained.
But it had been a very close thing.
Nuzzling at her jaw, holding himself over her, he was careful not to rest any weight on her. "Lahar, I am tightly wound, and I am unsure of the wisdom of taking you."
She arched her neck, and he could see her forcing herself to focus on him clearly. "Need anchooor, to here." Her head dropped back on the pillow. "Head spirit-madness. Fighting. Need ankoor here." A small growl came from her bow shaped lips. "Want yoo tooch. Pleesh."
Well then. There is no use arguing common sense with that sort of entreaty, now is there? Duty to consideration discharged, Zevran gradually lay himself over Lahar, his mouth finding the corner of her jaw. Ice and the semi-sweetness of rose was licked and nibbled there, while he nudged her thighs apart with his hips, rubbing his aching hardness over the plush softness of her sex. Beneath him, his Warden sighed in relief, an arm artlessly flopping to wrap around his waist. He was aware she wouldn't be up for much in the way of participation, but he did like the fact that, even as difficult as it was for her, Lahar was still trying.
Dropping kisses over her rounded shoulders, he flexed his hips, rubbing her folds apart with the underside of his cock, and even here, Lahar was chilly. However, he knew that once he breached the exterior, she would be hot and moist. Taking his time, the Antivan lavished attention on her neck and chest, making occasional forays to her ears. Of course, that got him the most vocal response, the organs being so full of nerves as any elf's was, which aided in their sharp hearing. Once he had explained it to Taliesen as like having extra sex organs; they were so sensitive, a simple stroke or nuzzle, let alone sucking or nipping at the cartilage, would prompt immediate response.
Reaching between them, Zevran pressed himself at Lahar's now weeping opening, pushing the broad head into her gradually with short little rocks of his hips. Around him, her sheath flexed and stretched, yet so tight, it was stealing his breath in inaudible moans. It was as he flexed forward that he realized there was so little resistance from her body that she could not stay still upon the sheets. She slid upard, and she was so frail, he feared harming her if he held to her too tightly with his weight so fully upon her. Practicality suddenly dictated a different approach.
Rolling free of the mage, he went to his back, even as she cried out in protest. Zevran quieted her gently. "Shhh, I've no intention of stopping mi vida. I merely do not wish to risk harming you."
Tugging her atop him, positioning her legs to fall to either side of his, Zevran took her hips in hand. Raising them up enough so he could push at her warmth, the Antivan rocked her onto him slowly. Lahar's face was resting beside his head, breathy mewlings escaping her with each gentle motion as she gradually sunk lower and lower onto his thick girth. A moan worked its way from his throat as he thrust upwards against the way he pulled her up and down his length.
Head tipping back and bracing on the pillow, Zevran found a rhythm where he circled his hips upwards from the bed while moving Lahar along him. Inside her body she was just as hot as he remembered, searing and wet, fluttering muscles locking and dragging the flesh over his member with each grinding movement. Zevran had to control his breathing, had to clench his eyes shut, to concentrate on the press of breasts to the planes of his chest, the softness of Lahar's belly rubbing against his. He had to block it and enjoy it at the same time. His orgasm wanted to break free, but he refused, taking the pleasure and holding it at arm's length; this was in direct opposition to how he was holding Lahar close, one of his arms having snaked up the length of her spine, so he could cup her head. Fingers tangled in her long sable hair, bringing her panting mouth close to his face, so that when he turned his head towards her he could thrust his tongue between her lips. Groaning, he fell into the delicious sensation of the tongue against his, her body pliant and wet all over him, driving him mad.
And still, he kept to a slow pace.
At a particularly intense ripple of bliss that traveled from the tip of his cock and the surrounding tissue all the way to the base of his spine, shooting from there to his toes and skull, he whimpered, ending the kiss. In his ear, Lahar was mumbling incoherent, incomplete things, while rubbing her face against his throat and jaw. Lips latched onto his earlobe, and Zevran grunted, automatically tilting his head so Lahar could reach more of his delicate ear. Mouth opening in a soundless cry, Zevran had to gain a stranglehold on his impending release. Again, he shoved it to the back of his mind, his breath fighting to pick up speed.
A muted keen shot through his head, Lahar trembling in his arms, and still – onwards Zevran strove. She wants my touch to hold her to the here and now? Yes, I shall give that to her, yes, I will make her stay, right here, was his mantra, ringing in his mind, at the forefront of all thought. However, his needy body and its demands would not be refused, and neither would Lahar, for as he began to raise her off of him so he could withdraw, teeth sank into the shell of oversensitive cartilage, demanding he continue. It was too much, and with a broken, hoarse groan, Zevran bucked upwards, yanking Lahar's hips to his, hands locked tight on the roundness of her body, and spilled deep in her sheath in pulsing glory.
Muscles going lax, the Crow flopped back entirely on the bed, limbs filled with warmth. "Ah, mi cielo, we cannot keep doing that."
"Ehnn?" She struggled to raise her head and look at him, before laying back down on his chest.
Cupping her bottom and bucking up against her a little, he said, "I cannot keep releasing in you, as that is how babies come about." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Wait – you do know that that is how they are made, yes?"
There was an annoyed grunt that he took for a 'yes'.
He let out a relieved breath. "Then good. But yes, we cannot keep doing that. Me getting you with child during the Blight is a very bad idea. Poor management of resources and all that, at the least."
"Unmf," she muttered. A minute wiggle of hips accompanied this.
"That and I do not think it would be wise from the standpoint of the fact that my parenting skills are nonexistent," he continued. "So, from now on, we must always take precautions."
Not only would I make a poor parent, and not only the need to fight the Blight – but it would be most... unwise. He kept that thought to himself. She need not know of what had been done to him, especially as he was not fully sure of what had happened to him during his Culminacion, either. Why worry her?
"Talk mo', pleash," she whispered into his chest. "'bout Ahnteevah."
"Ah, you wish to hear more of Antiva? Hmm..." He hesitated, pondering what he should say of his homeland. "There is a garden, near the apartment I shared with... two others." He stumbled again. He had almost said 'Rinna and Taliesen', names which he tried to never say, as they brought so many memories up that he didn't wish to think on. "Near the apartment I shared with two of my fellow Crows, there was this garden. I don't remember who had funded its creation; it isn't all that important, as merchants and high-placed Guild members often do public works to beautify or otherwise improve Antiva. It is good public relations, as we all depend on the good will of the people, and the people depend on our protection. So, this garden..." Closing his eyes, Zevran recalled the details. "It was in two parts. One was a night garden, with plants that came to life, perfuming the air when the moon was out. White moondrops, with their crimson centers, honey sweet and delicious smelling, sat side by side with violets that had tips that were almost white, while their middles were so dark a purple to be near black. Have you ever smelled violets or moondrops?"
Lahar shook her head, and he realized her motor functions were improving. Slowly, but improving. She would probably remain weak for days, but later, they could do something to strengthen her. Right now, was about preventing Lahar from slipping back into that coma. Whatever she had been fighting there must have been terribly strong to have laid the mage so low for so long.
Giving her a squeeze, he continued, "Perhaps one day you will be able to. I am sure violets grow here and not just in Antiva, but I do not know if moondrops would. They like the heat. Well, the night garden was arrayed in the shape of the crescent moon, with little stone benches, and statuary of butterflies and birds that would hover in such a way as to look like real creatures over the flowerbeds."
"Sounds... pretty," she said clearly, with careful enunciation of each word.
In reply he smiled. "Yes, it is beautiful. It always reminded me of amethysts. I think a pendant of a cabochon amethyst would look lovely resting in the hollow of your throat," he mused, stroking her hair. "I even know this jeweler who makes these wire wrapped pendants that makes the stone appear as though it is nestled in gossamer threads."
"Never," she said, taking a deep breath, "had... some... thing... like.. that."
"Ah, yes; all that you wear is practical, and serves a function, yes?" This was a purely rhetorical question. "To be sure, it is a crime. All women deserve a little adornment that simply exists to showcase, and be shown in turn, for reasons of pure beauty."
It was not simple flattery he gave Lahar. She was lovely, and a few simple pieces of jewelry or well cut clothes would do her some good. Her current mage robes were enticing, but the ones she had worn when he first looked upon her had swallowed her up. They were shapeless and plain, making her appear as nothing so much as a girl dressing in her mother's clothes. No, the young Warden could use a few soft touches to compliment her frame and face. There was a mixing of features to her face, her elvenness apparent if one knew she was an elf, but the sharpness that Zevran associated with being an elf had been softened without any of the broad features that a shemlen would have.
Shifting so he could reach out and shutter the glow of the lantern that lit the aravel, he picked up the thread of his conversation. "At night, in the spring and summer months, little fire bugs would dance over the sweet flowers, and it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in my entire life."
"Ti-ured?" Lips quested for his neck, kissing him lightly.
Twirling a strand of her sable hair around a finger, he tried to reassure her. "No. I am merely homesick mi diosa."
"Umnf." A wiggling scoot moved her so she was up high enough to lay a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "Make, most, of... here. Now."
Sighing, Zevran tilted his head so his lips could quest for hers. Pulling away after several long moments of exploring her mouth, he rested his forehead against hers. "I do try, hermosa pequeña mia, I do try."
XXX
Bundling Lahar up, Zevran carried her down to sit beside the fire, and held her between his legs, propped up against his chest. The others had given him strange looks for this, but they were ignored. His young Warden had been able to stand on her own for a few moments, and was speaking properly now, but was still weak, and frequently suffering bounts of hypothermia. Accepting the bowl of soup from Morrigan, Zevran scooped some up, holding the spoon to Lahar's mouth. This particular action gained him wide, startled looks from everyone.
Except Lahar, that is, who was used to him feeding her in the privacy of their aravel. He had been relieved when she had only given him a funny look the first time, but, after she had realized she couldn't hold a spoon properly, had acquiesced readily to the Crow feeding her. She had spent the last two days regaining basic control over her body, and was able to walk from the bed to the door with assistance. At one point, while she had been bathing with Leliana's help, Zevran had admonished the others to not tell their leader how long she had been in a coma. The Antivan worried that she would push herself too much, rushing off before her body was able to cope with the rigors of the road. Such a rash action would put her at undue risk, and land them back at square one. Thankfully, they had all agreed with his logic.
Even Wynne. The nosy old coot.
So, now he had her out amongst the others, as he knew that the children of the tribe would be coming soon for their regular story time. These sessions were usually accompanied by each child working on small chores, like making rope or mending tents, with the help of himself, Wynne and Leliana. Zevran had found a certain peace to this once-familiar activity, and also found gaping holes in the children's education about their people. The gaps were something Zevran could fill, if only partially, and much like the other tasks that each party member participated in, readying the clan for travel, were things they could do to earn their keep.
He had no desire to use up the debt gained by freeing them of the curse on something so simple as hospitality and shelter. So Alistair and Sten helped repair aravels, Leliana and he aided in the hunting, Wynne and Morrigan made poultices, and everyone added muscle where it was needed, acting as though they were part of the clan. This had earned them respect beyond the tolerance they initially had gained.
The time that the children would usually come came and went. Frowning, Zevran helped Lahar get comfortable beside the fire so he could go find out why the children had not come. It was unlike them, for normally they came racing over, Atathis at their head, carrying or hauling baskets of things to fill their little hands with as they would listen to the stories he told.
Just as he was rising, Sarel came into view. He said, as politely as he could, "Lethallin Sarel, is there something you need?"
"Elvehn'alas, I would speak with you." It was terse, the Dalish's face a dark glower.
Spreading his hands, placating, Zevran maintained his easy stance, even though the insult made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "And here I am. What is it you wish to speak on?"
"You – you have been filling the children's minds with your poison," he accused, stepping close to the Crow, as though he were trying to be intimidating.
Tilting his head, Zevran looked at him quizzically. "I tell them the stories my clan's el'dirthera told me, and I answer questions they put to me." He shook his head in disbelief. "You take issue with this? It is each person's responsibility to teach all that they can to the next generations, so that what knowledge we have is not lost forever to the sands of time."
"And what would you actually know of our history, flat ear? Were you trained to be the lorekeeper?" Sarel snapped, eyes narrowing as the scowl deepened on his face. "You come here, you kill our Keeper, then act as though you are part of our tribe, insulting Master Varathorn by using precious resources for your toy sticks. And now this – corrupting the fragile minds of our young ones! No more, I say!"
Knowing that anger on his own part – while justified at the slew of insults – would get him nowhere fast, he kept cool. "I know plenty. Keeper Harathan is respected in most of Antiva as a scholar of our history. I studied at her knee, along with that of El'dirthera Kyrni, for years. I do not know how it is with your clan, lethallin, but in mine we all learned several skills. Mine were in hunting, woodworking, and lore." Making sure to keep an open, friendly – and slightly confused – expression on his face, the Antivan smiled. "I was not so gifted as many others, but I took joy in what I could do, and now, I take even greater joy in helping our people with what I do know. If this offends you, then I am sorry, but Vir Tanadhal dictates that I contribute, giving aid where I can, and when I can. It is not as if I have told the children to go off to cities and act as I have. They are free, and shall remain so. That is the way of it."
The older man snarled. "Then perhaps you should take my place as lorekeeper, if you know so much!"
Going sly, the Crow sucked on his bottom lip, head tipping back to look high overhead as though in deep thought. "If the Keeper would have myself and my Bonded, then that does sound like it would be a splendid idea. It has been so long since I lived amongst my own kind; that would bring me a peace that cannot compare." Rubbing his chin, he nodded, brows drawing down as if he were mulling over the possibilities. "I would need assistance, of course, and since you have been the one caring for the clan's education, it would naturally fall to you to be my first."
"You-you... you-" Spluttering and stuttering, Sarel stared at him incredulously. "You flat-eared, dirt eating, shem worshiping, city elf! I would sooner die than let you take my place!"
Showing innocent confusion, Zevran cocked his head. "But did you not a moment ago, say that I should?" Scratching behind his ear, he shifted his weight onto his left foot. "If you think it would help strengthen the clan, is it not your duty to do what you must? Why would you offer such a thing, and then so quickly rescind it?"
"That is enough." Lahar had drawn her small form up, the blanket he had wrapped her in tucked about her body. "I've no wish to see further posturing on either of your parts. Hahren Sarel, if you take issue with someone providing assistance when they are more knowledgeable than yourself, then you shouldstep down, for the sake of your people. It is only logical and responsible. Zevran, don't bait him further. Making a fool of someone is easy enough; you only have to let them do it to themselves. They need no helping hand from you."
Sarel growled, arms crossed over his chest, staring him down. "You should muzzle your bitch."
Oh ho, those are fighting words!
Fighting words required action - action he was only too happy to provide.
Zevran's hand whipped out, slamming into the other man's face, and bone crunched. The Dalish fell to the ground, hands flying up over his eye, and howling in pain. Some of the clan had seen the confrontation, and many were whispering amongst themselves; for good or ill, the bronze elf didn't much care. No one insulted a man's Bonded unless they were willing to back up such a thing with force. Sarel, soft Sarel – who had probably never known how to do more than skin an animal – was too easy of a target.
Standing over the fallen elf, Zevran leaned as he tucked his hands into opposite elbows. "You overstepped yourself Sarel. That was most unwise. Do you not remember Galot, Irian, Thyas, and Nasime, and their fates at my hands? You watched it; you saw it. Did you think you could simply say whatever you pleased with no retort?" He kicked a bit of dirt at the lorekeeper's face. "You call me 'elvehn'alas' and 'flat-ear'. You call me 'shem worshipper' and a slew of other insults. I take those things with a smile on my face; your words mean nothing to me. It is sad to say that I am more Dalish than you shall ever be. To me, you are as nothing but a screaming child, bawling in the face of a storm. I sting your pride by knowing more than you, and rather than being practical about it, you attack me, and when that attack falls flat, you aim for my wife."
He spit so that the wad of mucus and saliva landed beside Sarel. "Do you really think that makes you a man? Do you really think that she is so weak as to not be able to defend herself on her own? If I had not felled you, she would have frozen you where you stand and then blasted you with stone so you would shatter. You forget any wisdom that is supposed to be inherent in your position." Zevran deliberately turned his back. "You are as weak as any I have had the misfortune of seeing. And – Sarel? Next time, do not stop the children from coming. They are not pawns or possessions, but the greatest treasure of our species."
Walking away, Zevran went to Lahar, who had retained her feet probably by dint of her indomitable will alone. Alistair had been fingering the hilt of his sword casually, which made the Antivan smile – the big oaf had been ready to jump into any fray, even as the Wild's Witch by the soup pot had looked ready to shoot spells over Lahar's shoulders. Such comrades were valuable, and a commodity that the Master Crow had very rarely had the chance of having. Dependable, and ready for action at the drop of a hat. Draping an arm around Lahar's small shoulders, he guided her back to the fire, assisting her in sitting once more, nodding in acknowledgement to the others.
It was good to know that they could all work together, not only when there was a crisis, but in such day-to-day-foibles as well.
XXX
Lahar was grinding elfroot, marigolds and roses into a thick paste that would later be dried, then boiled into a strong decoction for healing potions. He, on the other hand, was making poison. They were sitting companionably on the steps of their aravel, working in tandem, and he felt that now was perhaps a good time to ask her some questions.
"How is your head, bonita? Do you still have any pain?" he asked, watching her from the corner of his eye.
She pursed her lips, digging into the small basket of fresh-picked plants. "I'm fine; there's still some pain, but not as bad as when I first woke up."
Wishing his hands weren't covered in beeswax to keep the skin from absorbing any of the mainly deadly resins that came from his crafting, he offered, "Ah, then I shall give you another massage once I am done with my work."
"Oh blood, Zev, I am fine you know," she protested mildly, her elbow coming out to nudge him lightly. "You don't need to baby me so much; as much as I appreciate it, I'm not an invalid."
Actually, you are my dear,he thought, however, he was smart enough to not tell her that. Lahar had rapidly regained strength, but Zevran was not satisfied. There would soon be many times on the road when she would be required to draw on great forces that would burn her out if she did not have enough reserves to pull on, and he worried that she may fall, even still. So he did his best to build her endurance quickly, while remembering to stuff her full of food at any given point. The body needed fuel to build muscle, and muscle aided in endurance. His classes in anatomy, as well as personal experience, told him this in detail. Each day, he measured her with his eyes and hands, touching her in the mornings and evenings, feeling her fill out, and testing how the muscle she did have became more toned.
And she did say that having a higher stamina would make it easier for her to cast, he mused, smiling as she paused in her chore to sip at some halla milk and nibble a bit of cheese without him having to tell her to.
"Hmmn, yes, but you should store up as much as you can, for will we not be under much pressure in the not-so-distant future? Later, we will not be able to go slow to compensate for any weakness we may have." He leaned over so he could nuzzle her temple. "So we must all become as strong as we can, while we have the luxury, yes?"
His mage snorted indelicately. "That sounds so much more like a royal plural, than a reference to all of us, but I suppose I understand what you mean."
"Hmm. So, since your head is no longer bothering you so much, have you given any thought as to what caused your... illness?" he asked, returning to watch what he was doing – it wouldn't do to miscalculate the amounts, or to nick himself.
Lahar shrugged a shoulder. "Do you remember that spirit gem?"
Frowning, Zevran nodded. "Yes. We had judged it to be harmless. You even said that the spirit was friendly. Were you fooled or some such?"
The Warden was quiet, thinking a moment before speaking. "No. The spirit was friendly, yes. Quite mad, and desperate for release, yes – but friendly. Kind, even. The memories though, they... tried to overwhelm me. Sometimes they still struggle to come to the surface."
He arched an eyebrow, curious. "Memories? What sorts of memories?"
"Ones to teach me things, I think, amongst other things." Setting her work aside for the moment, she drained off the rest of her halla milk, then turned on the step to face him more, holding a piece of cheese up to his lips. "There is... new knowledge in me now. I am wary of testing it yet, but I probably should do so while in a secure setting."
"Oh?" Chewing thoughtfully, he watched her carefully, measuring.
Could it be blood magic that she learned? Maker, please, if you have any kindness to you – please, spare her that. He had seen how blood magic corrupted the Guild, how it had affected the very practices that the Crows employed when healing and improving upon their members. No, Zevran could see some benefits to it, but as a general thing, he did not like blood magic at all. Also, those of their number would not appreciate their leader learning such dark arts. However, Zevran knew that the Tevinters had learned their first spells of blood magic not from their Dragon gods or demons, but from the ancient elves of Arlathan. It was a dark and horrible secret that few knew, outside of a select number of Dalish clans who had searched the ancient ruins deep in Arlathan's jungle.
Curling her hand as though she were holding something in it, she said, "My palms itch sometimes, and I look at your blades. I hunger to feel them in my hands. They seem so... familiar." Her gaze turned inwards. "I can recall the weight of a hilt in each hand. The haft of a spear. The muscles in my back tense, bunch up, wanting to move in ways that I feel like I once knew. It is like whispers, and body memory."
That brought up an interesting set of ideas. "Hmm... I wonder what it is, exactly, that you do recall. If you saw me do it, would you recognize it?"
Lahar cocked her head, cutting off bits of cheese and offering him some. "I don't see how that would work; I mean, I don't know anything about that sort of skill."
"My dear, I am proficient in many, many things." Parting his lips, he accepted the soft, yogurty morsel into his mouth. "You say you recognize the hilt of a sword, that you crave it. Well, as an experiment," he suggested, jerking his chin toward the interior of their aravel, "why not go and bring my baldrics out here?"
With economical movements, Zevran put away the more potent weapons of his trade while Lahar quickly returned with his leather harness. Fishing out a cloth, he removed the layer of beeswax. Taking the proffered sheathed weapons from her, Zevran unhooked one of the sheathed blades, presenting her with the hilt. She eyed it, and at his nod, cautiously wrapped her hand around it, pulling the weapon out smoothly. Hmm, interesting. Unsheathing a weapon so easily was something that had to be learned. Taking a weapon from its sheath was not so easy as it looked to the inexperienced; he had seen pretenders who had tried the very same motion be surprised by the strange distribution of weight, fumble, and cut themselves. No, Lahar's movement was sure, confident, and rather experienced.
"It's heavy." Brow furrowing, she scowled down at the greened metal. "I wasn't expecting it to be like this."
However she still held it in one hand, and Zevran set down his baldric and the dagger it still held. "Let me see your grip."
She was correct, his sword really was too heavy for her. The tendons in her forearm and wrist were flexed tight and hard, but she held it steady. Examining how her fingers were wrapped around the hilt, he found that he didn't have to correct her grip at all. Amazing, I have never seen such a thing,he thought, and it really, truly was.
The basics of sword fighting were balance and grip, and sheathing and unsheathing weapons. Crows had to go through hours of repetitive motions to gain that sort of agility with a weapon as a standard matter of course in their training, and here Lahar was, whom he knew had never drawn a sword in her life, or held one, simply standing there, holding the blade out easily, other than the strain of weight.
"I don't think I could use this in a fight," she said, shaking her head in annoyance. "It's just too big."
Removing the weapon from her hand, he tutted. "Tchk, that is a shame, as you are right: you do know how to hold this. People think it is easy; I assure you: without training, it is not." Putting away the sword, he sighed. "We do not have the time to strengthen your muscles enough for you to be able to use one in anything other than the most basic fashion, or in an extreme emergency. However, a nice dagger, on the other hand would work well." Motioning for her to remain behind, he said, "I have something that may suit you."
Hopping the three steps to the little porch of the aravel, Zevran went and dug in one of the cubbies, until he found what he had been looking for. The long, wicked dagger that was practically a short sword; it had been a piece of loot from their fight with the darkspawn during their first trek through the forest. Testing the edge of the swooping blade, he nodded in satisfaction.
Returning to his lady mage, he held the new, much lighter weapon out to her, pommel first. "Try this."
As soon as her hand wrapped around the hilt, her eyes lit up. "I know this! This... this feels... right!"
Stepping up behind her, Zevran ran his hands over her back, shoulders, hips and thighs. "Hmm..."
"Zev, what precisely are you doing?" she asked, casting a startled look at him over her shoulder.
Tipping his head back, he threw her a smirk. "Checking your balance." Squatting, he squeezed each of her calves. "Excellent."
With no warning, he gave a little push on her hips. The mage took a step forward, turning around, the dagger flashing out, and down. Her move was not entirely expected, but Zevran grabbed her wrist, pulling her in close, only to have to dodge a second strike. Lahar twisted her arm free of his grip, dancing back several paces, holding the dagger out.
She stopped, surprise on her face, looking from him to the weapon, and back. "Why did you push me?"
"I would have caught you if you stumbled." Shrugging, Zevran was unapolgetic. "I merely wished to see what sort of muscle memory you had." Nodding at the dagger, he told her, "That is called a dar'misu. I have seen few of them of good quality in my life, but Arainai used to carry one that had been passed down for several generations." Taking her hand, he pointed to the way the blade was shaped. "This cuts through the air quickly, and the way it hooks at the base makes it easier to catch an opponent's blade on yours, to disarm them."
Lahar was standing close, her head barely coming to his shoulder, staring down at the dar'misu with an intensity that was almost alluring. "It's beautiful. And... very familiar, Zevran. I... know this knife, not – not this knife in specific, but... this knife in.. style."
Taking the dagger from her, he mused aloud. "Those ruins were old, yes, and this kind of weapon has been with our species for... thousands of years. The way it is made complements how our bodies move, their shape, our musculature. Such a thing as this would probably have been well-known to that spirit."
"And now me," she added, relinquishing the blade with a shiver.
"We shall have to find a sheath for it, and then you will begin carrying this with you everywhere you go, mi cielo, do you understand?" Cupping her chin, Zevran forced her to tear her gaze from the delicate dagger.
Pale pink lips pursed, then relaxed, her icy eyes softening. "Yes."
Dipping to press his mouth to her forehead – he wanted her used to his touch, wanted her to never think twice about why he was touching her, to never think about even considering flinching away – he mumbled, "Perfecto, mi diosa." Stroking her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, he continued, "Now, this is obviously not to be a main weapon for you. And did you not say you think you know the feeling of a spear?"
Lahar nodded readily enough, but was still uncertain. "I think I do, except my hands do not reach for it the same; they ache for the feeling of wire wrapped leather, rather than wood." With a sharp shake of her head, her eyes clenched shut. "I can't see it the same way I can the swords and daggers. It's... just out of reach."
"Ah, now that would be why I asked you if I were to show you something, would you recognize it?" He waved his hand at her dismissively. "Ah-ah, now it is rhetorical. I am sure now that you would recognize some of what I shall show you, but first, I must go to Varethorn and gain the required tools."
Quickly, Zevran moved through the camp, gaining two short staves, and made his way back to Lahar, who had been doing some of the katas from Baile de Muerte. Taking the time to watch her move through them, he found that there was no longer a pang of disquiet at her obvious knowledge. Curious that the Crow who raised her did not teach her some of the other techniques for open-hand combat. Surely it would have been wiser to teach her of those than of Baile, and it wouldn't have repercussions the same way. True Baile contains many mixed elements of Cuerpo Volante, but there are too many Muerte Toca that are secret. But that was probably the point. Lahar may not be highly trained in Baile but she did know enough of some of the disabling strikes that could kill a man, or at least paralyze.
"Here, take this; sit down, mi vida," he instructed, waving the end of one staff at the steps. "I shall show you some basic moves first; you tell me if they seem familiar to you."
Doing as she was instructed, clutching the willow staff he had handed her, Lahar's gaze was sharp. Zevran felt as though he were being weighed, measured and tested, as though their time together had been swept away, forcing them to start anew. That was not true, he knew that, but it made him tense. His mage was merely focusing, ready to absorb anything he showed her. It was just that the peculiar expression she wore was something she usually reserved for adversaries, not friends. Removing his tunic and vest, he tossed them to rest beside her. Purely for logical reasons – she should be able to see how muscles were supposed to move when going through these sequences.
Purely logical, and not to show off.
At all.
There came a point in his practice when he realized that he had an audience. A large, Qunari audience. Finishing a last flip of the staff, Zevran reached out with the tip of his weapon, wresting the second one from Lahar's grasp. The second staff flew towards the Qunari, who merely caught it, no matter that their mutual leader was cursing in a string of surprise. She had been sitting, raptly watching him, and he had noticed the recognition in her eyes, but she had not felt ready, he supposed, to try her hand at such endeavors.
Sten and he shared a look, a nod, and a quick bow.
Then the real challenge began.
Elf and Qunari circled slowly, with Zevran holding his weapon horizontally in his hands, in front of his chest, while Sten carried his like a spear. Reach, strength, mass – advantages all, he thought, making a quick assessment. Speed, even, to be sure, but it is unlikely he is as fast as I. Patience settled around him like a cloak. The first blow in this sort of combat is landed without ever striking with your weapon. The mind was the true weapon, not the body, not the blade or staff or bow. He would drive Sten to attack first, physically, which would allow him to test the warrior's skill without having to reveal any of his own.
When Zevran refused to make any movements other than to circle and mirror Sten's, Sten growled. "Pashaara!"
Inside the Antivan smiled – he knew the Qunari was impatient. Zevran's waiting was rewarded, for a short jab with the large man's staff was sent towards the elf's feet. Twisting the staff in his hands, he knocked away the tip, merely defending for now. Air played with the sweat dampened hair at the base of his neck, making it cling and blow. Like the breeze itself, the bronze Crow began to sway slowly from foot to foot, ready to slip into a glide, always knocking aside Sten's careful probing. He spied several openings the big man left, but suspected they were there on purpose, so he ignored them.
Sweat beaded and began to slither down his spine, tickling, providing a reminder that it had been years since he had truly used a staff. At least, against a remotely challenging partner. Licking some of the salt from his upper lip, the Crow finally spun on one foot, twirling his staff from hip height to overhead, catching the Qunari's weapon in the rapid flurry, forcing Sten to overcompensate just enough for him to suddenly jerk the tip of his staff upwards and into the warrior's knee. Sten stumbled, and Zevran pressed his advantage, dancing forward to whip the Quanri's legs from under him.
As the Qunari fell, Zevran kicked while back-flipping, catching Sten in the jaw. The impact was enough to make his foot smart, but was easily ignored even as he landed in a crouch. Quickly, he lunged from his position to wrest the big man's staff from him, and thrust the end of his own staff into the thick throat.
"Pashaara, you have won." With a voice of gravel and rock, Sten surrendered.
Straightening, Zevran bowed low. "It was a good match, and glad I am of the challenge my large friend." As Sten stood, the Antivan asked the question that the entire bout begged. "But I am curious, where did you learn to use a staff like that?"
"Seheron," he muttered, and Zevran expected that to be the only answer he received. "The young students who enter the more rebellious stages of life are taught the use of staffs to focus the mind."
Brows arching on his forehead, at the unusually verbose reply, Zevran responded, "It does require much focus, sometimes more than a sword. One must keep opponents at different lengths, and it is easy for one's hands to be struck. Your people are wise to use such tools."
The Qunari's violet eyes darkened. "They are."
Zevran turned to check Lahar and her expression. When he caught it, he had to smile. The color in her cheeks was high, and her lips had become rosier than usual. Normally I have to kiss her for some time to get that look, hmmm, he thought, pleased that the 'view', as it were, had done something for his mage.
Going over to her, he leaned casually against the aravel's rails. "So, amante, how much of that seemed to be something you knew?"
Lahar held out a waterskin for him, which he accepted gladly. "All of it. It's... weird."
"Hmn, and do you think you can do any of it?" he asked, squeezing the skin so water squirted over his face and neck, needing to cool down before taking a drink. They had water aplenty, so he didn't worry for the waste. "We could try a few of the slower maneuvers now if you wish it."
XXX
S is for Spanish/Antivan, L is for Lahar's slurred speech, E is for elvish, Q is for Qun'ari
Mi cielo, S - My sky
Mi vida, S - my life
'ehvrhan, L - Zevran
Mi diosa, S - My goddess
Mo', L - More
Schkinnn, L - Skin
Preciosa, S - Precious
'Esh, L - Yes
Plesh, gu Wun, L - Please, go Wynne
m'Feen, Wun, L - Am fine, Wynne
Schkinn, plez, Tooch, ankur, meh, L - Skin, please. Touch - anchor me
Encantadora, S - Enchantress/enchanting
por favor, nunca mas, S - please, no more
Pequeña, S - little one
Need anchoor, to here, Want yoo tooch. Pleesh. L - Need anchor, to here. Want your touch. Please.
Talk mo', pleash, 'bout Ahnteevah, L - Talk more, please, about Antiva
Ti-urd?, L - Tired?
hermosa pequeña mia, S - my handsome/pretty little girl/one
Lethallin, E - cousin
Elvehn'alas, E - dirt elf
El'dirthera, E - our words/our speaker, lorekeeper
Vir Tanadhal, E - way of three trees, code of ethics
Hahren, E - elder
Bonita, S - Beautiful/pretty
Perfecto, S - perfect/very good
Baile de Muerte, S - Dance of death/Death dance, a martial art
Cueropo Volante, S - Flying Body, also a martial art
Muerte Toca, S - death touch, concept in the Antivan martial arts
Pashaara, Q - enough
Amante, S - lover