The orderly stalls gave way to rickety tables and blankets spread upon the ground as Eldric made his way further down the lane. The crowded conditions and desperate looks he received as he passed by guaranteed a bargain if he chose to spend his money. The people of Amaranthine suffered much at the hands of the darkspawn but the mage didn't feel sorry for them; he had no qualms about benefiting from someone else's tragedy.

He perused some of the items on display: silverware, tea trays, small statuettes and mantelpiece knickknacks – human nature's answer to what to rescue from a burning building when faced with crisis. A common misconception; grabbing a sack of flour or some rashers of bacon would have served in better stead.

With food and lodging now going for a premium, necessities took priority over frills. While a family heirloom might be the most priceless item a household owned, it was rendered worthless in circumstances such as these. If any of the three mages had possessed a gift for augury, the forewarning to bring several dozen laying hens with them could have provided the means to purchase any luxury the three desired.

If the Warden Commander was headed back to Denerim, he would appeal to the crown to aid the beleaguered city. The King, in turn, would call on the Teryns who would look to the Arls and Banns to carry out the man's wishes. What shape the assistance took would depend on who tried to curry the King's favor – or who plotted to subvert him – but politics bored Eldric. In the wrong hands (or was it right?) Amaranthine might be painted as a colossal disaster, with plenty of blame to be spread around, given the Warden Commander's background. The commoners would accuse the elves, the Chantry censure the mages and the gentry provided with another excuse for a tirade against Orlais. Eldric imagined the denouncements. 'Elves aren't fit to rule a midden heap!' 'Amaranthine is cursed; given as it was into the hands of a mage!' 'The Grey Wardens are corrupted by the Orlesians; they are not to be trusted!' All these things would point to a ruler inexperienced at governing and ineffective at keeping his people safe from harm.

Still, the city and the majority of its population were saved (in a manner of speaking), with more buildings standing than burned to the ground. Propaganda could depict the events as a triumph, despite the state of Vigil's Keep. Only time would tell which version the history books recorded, but a favorable outcome mentioning the Warden Commander's role? Eldric doubted the elf would receive any recognition at all.

In Eldric's view, intrigues wasted too much time. Power, knowledge and pleasure existed in the here and now as a reward for those unafraid to seize it. A man grew old plotting; youth wasted in favor of long term goals, ones the schemer might not live to see accomplished. Forced to play the game within the Tower (which he had done - skillfully), the freedom to pursue his own interests without obstruction was a heady feeling.

The mage glanced around. The gazes a few of the women gave him indicated if trinkets weren't to his taste, they'd be willing to tumble if the price was right – or even if it wasn't. Eldric grimaced. He'd never, in his life, paid for sex and had no intention of starting now if the goods on display were the best Amaranthine offered, even if his taste had run to women. Especially considering what awaited him back at Vigil's Keep.

He expected Dominic to be furious this morning, given his treatment the night before. Instead, the human greeted the two elves with an odd half-smile upon their arrival in the courtyard for the friends' first day as prospective Grey Wardens. This unpredictability was what drew Eldric to him in the first place and continued to fascinate him.

Having known Alim for many years, the blond elf was adroit at manipulating his dark-haired partner. Dominic, however, remained a mystery; even knowing the human's weakness did not make him easier to figure out. He was pliable one minute and stubborn the next, with few cues as a reliable form of guidance for Eldric to follow. Covertly (or so it seemed to Eldric) they were engaged in a continual test of one another's boundaries and the elf was vastly interested in seeing just how far Dominic could be pushed.

To ensure a pleasant evening for the trio, Eldric left Dominic for Alim to handle. If the human harbored ill will about the previous evening, the other elf would ensure such were forgotten by the time Eldric returned. And if not… it was a deliciously wicked thought that made him harden, the reaction hidden by his robes. Githander's methods were unrefined; the old man knew nothing of finesse – using a sword when a carving knife would do. But blood magic could be subtle, especially if the commands weren't going against the victim's inclinations. 'Being a maleficar means never having to say you're sorry.'

Distracted by his own fantasies, Eldric didn't realize what he was staring at for several moments until his arousal passed and he focused back in on the mundane items in front of him.

A middle-aged woman sat behind a table, laid with a white and yellow patterned cloth. At first glance the runner appeared to be homespun but it was the delicate marbling of the colors which made Eldric suspect otherwise. Vigil's Keep might be in shambles but there remained some markers to show it was the seat of the arling. The most prominent were two heraldic banners; these featured the same quarterly design he saw now. He doubted he would be allowed to examine the fabric more closely but suspected there might be a bear passant on the opposite side.

Eldric studied the woman. Hair worn in two severe buns; the skin on her hands was coarse in contrast with the fairness of her skin. 'Not a fieldworker, then.' She was what he might label 'sturdy' if he tried to be flattering, 'doughy' if he felt less charitable. She had the look of someone heavier but recently lost weight; there were obvious places where her skin hung loosely. The mage eyed the items she displayed. 'Cook, or call me Gaxkang.' Arrayed on the cloth were a skillet, a mismatched set of cutlery (the teaspoon looked as if it might be silver), chipped crockery, five covered jars and two small bags tied shut with twine.

None of these items were what originally transfixed him – it was the small knife near the edge of the table. She'd arranged them in order of size: a cleaver, a serrated one for bread, several others for which he could not name a purpose, two wooden handled instruments he had seen used to slice hard cheeses and the knife at the end. What made it stand out from its fellows was its shape - a pointed tip that curved downward, like a scythe's blade in miniature.

"Good woman, what do you call that implement?" Eldric pointed at the knife.

She was quick to answer; the woman sensed a prospective sale. "A tourne knife, Ser," she pronounced it 'tourney', "or what we call a Bird's Beak knife. For decorative cuts in the kitchen." As if she realized this selling point would be lost on the elf, she added, "Also useful to slice fruits or peel skins." She grinned and Eldric could see where she was missing teeth in the back of her mouth, "Handy for a traveling gentleman such as yourself."

"Grey Warden," he corrected her and tried to re-adjust his face into a smile. Bargaining was another thing on Eldric's list of dislikes; he was accustomed to getting his own way. He was about to name her a price when he saw her gaze dart to a point just behind his head. Without that notification, the light pressure on his hip might have gone unheeded. He turned, expecting to frighten the pickpocket into bolting but instead, he found himself gazing into a pair of amber eyes level with his own. It was another elf - their bodies were so close together it felt almost intimate and for whatever reason, Eldric knew there would be no apology for the invasion of his personal space. He was forced into the unusual situation of being the one in retreat, took a couple of steps backward – and inspected the man who had been behind him.

'Dalish,' was his first thought, even though he had never seen a Dalish elf in his life – and the elf didn't match the descriptions or drawings he'd seen. His face was tattooed – not so uncommon anymore; he and Dominic both bore similar markings. Neither mage would admit it openly (Dominic would claim he didn't remember why he'd gotten it at all, since he was drunk at the time), but tales of the Warden Commander being tattooed by the Dalish prompted many mages to follow his lead. The Templars could not prohibit or control what they did to their own bodies and so the act offered a bit of freedom to those who normally had none. 'Brecilian Forest, a tattooed elf, the Grey Warden… there is something so familiar…' but he couldn't prod the memory closer to the surface, so dismissed it.

What distinguished this elf from any other, however, weren't his looks but his bearing. He radiated confidence. 'If Alim were here, he'd be rubbing up against him like he was a sprig of catmint.' He was handsome though, certainly.

"Beg pardon, Grey Warden." The man managed to sound sincere yet shamelessly unapologetic at the same time. "I too have an interest in this lovely woman's merchandise." The lilt in his voice, the way he stressed the syllables of the words turned the innocuous sentence into a lewd proposition and she blushed like a maiden. "It was clumsy of me to startle you so. I apologize."

'A poor thief but an exceptional liar.' Aloud, Eldric said, "You're not a cook."

The other elf chuckled. "Indeed, I am not. My skills in the kitchen do not extend to food preparation, which is a very good thing considering how often I indulge my insatiable appetite. But as Mistress…" He looked askance at the woman.

She actually giggled. "Otha."

"Mistress Otha noted," he continued smoothly and one might never know the two weren't old friends, "many of these items have uses beyond the ordinary."

The mage looked back at the table and raised an eyebrow. "Your imagination is more vivid than mine is, then…" He did not mean to invite the stranger to introduce himself but the other elf misread his pause as a request for his name.

"My name is Zevran – Zev to my friends. But you do not need to imagine, Grey Warden! I do not think you quite realize what we have here!" Before the mage could protest, Zevran was at his side with an arm around his shoulder. "So I shall allow you to ruminate, whilst I illuminate the possibilities."

The elf's patter sounded practiced and Eldric wondered if he was part of an acting troupe; no one was this glib.

Zevran plucked the spoon from the tabletop – the one Eldric suspected was silver - and twirled it between his fingertips. "Do you see the inscription on the stem, the initials 'H.M.'? It is the name of the silversmith, of course, but also an indication of this utensil's sordid history. This specific metalworker, as it turns out, founded a communalistic sex cult – do you wish to hear the details? No? As I was saying, this cult existed for some thirty years; all of them subsisting off the money earned selling the items forged in their little village. Alas, such a utopia was not meant to last," Zevran sighed, his voice full of a storyteller's false regret, "and now all that remains are these bits and pieces of history."

He released Eldric, bowed theatrically and replaced the teaspoon on the table with a flourish. "A commonplace spoon rendered into a one of a kind conversation piece." Zevran picked up the knife that was the focus of the mage's interest. "Now, let me see, what might distinguish this blade from these others…" He held it between his two forefingers and studied it intently.

It happened quickly; the knife slipped, Zevran exclaimed in sudden pain as the edge sliced into his thumb, it started to drop to the ground and faster than Eldric could blink, Zevran caught the blade and placed it back on the tabletop. "I think perhaps it is just very sharp," he said with a wry grin.

Eldric wasn't listening. His whole interest in the knife was for the purpose Zevran had unwittingly put it to – it was small enough to be easily concealed and the curvature lent itself to the shape of the body. The incision was clean and deep, and the mage watched as the other elf pinched the wound which forced the blood to well up, before bringing his thumb to his lips.

With indecent slowness, Zevran licked at the cut; he drew his tongue across it, letting the pad of his thumb drag over his lower lip. It left a faint smear, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

Eldric felt something shift inside him. His thoughts were clear - two words only. 'DO WANT.' To use blood magic and forcibly control this enticing foreigner with the strange accent and boldness even he yielded to. He wanted to discover if the other elf was as salacious as his double entendres implied. Again, the growing hardness beneath his clothing but in a few minutes he would find release, he would…

He stared without realization straight into Zevran's eyes and what was reflected there dispelled his bloodlust. The impression was so fleeting it was gone before Eldric was sure he saw it. 'There will be a price to pay, if you attempt this,' the expression read, 'and it will not be one you can afford.' Eldric broke eye contact then glanced back at the other elf.

Zevran was all smiles again as he turned back to Otha. "My dear, might I see what you have in those bundles and jars?"

Eldric watched as Zevran untied each of the bags and peered inside. He nodded at one and rejected the other. Then the jars were handed over, one by one. The lids were lifted; the contents smelled then sampled. Salt, sugar, pepper he identified (the latter with a sneeze) but the fourth jar spilled into his palm what appeared to be a quantity of chestnuts. "Malabarica!"

Zevran and the woman began to haggle in earnest now and Eldric stood, forgotten. For once in his life, he didn't mind being ignored. It gave him the opportunity to study the other elf without receiving scrutiny in return and the mage – thwarted once in his desires – did not plan on a repeat performance if they met a second time.

Finally, it was done. Zevran made a sound deep in his throat and murmured what Eldric could only guess was an obscenity in his native tongue before he tossed a small bag to the woman. "You swindle me out of my last sovereigns, lovely woman and thusly beggar me. You know this, yes?"

Otha laughed and fished into the bag he gave her, "Go on then, charmer."

She handed back a few silver pieces which he clutched to his chest dramatically. "Enough so I might drown the sorrows over my newly achieved state of poverty at the Crown and Lion. You are too kind."

Zevran turned back to Eldric with a grin. "A pleasure to meet you, Grey Warden. I might even say enlightening. The town of Amaranthine is not so large that we will not meet again – of that I am certain." He picked up the bag and the jar and departed, tossing the canister in the air with abandon and catching it as if whatever was inside cost him no more than a few coppers.

"What was it he bought?" Eldric asked, once Zevran was out of sight. They had both watched him walk away, for much the same reason, the mage thought – his audacious manner was complimented by a sensual grace.

"Apple seeds and nutmeg," Otha replied. "Oh, and the Bird's Beak."

"HE WHAT?" He was incredulous over the first two, but upon hearing the last, Eldric muttered a curse of his own.


Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).