Alim winced then began the manipulation anew, his eyes shut tight. His forehead beaded with sweat and he was grateful his dark hair was braided away from his face; one less distraction he needed to worry about.

Debris clean-up was not a glamorous job. It was tedious – and necessary. Not all broken stone could be quarried to new purpose and not all shattered timber was fit for burning. His friends rolled their eyes when he volunteered for the duty. Eldric pulled him aside, saying it was beneath him; Dominic disapproved because it was manual labor as opposed to magical talent. Alim didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed over their incomprehension of his gifts. He stepped forward, despite their protests. Seneschal Varel hesitated and Alim saw a muscle in his cheek spasm.

'He doesn't think I can do it either.' Alim was fit but looked frail, not just because he was elven. He was only an inch or two shorter than Eldric but slighter. As an orphan, he learned to survive on little but his body never adjusted to his change in circumstance – neither did his mind. It would be worth days of backbreaking travail (although Alim doubted it would come to that) if he was granted free access to the Keep's rubbish.

Having grown up with next to nothing, Alim was baffled at the things people disposed of. As a child, when his ability had been discovered, he was handed over to the Chantry. They stripped him, washed him until his skin was almost raw, shaved his head and provided him with clean clothing that fit in preparation for his journey to Kinloch Hold. His crying didn't begin until he realized his old clothing wouldn't be returned. Rank and soiled, the rags were his and he wanted them.

"Hush, child!" Sister Elies told him. She had been at a loss as to what caused his outburst and made the mistake of releasing him to scratch her head in consternation.

Alim was off in a flash. He knew where his clothes would be – on a refuse pile, just like the one where he'd originally found them. Halfway down the aisle, he was intercepted by a Templar. The man appeared in his path suddenly; he moved quickly for someone burdened by heavy armor.

"Hold up there, boy!" He picked up the young elf, who wriggled like an eel, while the Templar strode back to the Sister. "Now then, where are you off to in such a hurry?"

He set him down in front of the Sister, "Thank you, Guire. I don't know what troubles him."

Guire's voice was muffled by his helm, so he removed it. At the time, he seemed ancient but was probably no more than forty. His hair was brown - as the elf's had been before it was shaved off - but peppered with gray at the scalp. He addressed himself to Alim. "Stop your sniveling, boy! You wail loud enough to wake the interred! I don't know if your tears are genuine or guttersnipe fakery, but you've not been harmed nor will you come to any while you're here."

Alim was so surprised by the command to stop crying, he complied - no one ever cared what he did. "My… my…" he hiccupped, "clothes."

Guire regarded the young elf sternly, "Filthy. You cannot go to the Circle of Magi dressed in tatters. These are much better, aren't they?" With that pronouncement, with the understanding that his belongings were gone, Alim began to cry again.

The Templar looked discomfited. With a sidelong glance at Elies, he asked her, using only the corner of his mouth to speak, "Do you still have them? They've not been burnt?" The woman nodded.

"Listen here, child. If you want them so badly, you'll have them, but not to wear!" He remained gruff and crossed his arms over his chest. "You'll need to wash them – and you'll be the one doing it, not the Sister and not me – until I'm convinced you've scrubbed the vermin out. Then, you'll get another bath or three because we don't want them crawling back up your arms and into your new clothing." He gave the child an appraising stare. "If you do all that – with no complaints, mind – we'll turn them into something you can take with you."

Guire remained true to his word and three days later when he and the Templar set out for Lake Calenhad, Alim clutched under his arm a nearly shapeless stuffed toy going by the name of 'Orry.' It had a head, body, arms and legs, as well as two ears stuck unevenly on the top of its head, all sewn together with stitches more fit for darning socks than a child's plaything. It was soft in the way cloth gets after being washed and worn too many times, stuffed with fabric left over from its crafting and thyme so it would, at least for a time, smell sweet.

When he arrived at the Circle Tower, he was exposed to luxury he never dreamed existed: a bed of his own, clothing and food – meals, twice a day. He took to lingering in the dining hall after supper in order to pocket food other children left on their plates. At first, it was just fruit – an apple, peach or plum ignored by a child with eyes bigger than their stomach, forgotten when their belly began to ache. Alim wrapped the produce in a napkin then washed it; stashing it under his pillow to enjoy later. Once, an untouched cottage pie, left behind by a senior enchanter when he was called away during mealtime.

Then - the prize; a decanter of wine that went unopened when the First Enchanter got into a heated debate with one of his fellows. Alim stayed behind, staring at the bottle. He wasn't an eriff from the Alienage but to leave it behind seemed wasteful. Smuggling it downstairs to the dormitory tried his nerves but once he achieved his bunk, he realized he didn't know what to do with it. When someone tapped him on the shoulder, Alim almost leapt out of his skin.

"Jumpy little kaninchen," the boy drawled. He was an elf, blond and only a year or two older than Alim himself, but with the hauteur of a prince. "If you give me that," he pointed at the bottle, "I'll be your best friend." Alim handed it over without a second thought.

Eldric – for that's who the blond elf had been – parlayed the wine into improved sleeping arrangements for them both: Eldric now bunked above him and they had better mattresses, softer pillows, newer blankets and sheets. Overnight, Alim became the boy who could get things. When he was in Eldric's company, the other boy's presence overshadowed his own and let his activities go unnoticed. Alim paid attention; he noticed when Sorella and Meline both discarded hair ribbons. He retrieved them and wove the gold and purple streamers together which he then traded to Aranté, making her the envy of both girls – and this was just one of dozens then hundreds of small transactions, paid for in kind or with favors and promises.

As they grew older, the commodities the dark-haired elf traded in expanded. In addition to food, drink and sundries, information became vendible. Templar schedules, a teacher's disposition on testing day, empty passageways or classrooms were all demands that needed more than an observant eye. Again, Eldric was Alim's key to solving the dilemma.

"He's… interesting." They were discussing Eldric's diversion du jour, a human named Dominic, while curled up together on Indrajal's bed. Indrajal was newly harrowed and to celebrate, Alim had given him a flagon of Valenta's Red - strong dwarven ale - which would ensure them at least a few hours of privacy in his empty room. Eldric brushed a few stray strands of hair off Alim's forehead before planting a kiss on his temple. "Will you get him for me, Alim? You can, can't you?"

Alim's answer was to press his lips to the blond elf's collarbone, running his tongue across the bare skin of his shoulder to the hollow of his throat. It wasn't the first time Eldric made such a request and it probably wouldn't be the last but refusal didn't cross Alim's mind. His body was simply another asset to bargain with and one the other elf's friendship bought and paid for years ago.

Eldric moaned, reveling in the attention. "I wish I knew more about him, though," he lamented, between gasps. "His likes and dislikes. What I wouldn't give," he said, before rolling on top of Alim, pinning the other elf beneath him, "to be a fly on the wall where he sleeps…"

The phrase percolated in Alim's head all the way back to the apprentice quarters and long into the night when the sounds of those around him indicated he alone remained awake. It reminded him of a topic his teacher, Enchanter Celik, mentioned during one of his lectures:

"Nothing more than a trick, fit for hedge mages as a way to escape the Chantry so they might continue to practice their forbidden magic."

'Shapeshifting.' It could solve every problem he faced; no door impassable, no location inaccessible, no secret unobtainable, as long as he knew a shape to meet the task at hand. It took months (far longer than it took to lure Dominic into their bed, the human was had with no effort whatsoever), bargaining for what he needed by exchanging tokens and favors, reading scraps that contained more folklore than fact and listening to accounts more tall tale than truth.

In the end, it was equal parts magic and willpower and the first time he accomplished it, he panicked and ran headlong into a wall. The blow to the head calmed his nerves but it was still difficult to acclimate. Eyesight alone was a huge adjustment – no colors and panoramic vision rather than binocular, but so sensitive to light that the slightest movements caused him to twitch anxiously. What he lacked in visual acuity was made up in scent, hearing and touch. In the body of a rat, no part of the Tower was off limits to him.

So, when he volunteered – the only one to do so, despite Varel's stare that shamed the more hale guards into a cacophony of mutters and foot shuffling – he wasn't surprised by the dwarven stonemason's reaction to seeing him.

"Feh! I could snap you in half like a twig!" Voldrik Glavonak muttered. "Why'd you put yourself forward for this, son? Doesn't do us much good having you dust around the wreckage that needs moving." The dwarf tugged at his braided beard, "There's no offense meant and it's admirable of you to be willing to get your hands dirty, unlike the rest of these hanky wavers. But we need someone – preferably five or ten someones – who can at least lift their own body weight."

Alim favored him with a half-smile. "Master Voldrik, how are you at keeping secrets?"

Bigger was more difficult than he thought it would be. Dominic and Eldric were the ones larger than life, not him. He knew he looked foolish; standing in the sun, the dwarf staring at him, thinking the heat addled his mind. He tried to picture the transformation. Elongate the body, lengthen the ears, add hair to the tail, remove the whiskers… no, now he imagined something resembling a dog, but its body was too long and its legs too short, almost like a sausage. He opened one eye then closed it after he made sure he hadn't changed accidentally. 'Still human.' The alterations were too incremental; he knew what he needed: bulky, burly, bullish.

"By the paragons!"

It was always the change in perspective Alim found unsettled him – that and the new teeth. He opened both eyes and unlike his other form, this one had blind spots, one directly ahead. The mason was off to his left and Alim resisted the impulse to swivel his head around. "I can see wanting to keep such a trick confidential, elf. You've got my apology for underestimating you. I suppose I'd better see about finding you a harness. Then we can get to work."

The two worked tirelessly all morning and on into mid-afternoon. Voldrik himself was no stranger to scavenging and Alim watched as he carefully assayed the rubble. Finally, the dwarf came over and unhitched him. "I expect old Varel's going to be knocked out of his boots when he sees what we got done today. I'll give you the pick of the salvage; I know a born scrounger when I see one." He gave the ox a slap on the rump, "Don't expect a rubdown; I don't trust elves further than I can toss 'em." He departed before the mage changed back, muttering something about not wanting to know about the clothes.

Once he was out of sight, Alim reverted. He would have told the man a part of the magic transformed his attire – not just apparel, but everything he had on his person metamorphosed with him. A good thing, too; the day's effort left him ravenous and the apple he stuck in his pocket out of habit would tide him over until supper. He leaned against a block of granite and took a bite, the fruit's flesh warm but no less delicious because it wasn't chilled.

The pile the stonemason extracted and set aside was small but Alim knew anything worthwhile would be buried deeper than they delved thus far. He made short work of his snack, then walked over and picked through the items. A bear statuette, crudely carved out of some brownish stone and small enough so it fit in his hand caught his eye. It was smooth and the elf imagined someone handling the figurine with care, the sharper edges worn away over the years.

As he crouched, turning the bear over in his fingers, a sound reached his ears and - always circumspect about his habits - Alim straightened and tried to determine what direction the noise was coming from. Southwest; there was a clang of metal on metal and unsure if he should sound an alarm, the mage moved closer to the source but slowly, so he would not draw attention to his arrival.

No way to tell what use this part of the Keep was put too previously, but the two men he saw were using it to spar, or so Alim assumed. It was difficult to tell because the intensity between the two bespoke some deeper emotion that a simple workout would not elicit.

One he recognized – the human was Nathaniel Howe; a Grey Warden present this morning when the day's assignments were given out. Tall and dark, with lines around his mouth; an indication he frowned more than smiled. The scowling visage represented the sort of challenge Eldric adored; Alim wondered how long it might be before his partner requested him. 'A bear is the symbol of the arling, isn't it?' Alim mused, mentally earmarking the small sculpture in anticipation of Eldric's inquiry.

The other combatant was an elf and once Alim shifted his attention to him, he wondered why he'd wasted any time on Nathaniel at all. To single out a solitary feature to label attractive would be doing the other elf a disservice. With a start, he looked around; self-conscious he might be caught ogling this stranger by one of his friends, but he was the only spectator.

Even unfamiliar as he was with melee combat, it didn't take the dark-haired elf long to determine Nathaniel was outclassed by the other man. Both wielded a longsword and dagger and if the other elf's appearance wasn't enough to captivate the eye, his weapons were. The dagger was strangely shaped, with notches in the gelid steel and the sword was a work of art. 'If Dominic could only see it," Alim thought wistfully, because his human friend would surely appreciate the flames flickering along its length.

The elf might be Nathaniel's better, but the human was methodical and continued to parry the other's flurry of attacks while making no overt strikes of his own. His defensive posture was not to the elf's liking and he said as much while making another thrust.

"You... do know how to fight, don't you?"

Nathaniel's grimace told both elves the remark irritated him and he lunged, but the elf moved with unmatched celerity and laughed off the Grey Warden's essay.

"Oh, come now. You can't be serious."

The tone was mocking and Alim saw Nathaniel's face twist, his good looks curdled by anger. Again, the strange elf taunted the Warden in conjunction with his physical onslaught.

"Killing yourself would have more dignity. No? Pity."

In a fury, the human attacked and Alim spotted the flaw in the other elf's plan. He was favoring his left side, which in turn exposed his right and Nathaniel's offensive revealed he was aware of the elf's lapse. Whether his previous inaction was for show or not, the charge was now in earnest and it was the elf's agility that saved him, not his blade work. His dodge was a near thing and the human Warden pressed his advantage, allowing no respite.

Now that he knew where to focus, he could see the muscles in the elf's right arm labor through each swing. The mage realized the sword was the reason for the verbal provocation – the longer the fight went on, the greater an encumbrance the weapon became. Nathaniel's conservative tactics must have drawn the match out longer than the other elf anticipated and now he was paying the price. Alim wished the other would discard the flaming blade but the set of his jaw told the dark-haired elf that – burden or no – the stranger would not be parted from the sword.

Even knowing where his loyalty should lie, the mage uttered the spell under his breath. The effect on Nathaniel was immediately apparent; the change in momentum caused him to stumble and presented the opening the other elf needed. In a fluid motion too quick for the eye to follow, the fiery blade was a hair's breadth from his skin and Nathaniel was on his hands and knees, giving the elf a murderous glare.

Smoothly, the sword was withdrawn and both weapons were sheathed. The elf offered his hand to assist Nathaniel in rising; the human just stared at the proffered appendage with undisguised loathing. He regained his feet under his own power, but did not place his weapons back in their scabbards. The Warden maintained eye contact while he retreated, moving in such a way so as to never present his back to the elf. The stranger, for his part, just smirked at the display but the facial expression did not reach his eyes, which remained cold, almost calculating.

It wasn't until the Grey Warden turned a corner and was out of sight that the other elf looked at Alim. The mage was surprised his quiet arrival merited notice but something about the other man made him realize that probably very little occurred without him being aware of it. The smile on his face appeared genuine now and Alim felt brave enough to step forward. "I don't think he likes you."

"No? Such a shame; I am quite a likable fellow with many admirable qualities. Handsome, clever–"

The man seemed prepared to provide a list but Alim interjected, "Modest?" It was the sort of flirtatious comment Dominic might make; the mage didn't know what came over him and he covered his mouth, amazed at his own daring.

The other elf considered the question before he replied. "Not so very much, no. In fact, I cannot recall a time when the virtue of modesty has been ascribed to me or any aspect of my life. Those who are humble simply do not have as much to boast about as I do."

Alim inched nearer; his usually demure disposition at war with the urge to be closer to the other elf. "Do you think he knows…?"

"That you assisted me with a spell? Doubtful. Our dear friend Nathaniel perceives persecution at every turn and likely believes that, when he tripped, the ground he walked upon was conspiring against him. Even more probable he will attribute the misstep to some trick of mine. Or, that I had simply been toying with him all along and the opportunity I presented was a false one." He sighed. "Were that it was so. I would not suggest you confess it to him, however. Your observation was correct; he holds a deep-seated animosity toward me. I do not consider this to be a great loss, as the feeling is decidedly mutual."

"How did you know? About the spell."

"Oh, it is not difficult to recognize magic, not for one who has spent any time in the intimate company of mages and yours was not so subtle – I saw your lips move prior to the Grey Warden's fall. But why assist me and not your brother?"

Alim blinked, "He's not my brother. I'm an elf."

The ingenuous answer took the stranger by surprise but he recovered quickly, "I do not mean in matters of blood. Or perhaps I do – but in this specific case, I meant: Why aid me over your fellow Grey Warden? I could have been anyone; an assassin perhaps, sent with the nefarious purpose of harming your Warden Commander."

"No you wouldn't!" Alim exclaimed, confident in the reply without knowing why.

"Quite right you are," the other elf said, with a hearty laugh.

"Well," Alim smiled faintly. "I'm not a Grey Warden. Not yet anyway; maybe not ever. There's a ceremony we have to go through – it sounds as if it includes some sort of test – and the Wardens are picked from those who pass. I came with two friends and I'm sure they'll be chosen. Even if I'm not, I can stay at Vigil's Keep and be useful – I don't mind hard work."

A shadow passed across the other man's countenance and he reached out and placed a hand on Alim's forearm, "Ah… let us hope for the most positive outcome then, yes? I am certain you are no less worthy than your companions and you should not discount yourself so readily." He opened his mouth as if there was more he intended to say then shut it, removing his hand as he did so.

"I'm Alim," the mage said, to cover the awkward silence, "and my friends are Dominic and Eldric. Would you like to meet them? Are you staying here at the Keep? Are you hungry? I think I…" Alim searched though his pockets for food he knew he didn't have. "Do you want me to get you something to drink?"

"My name is Zevran - Zev to my friends," the other elf said, his grin returning. "And thank you, but no – I am perfectly capable of acquiring food and drink for myself, should I so desire it." Zevran glanced skyward, "I must, however, return to Amaranthine before nightfall and my, hmm… business here detained me longer than I expected."

"So, you live in Amaranthine, then." 'I'll see him again,' Alim thought, 'and Eldric wouldn't have to know, would he?'

Zevran's next words shattered that hope. "No, I am a temporary resident of the Crown and Lion and tomorrow will be my last evening in the city. As I know of nothing that might require my return to Vigil's Keep – even another challenge to my honor, such as it is – alas, I must bid you farewell." He tilted his head and regarded Alim thoughtfully, "Unless your magical talents extend to being able to provide me with some form of transportation? A griffon, perhaps."

The mage was about to say he could offer him a lift into town, while quickly trying to work out how much different a horse might be from an ox but the other elf's mention of griffons evidenced his comment was intended as a joke. So, Alim laughed along when Zevran winked at him. To pretend he couldn't help chafed his nature; the mage would have happily accommodated his new friend, even at the cost of revealing himself to a second person in less than a turning's time.

Voldrik wouldn't tell; Alim toiled alongside him and dwarves (at least most of the ones the mage had met) appreciated a good work ethic. To trust Zevran was instinctual, even though he felt vaguely guilty his other friends didn't inspire the same feeling. As he watched Zevran leave, he rolled his shoulders, felt the bones in his back shift with the movement. 'I wonder how long it'd take me to learn how to fly.'


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).