Things had been going remarkably well ever since Zevran made up his mind to die.

Finalising his contract to assassinate the Wardens had gone without a hitch. He had been provided with recent, useful details of his marks' whereabouts and their expected direction of travel. Denerim had been crawling with people willing to sign on to his taskforce. And if that weren't enough, the weather had been perversely cheerful the entire way down to the outskirts of the village where they would catch the marks unawares. All sun, no rain, for seven days in a row. His lackeys had declared it a miracle.

Really, there was only one way to account for the unexpected spate of good luck: life was pleased to be seeing the back of Zevran. And quite frankly, the feeling was mutual.

Ah, and that explained the strange heaviness in his chest, didn't it, as he watched the decoy leading his marks down the blind road into his ambush.

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head to dislodge the feeling. The indulgent moment had gone on long enough, and it was time to return to the reward that lay ahead.

Such as it was, anyway. If nothing else, the state of nonexistence guaranteed an absence of suffering, and Rinna's clammy, tear-streaked face flashing through his mind made for the timely reminder that nonexistence was more than he deserved.

Naturally, though, he would at least do these people the decency of seeing to them first before he addressed his own needs. After all, Zevran Arainai was the consummate professional, and it was an exciting thing to be the prey of an Antivan Crow, even if only in pretend. Why deny them the rush of adventure? So long as he didn't emerge from the scuffle still breathing, the taster he was about to give them would do nicely.

The mark's team was a strange one. Four humans all told: a burly, handsome man with a crop of short, flaxen hair went in front of a curious but incredibly alluring witch, with delicate features as shadowy and exotic as the scraps she wore (in this climate, no less!). A redheaded, dew-fresh blossom of a woman walked alongside the man, scanning their surroundings cautiously, and the group appeared to be led by a mage with black hair, no doubt the one Loghain wanted. The frown on her angular face clashed with her easy strides as she and her party followed his hireling further into the trap he had laid.

Zevran smiled to himself and stood up from behind the bush to go over to them, silently grateful for his surprisingly calm state. Fear would have had to be answered with punitive jabs at raw spots, and what a bloody awful thing it was to know one's own raw spots. As it was, though, the good luck played on and his body floated quite placidly to the moment that would escort him out of this.

His smirk was summoned easily, as was the signal to his concealed lackeys. They gave a nod and took their places. With one smooth effort, a giant log crashed down behind the marks, forcing them into the tiny space together with him and his associates. He drew his knives, heart rate beginning to pick up at last.

Show time.

"The Grey Warden dies here!" The words sealing his death came out in a shout. Just the thing to put the marks on high alert, make them fight so hard that escape was impossible. The best approach, really, for hearts inclined to cowardice and indulgence.

As ready for the end as he'd ever be, Zevran advanced with his blades, only to stutter to a halt as the leader mage raised her eyebrows at him and… shrugged?

"Stay behind me, and don't kill Mr. Noisy," he heard her call to her companions as they grabbed at their weapons. "I want a word with him."

Zevran stood stock-still. She hadn't really shrugged at him, had she? Surely not all Grey Wardens were so flippant in the face of death. A Crow death, no less, though his giveaway armour appeared to have escaped her notice.

And Mr. Noisy? That was uncalled for.

He started up again to move into the fray, and that bloody mage. She looked almost bored with that spoiled frown on her face as she waved her hands and sent seven people crumpling to the ground like their strings had been cut.

His mouth fell open. Were they-?

Ah. No, their chests were moving; it had to be a sleep spell.

Why did he even care, anyway? Always too soft a touch.

Before Zevran could return to the matter at hand, something hard collided into his head and shoulder with a revolting crunch. A burst of intense pain was all he knew before the darkness he had been chasing stole over him.

§

It was hard to be impressed with the afterlife when it did so very little to recommend itself.

Half of Zevran's body was aching like someone had taken to it with a meat tenderiser, and it seemed wrong. Weren't the dead supposed to be out of pain?

Perhaps it was because the Maker frowned upon suicides. Was he doomed, then, to remain in this decidedly uncomfortable state until his sin was deemed expunged and he could move on to the Beyond?

A voice started to fill his ears- quite a surprising one, at that. Though the Maker had never spoken to Zevran personally, what he was hearing now was… incongruous, somehow, with the profile supplied by the Chantry. Rather less booming and frightening than he had expected. In fact, it was quite the opposite: clear and vaguely mirthful.

The only thing about it that had met with his assumptions was that the accent wasn't Fereldan. That was a good start. Perhaps the Maker was an approachable sort, then, one he could bargain with about alleviating this discomfort.

"Hello?" Something gently knocked into the sole of his boot. "Mr. Failed Assassination Attempt?"

He forced his eyes open and saw the facetious mage from before standing over him. Her arched, upturned brows gave her a distinctly villainous presence, and it was hard to tell if she was actively frowning, or she always looked like she wanted to drown someone.

"Mmm… I… what?" She wasn't the Maker, surely. Or even Andraste. Unless…

Oh.

He groaned. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But you appear not to have killed me yet."

"My goodness, you're observant," she deadpanned. "You should have been a scholar. You're wasted as an assassin."

A snort came out of Zevran before he could stifle it. "Just so. Well, since I am still very much alive, I would assume I am such for a purpose, yes?"

"He is very glib," the gold-eyed witch said. Her full, painted lip curled a little as she appraised him with a look of open displeasure.

"I'm told that is my way," he returned, a wicked smile coming to him. "Well then, let's see… you probably haven't killed me because you want information, no?"

The Warden had barely finished saying, 'Yes, please,' before he continued.

"In which case, let me oblige you. My name is Zevran, or Zev to my friends. I am an assassin in the Antivan Crows, and was hired to kill off the remaining Grey Wardens. As you see, though, I have unfortunately failed in this task."

And it was unfortunate. The way forward from here was either a death prefaced by some minutes of his marks holding it over his head, or something rather more gruesome at the hands of the Crows, if these people were kind (or unkind) enough to turn him loose.

The latter event seemed unlikely, judging by the complete lack of sympathy half these people were showing.

"My heart bleeds for you," the blond man muttered, rolling his eyes.

"You may be pleased about it," Zevran replied with a half smirk, "but for my case, this sets a rather poor precedent. Not the best way to be when you've a budding assassin career."

The mage shrugged and nodded. "True enough," she conceded mildly, the corners of her mouth stretching into a grin. "So who hired you to snuff us out, then?"

Maker, this woman had a flippancy to her that made his guts twist, smiling and conversing with him as though he had done nothing more than stick a foot out to trip her as a gag. Apparently the taunting had already started.

"Oh, now it was… let me see…" Unable to resist himself, he stole a closer look at her while sifting through names in his head. Every feature was sharp and dramatic: prominent bow in the top lip; cold, grey eyes; a pointed nose that continued the line of her forehead without a dent. No doubt too terrifying for most Southerners' tastes, but somewhere exquisite and brutally intimidating like Nevarra or Tevinter, people would have been falling over each other to get a look at her.

Strangely austere, too, for a mage. The Circle usually kept them in quite elaborate robes, with buckles and piping and the like. This one, though, she sported an oversized, plain black set that made her look like a billowing shadow in the light breeze. Whether or not there was actually a body under there was up for debate.

Zevran shelved his curiosity for the moment and forced himself to return to the task of saving his skin- and without knowing precisely what she'd do with him if he didn't try his luck, it was a prospect that grew more favourable by the second. He assumed an expression of pensiveness and the name came to him at last.

"Loghain, I think it was. Rather untalkative sort, actually."

Like most Fereldans.

"So you're loyal to Loghain, then, are you?" the young man growled, getting the most attractive furrow between his knitted brows as he did.

"Now, now," Zevran said sweetly, "did I say that? What need would an Antivan have to pledge loyalty to a foreign power? I have no idea what Loghain's issues with you are. I would guess you threaten his power, yes? That's what it usually boils down to." He shrugged, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his chest as the man's flinty glare softened a touch. "Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service, nothing more."

"Did… did you get paid much to do the deed?" the mage broached after some hesitation, as though the topic of his income were a sensitive one.

He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. "I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, I understand they were paid quite handsomely." He rubbed his chin, adding, "Come to think of it, that makes me about as poor as a Chantry mouse. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the very ambitious."

She made a small, surprised noise as she raised an eyebrow. "Why are you one, then? Gumptious, enterprising fellow like you. You could make a fortune in business or politics."

Zevran sighed. "Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me as a child on the slave market. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe."

The mage's other eyebrow rose, her mouth making an 'o' shape. "You're an enslaved assassin?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. Oh, but don't let my sad story influence you," he joked, waving a hand as her eyes widened. "The Crows, they keep one well supplied. Wine, women, men, whatever you happen to fancy."

He paused and gave a half-hearted shrug. "Though the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you're considering a career with them, I'd really think twice about it."

The blond man shook his head, looking thoroughly baffled. "You're not very loyal to your employers, either, are you?"

The mage looked at the man in disbelief. "Alistair, they enslaved him. What loyalty does he owe them?"

The convenient segue made Zevran smile a little. "Mmm! Loyalty is an interesting concept, isn't it? Perhaps we could discuss that further? Only if you are done interrogating me, of course."

He looked to the mage, who gave a murmur of assent and invited him to speak with a friendly gesture. Zevran nodded his thanks and proceeded.

"Well, here is the thing: I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will."

Those two options were unsatisfactory to her, if her knitted brows were anything to go by, a reaction as unexpected as it was encouraging. His tone grew enterprising as he continued.

"My only way of escaping them is to land the protection of someone more powerful. But me, I like living, and you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause, so why not let me serve you instead?"

"And you think we will unquestioningly assume you would be loyal to us?" the witch asked in an icy tone.

Zevran permitted himself to hint at his displeasure by arching an eyebrow. "I happen to be a very loyal person," he said delicately, putting a hand on his chest. "Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not really a fault, is it? Unless you would do the same, I suppose, in which case I don't come well-recommended."

He shifted on the ground as the mage watched him. It was hard to tell if her half-smile was ominous or friendly. Experience said it was likely the former, which didn't help matters.

A silence hung over the group until she let out a low, thoughtful hum.

"You're not seriously thinking about his offer, are you?" Alistair yelped at her. "He just tried to kill us!"

She shrugged. "It was nothing personal. I doubt we would have acted differently if we were him. Though I must say, it's a damned foolish move trying to kill the last of the only people in Ferelden qualified to stop a Blight, especially at a time like this." Her eyes twinkled, and Zevran conceded her point with a laugh.

The mage pressed on, "Besides, we aren't really in a position to turn down help where it's offered. If we're to make a deal, though, we should do it properly."

Zevran watched with open fascination as she sat down cross-legged near him and smiled. Either this woman was remarkably stupid, or very sure of her safety- perhaps both, even.

Her companions evidently attributed it to the former, as Alistair strode over and made to pick her up by her shoulders.

"Rhodri! Maker's breath, get away from him before he stabs you!" He shook her with far more gentleness than his bulk could have managed, eyeing Zevran like he was made of unstable explosives.

A serene, patient look came over Rhodri's face as she lifted Alistair's huge hands off her and patted his arm. "Easy does it. Zevran has the right to make an informed choice. Besides, you saw the looks he gave me when we were handling his… ah… co-workers."

Zevran frowned a little. The looks he had given her? No, he had kept a straight face, had he not?

She appeared not to notice. "He's no fool. He clearly knows when he's lost. He was nowhere near this charming before we started fighting." She glanced at Zevran for confirmation, and he quickly chuckled and nodded.

"As shrewd as you are breathtaking," he purred.

Rhodri snorted and kept her attention on him. "Let me make you an offer."

An offer. Ooh. Now that was a delicacy he was yet to sample, and certainly not what was usually available at a time like this. Always one for novelty, he nodded again.

"I'm not in the business of having people serve me," she said plainly. "I'm not that kind of leader, and I don't want that from you."

Zevran felt his eyes widen before he forced inscrutability. Rhodri, not missing a beat, continued.

"If you would like to join us, we'll offer you full protection from the Crows while you help us to protect each other from any enemies we may come across as we work to end the Blight. You would not mindlessly follow orders. We work together and value each other's opinions and expertise. You would be a full, equal member, as much as me or anyone else, not a slave or a servant. You eat and sleep and live as we do, and you would be entitled to an equal portion of whatever income we get, which is your pay for your work. If, after a time, you find you disagree with our morals and values, then you are free to leave, taking your possessions and pay with you."

"Rhodri, you are making it incredibly easy for him to slit your throat as you sleep," the witch snapped as she drew up beside her. "Or to simply disappear and return with reinforcements!"

"On the contrary, Morrigan, I'm making it very difficult for him," Rhodri replied, all teeth and prominent canines as she smiled up at her. "I'm probably making Zevran here the best offer he's ever had. I'm giving him a feasible means of escaping the Crows and voiding his status as an enslaved assassin, and the only thing that binds him to us is his word."

Zevran resisted the urge to shuffle backward as she looked at him intently, the gleam of predatory fangs still fresh in his mind.

"If you're as loyal as you say, a promise is no small thing to make." Her voice took on a hint of warning now, "And you should know that I do not take betrayal well. At all. If you attempt to harm my team or myself, assuming we don't kill you in self-defence, you will be expelled immediately and it will be on you to ensure the Crows don't catch up to you. Think very carefully before you answer."

"This is ridiculous," Alistair grumbled, cutting Zevran off as he made to answer. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Morrigan's right. You can't be sure he isn't choosing to join just to save his skin long enough to kill you!"

Rhodri pursed her lips thoughtfully. "All right, we'll give him some other options, then, to make sure we start on the same page."

That almost made Zevran laugh. Whatever she had presumed about life as a Crow was no doubt hysterically off the mark, but the prospect of having options was so intriguing that assurances of one offer sufficing died on his tongue.

"If you're truly set on killing me," she declared, "you and I can duel, right here, right now."

"I- Rhodri!" Alistair's voice was a near-shriek now as he swatted her shoulder. "Maker, you idiot, get up! Don't you see how easy you're making this for him?"

"That's the idea," she said with a shrug before turning back to Zevran. "I'll even heal you first, if you like, so it's a fair fight-" (a howled, "You're JOKING!" issued from Alistair)-

"Or, and this can be your third option: if you have no desire to traipse around and fight darkspawn with us, fair enough. We can give you a few sovereigns and you can be off on your own adventure, no hard feelings."

Incredible. A mark actually giving him the chance to kill her, one on one? It was better odds than he'd ever had, even without the advantage of striking from stealth. A simple slice across the throat, a knife between the ribs… even up against a proficient mage, one timely smoke bomb would distract her long enough for him to sink a blade in.

But the decision made itself. He barely had to cast his mind back to the Crows before the pit of his stomach dropped. No, it was time to try something new.

Zevran met her eyes and nodded. "Then I pledge my unwavering loyalty to your cause until such time as you choose to release me. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear." The words of his tokenistic contract speech always came easily to him when he rattled them off, but somehow, they meant more this time. And why not? If her offer was genuine, only a fool would offer anything less than the same in return.

Those teeth looked marginally less threatening this time as she flashed him a smile and rose to her feet. "Excellent! Welcome aboard, then." She extended a hand to him, and he winced as he took it and she hauled him up.

"Hmm? Where does it hurt?" She scanned him attentively.

"I think I wrenched my shoulder and back during the fight," he replied, gingerly twisting his torso. "And took quite a knock to the head, if I'm not mistaken."

"Anything broken or dislocated?"

Zevran shook his head.

"May I try some healing magic to help that?"

The unexpected offer made his breath stall in his throat. Beneficial magic was well out of the reach of most Crows, and the kind that damaged was forced on them. Exactly which of these he was about to receive was unclear, and after taking a moment to brace himself for the latter of them, he nodded, hoping the apprehension didn't show.

"All right. Hold still a moment, and don't scratch," Rhodri requested before she swept her staff over his upper body.

There was no dazzling light or otherworldly hum from the spell as all the adventure tales had promised. In fact, nothing was happening at all until the sore spots erupted in furious itchiness, and keeping a straight face while waiting for it to ebb was a trial. He attempted to distract himself by looking at the black wraparound snake earring sitting on her right ear. He had seen something like it once, but the particulars hadn't come to him by the time Rhodri lowered her staff.

"There," she said. "How does that feel?"

Zevran's eyebrows shot up as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out, the aches and stings gone with the itch and leaving him with the most exquisite lightness of being.

"Excellent, thank you," he breathed.

"I don't believe this," Alistair said to nobody in particular, shaking his head. "We are actually bringing along the man who tried to murder us..."

Rhodri gave him a serene smile before turning to Zevran.

"Introductions are in order, I think," she declared and gestured around the group, starting with the redheaded woman.

"This is Leliana of Orlais. She is an armed Chantry sister who approached us in a tavern and asked to join us. Morrigan stands behind her. Her mother is the Witch of the Wilds, who informed Morrigan as we were about to depart the Korcari Wilds that she would be travelling with Alistair and me. Speaking of whom, this is he." She waved a hand at the blond man, who scowled furiously. "Alistair of Ferelden hated being a templar and wanted a career change, and so he was conscripted as a Warden. Back at the camp is Sten, a qunari who murdered an entire family on their farmstead in a fit of rage and has joined us in hopes of atoning for his sins. And we have a dog, Jeppe." Rhodri beamed as she added, "Jeppe is perfect. I think you'll fit in very well with us here."

Zevran suppressed the urge to laugh enough to manage a smooth smile and a 'how do you do' to the rather unamused party members. To his relief, it was enough to stave off what would, he guessed, have otherwise been a very long, heavy silence.

Rhodri clapped her hands once. "Excellent. Time to go, then. Unless..." she glanced at the cows. "Zevran, how long have these been dead?"

"Oh, not long," he answered. "We slit their throats perhaps twenty minutes before you came."

"Shame to let it all go to waste… who has a clean knife?"