Night had long fallen by the time they reached the party camp. In the middle of a clearing, an assortment of canvas tents sat like a row of teeth around a spitting fire. Off by a small hill, two dwarven men perched on a cart and made conversation, and a makeshift fort swathed with rags suspiciously similar to the witch's stood at the perimeter of the site.
A stilted, mercifully quick introduction to the qunari kept Zevran from making a game of guessing which tent belonged to whom. The man was… huge. Grey and frowning, as stingy with words as the rich were with money. Sten, the Warden said his name was, dismissed all pleasantries– and civilities– with a grunt and tramped back to the fire with the armful of fresh meat they had brought.
"That's one introduction down," Rhodri said to Zevran with a conspiratorial wink. "Mr. Bodahn and Sandal are usually busy with lessons now, so we'll wait to say hello to them- ah! And here's Jeppe!"
She pointed at a horse-sized dog emerging from between two bushes, blithe-looking enough until its gaze snapped onto Zevran and the hairs on its neck began to bristle. Zevran's innards turned to ice as it stalked toward them, growling softly all the while. Its head was almost double the size of Zevran's, and how effortlessly those jaws crushed bone didn't bear thinking about.
"He's a marvellous guard dog." Rhodri beamed as she knelt down, reaching out to it as though certain she'd leave the encounter with the same number of limbs she had started out with.
The hulking beast fell silent and slunk into her arms, accompanied by an odour that made Zevran's eyes water. He ought to consider himself lucky, Zevran supposed, that the owner of the miasma was placated. Or at least knew not to growl straight before going in for the kill.
"Hello, hollix," Rhodri crooned warmly, smoothing her thumbs over the dog's well-muscled cheeks. "You were good for Sten while we were gone, hmm?"
If a hollix – whatever that was– could blink happily, this one did it. Though "happy" was perhaps an overly optimistic descriptor for something that had eyed Zevran like prey moments prior.
"Zevran?" Rhodri smiled up at him. "Would you like me to introduce you to Jeppe?"
Introduce. And how would that go, Warden? 'Jeppe, meet your dinner. Zevran, meet your end.'
Jeppe's mouth lolled open in a pant, revealing a set of large, white fangs that evoked a fluttered few heartbeats and an instinctive urge to throw a piece of meat in there and flee.
"Mmm, he is a very large dog," Zevran offered, forcing a smirk. "You must have to take him past the Alienage each day to feed him."
"Take him past-?" Rhodri's eyes grew until the whites showed on all edges. "Oh! Maker's tits, you think he eats elves?"
The dog gagged and shrank away as if he understood Common and wished he didn't, and the ashen-faced human shook her head hard.
"Jeppe eats small game only, and if there's nothing to be had, he eats what we eat. Your safety with us is assured." She moved a hand to the hound's chest. "But if you're afraid of dogs, it's all right. Jeppe is good at giving people space when they need it."
She turned back to Jeppe and lowered her head until she and the murder instrument were at eye level. How the concentrated stench of that beast hadn't killed her was anyone's guess– though assuming she'd survive, the more pressing matter was that this odd, odd individual was now speaking with the dog.
"You must be gentle with Zevran, Jeppe," he heard her murmur. "He is nervous. Give him time to settle, let him come to you."
He is nervous.
Zevran dropped to his knees. Beside the mage who was speaking about him to the dog with the head-crushing jaws. A reflexive action, but certainly the right one: death by mabari was a quicker, far more palatable way to go than prolonged embarrassment wicking his soul out of his body.
Surprise softened the Warden's features as she paused in her conversation to look at Zevran.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asked carefully. "There's no rush, you know. Jeppe wins everyone's heart eventually."
Ah, of course, it was all a trick. He was going to be crunched up by the dog while dying of mortification. Oh, this simply wouldn't do. Not when there was still a chance to wrest back some control over how he left this mortal plane. No, a quick, if gruesome departure was best.
"There is no need to delay anything for my sake, my Grey Warden," he declared before turning to the baffled dog and shooting it a smooth smile. "Greetings, my hairy friend."
Jeppe edged a little closer and sat down, notably not moving to tear his face off. In fact, he wasn't making to tear Zevran's anything off. He was the picture of quizzical calm, sitting there like a Fereldan house adornment and watching his dinner with eyes the colour of the greenish mud he undoubtedly rolled in.
There is a proverb about not playing with your food in Ferelden, I am sure of it.
The sound of his name pulled Zevran back into the moment, and the Warden had a forbearing smile as she spoke to him.
"You can give Jeppe a pat, if you like? Put your hand out like this to let him smell you first," she held her hand out demonstratively.
He swallowed back a whimper. Give him a pat. By this she meant, of course, to feed the dog his hand as an appetiser. And at this point, what was there to do but oblige?
Enjoy your meal.
He inched his hand out. The mabari took a few sniffs, paused, and peered up at him inquiringly.
Do not stare at me like that. I know very well that I washed more recently than you did.
Slowly, and with puzzling cautiousness, the malodorous hound pressed his nose into Zevran's palm. His thoughts alighted to the way the dog's stench would imbue itself into the leather of his gloves, and it was only upon hearing a thrilled 'Ah,' from Rhodri that Zevran's attention went elsewhere.
"That means you can pat him. He loves it up here, behind his ears," she gave a demonstrative finger-wiggle over the indicated spot.
Shrugging was a less-than-wise response, but it happened anyway. At this point, if he was in for a copper, he was in for a royal. He scratched the other free ear, an eyebrow rising in spite of himself as Jeppe's eyes closed blissfully.
"Ah, perbonus." Rhodri grinned and got to her feet. "Well, now that introductions are out of the way, it's time for my bath. Would you excuse me?"
Zevran wasn't given the chance to excuse her or not; she was already pacing away before he could even open his mouth, making a beeline for a smallish tent with a black patch on the top and a blue light emanating from the interior.
It was a relief when the tent flap opened and she disappeared into it. Jeppe seemed less interested in brutal dismemberment than his looks suggested, and dogs couldn't say things that made Zevran want to dive headfirst into the Void– not that he dared tempt fate by entertaining the notion of a talking dog. And certainly, doling out pats, banal as it was, gave him something to do.
… How long for, though?
The smell of cooking meat and vegetables reached his nostrils, and he looked at the cluster of people sitting around the campfire. At some point, the food would be ready– though whether they were willing to give him any remained to be seen. Zevran the equal, indeed.
And of course, the same agonising questions were dredged up again. When was the right time to go over? Was there even a right time?
He realised he had been staring when Leliana's eyes went onto him. And then, naturally, so did Alistair's. When Morrigan and Sten joined in, Zevran was already on his feet with Jeppe in tow, sauntering over with all the laxity he could muster.
He took a spot on an unoccupied log and grinned. "I thought you might see me better if I came into the light more." Leaning back, he made a little show of crossing one leg over the other. "Let me know if there is a particular pose you would prefer. Or you could put me to work, if you wish? I'm told I am an excellent cook."
Alistair, who was caught between an eyeroll and a snarl, opened his mouth in time to be cut off by Sten.
"I am cooking tonight," the qunari said stonily, and returned to stirring the bubbling pot.
Zevran nodded quickly. "And it will be delicious, I'm sure. I was able to smell it from where I was before. What do you call this dish?"
"Stew."
Well, that was painful. Was he related to the Warden?
"Ah, but surely you have multiple stews? The north of Antiva has some qunari dishes. Very varied and flavourful."
"I am not a cook," Sten grunted. "Only women are cooks. Men do not prepare food. At most, they heat it to eat."
The safe, non-committal reply he intended to offer was cut off as blustering outrage issued from the three humans. Sten's voice permeated the galled din with quiet, firm assertions about which sex was best suited for what task, evoking further outcry that seemed to cycle in front of Zevran without end. It was, of course, foolish to think that any one group could do a job better, but he was damned if he was going to pick a side around people like these. Especially if what Rhodri had said about Sten's backstory was to be believed. No, he was going to smile, feign deafness, and scratch the dog's ears.
By the time a wet-haired Warden joined them at the campfire (in the same robes as before? Or was her body indeed a shadow, and she had been naked the entire time?), the argument was going with the same volume and intensity. She stood there, squinting and surveying the squabblers with a low hum.
"I… seem to have missed something of great import." Her hand went behind her head, grabbing her tuft of a ponytail and squeezing the water out of it. "What's going on?"
"Sten has informed us that cooking is a woman's job," Leliana said icily.
Rhodri frowned. "Well, that's not true. You're cooking and–" her eyes widened. "Oh! I understand."
All eyes went onto her.
"... Understand what , Rhod?" Alistair enquired.
She beamed. "I have a friend like Sten back at the Tower. Some days he's a man, other days she's a woman, and then the rest of the time, they're just normal!"
Zevran bit his lip, willing his quivering jaw not to betray his amusement as he saw the qunari look up at Rhodri with a glazed expression. The calm before the storm, perhaps? He kept a hand near a hip-knife in case the Warden (who had, it seemed, never encountered a normal woman or man) needed a quick rescue.
"I am a woman, Warden," Morrigan spoke up now, raising an eyebrow at her. "Do you mean to tell me that is abnormal?"
Shock exploded over Rhodri's face. "Oh, Morrigan!" she gasped. "I'm so sorry! No, my choice of words was terrible. I meant normal in the sense of occurring frequently, since there are far more… ah… people like me than there are men and women, and that's what I should have said." She straightened up, nodding hard now. "There's nothing wrong or abnormal about men or women, and if anyone tells you otherwise, I'll see to them personally."
Ah. So the odd woman is not a woman at all.
The witch, whose expression was not unlike Sten's now, opened her mouth and then closed it again.
"... Morrigan?" A deep furrow etched itself between the Warden's brows. "Are you all right?"
That snapped her out of it. She rolled her eyes and touched a hand to her chest. "I am quite fine."
Rhodri, who appeared to have missed the implied ' you, however, are certainly not,' looked relieved to hear it.
"So… do you actually want to be called 'she,' Rhod?" Alistair asked now.
She wobbled her head indifferently. "Call me whatever you like, but please be consistent." After checking with everyone bar Sten that she had been addressing them correctly, Rhodri returned to the blank-faced qunari.
"So, Sten," she said, "are you a woman when you cook? Should we call you 'she' when you're making food? What about when you're eating?"
Sten shook his head and went back to the pot. "You all make no sense. I am a man, and this discussion is going nowhere."
"Well, one of your statements is wrong," Rhodri replied, shrugging. "Either you're a woman at least some of the time, or men cook."
"Parshaara! This is ridiculous. I will not speak more of this with any of you."
"All right. If you change your mind and want someone to talk to–"
"The food is ready." Sten thrust an empty bowl at her, bringing the conversation to a decisive close.
For some reason or another, the Warden waited until everyone else had served themselves (even the dog had been given a large piece of meat to chew on) before taking any stew herself. When she had filled her bowl and torn off a hunk of bread, she ambled over to where Zevran sat.
"Are you sitting alone because you want to, Zevran, or would you like some company?"
Zevran had become less separated from the others when Alistair appeared to register that he sat a mere log's length away from Leliana, and the Templar had promptly put himself between them. Even so, though, the five-pace-long gap was a vast, yawning country when Rhodri indicated it with her hand. As several sets of eyes began observing their interaction, it was hard not to wish it was a chasm he could throw himself into.
Ah, but what was he doing? He was a professional seducer! When had flirtation stopped being an option? Suddenly blessed with a small boost of energy, he waggled his brows at the Warden.
"Well now," he purred, "who would pass up an opportunity to have such a ravishing individual beside them, hmm?"
She blinked at him. "Lots of people. People who don't want company, for one."
He waved a hand. "They must be out of their minds."
Rhodri shook her head and… was that worry on her face now?
"No, no," she insisted. "It's perfectly legitimate. You're entitled to time to yourself when we aren't working."
Oh, the agony.
Zevran was, at least, able to swallow back his astonishment at the whole horrific affair and answer more quickly this time.
"No, no, please, go ahead." Leaving no room for ambiguity, he gestured beside him a little more expansively than he normally would have. She received the answer with a cautious smile and sat down a few handbreadths away. Her gaze dropped to the half-filled bowl of stew on his knee, lingering there for a moment before returning to him. As her mouth opened and he braced himself for yet more discomfort, she halted and looked away.
Relief. Apparently the wellspring of luck hadn't run dry yet.
Swearing to himself that he was famished, Zevran began shovelling his dinner in. Full mouths were seldom spoken to, and were expected to speak more rarely still. After another glance at him, Rhodri fell onto her food with similar gusto, and not a peep was heard from her or anyone else after that.
When everyone but he and the Warden had helped themselves to a second portion, Zevran's insides clenched as Rhodri's eyes went onto his empty bowl.
Oh, no. Please don't. I beg of you.
She inched along the log until they were almost touching at the thighs, her thrumming fingers turning her leg into a drumhead and oh, holy Maker, have mercy and smite me down now.
The Warden's voice was low and soft as she addressed his bowl. Zevran listened for the keywords 'why' and 'small portion' with half an ear while he frantically assembled an excuse for minimising his presence. When the words never came and he realised he would have to ask her to repeat herself, the hairs on his arms stood on end.
All those years of Master Ramón pulling on your ears, and still you never listen when you should.
He cleared his throat, and as he went to make his apologies, his stomach growled audibly.
Brasca.
It didn't help that she smiled at that. Or maybe it did; if his hunger amused her and he went to sleep on the food he'd had, life was still on the improve.
"I suppose that answers that, then," she remarked mildly. "You should go and get some more to eat."
The suggestion was politeness at best, and a dare at worst. He waved a hand, the words springing off his lips before he even heard himself. "Oh, do not worry about me, my Grey Warden. We elves are remarkably efficient. Just the smell of food is enough to keep us going for a month."
Rhodri laughed. "Your stomach seems to have a different opinion." She pointed with her nose at his abdomen. Long, rawboned fingers reached out and rested on the unoccupied side of his bowl. "Perhaps I could bring you some more? You'll need to eat well if you want to keep up with us."
Ah, now the true colours were really starting to show. It was the perfect opportunity to poison his food, all in the guise of a hackneyed power game. Rather unbecoming of her to pad it out by giving him a sensible reason to spite her and accept. Still, people had played far dirtier than this with him, and the satisfaction of seeing through platitudes was a balm for threadbare pride.
Zevran's manufactured smile came easily. "Ah, my Warden," he crooned playfully, "you would be amazed how little I need to keep up. Just ask the Crowmaster who bought me!"
His innards plummeted as her smile died on her face. Sadness was turning down the corners of her eyes, and it was remarkably difficult to find anything that suggested the expression was counterfeit.
"You don't have to be hungry any more," she whispered, making the gentlest pull on the lip of the bowl. "I'll eat, too, so you won't be alone."
It moved so easily out of his hands and into hers, but then, what could he do? Fight her over a bowl that didn't belong to him, object to the poisoning he deserved? No, at this point there was nothing to do but let her have her way. If she intended to off him by poison, at least he had a few others on his person to keep things quick and painless.
He barely kept a puzzled frown from materialising as a small, bright smile came to the Warden.
"Thank you." She tilted his bowl toward him. "Will you take your spoon for me, please? I don't want to spash stew on myself when I fill your bowl."
Zevran did as he was asked, eyes trained on Rhodri as she gave an appreciative nod, put her own spoon in her mouth, and trotted over to the fire with two bowls in hand. It was possible that one of the others had poisoned the stew while she had kept him distracted– pit viper venom could survive that sort of heat, and if they had all built immunity to it, unlikely though it was…
The metal-mouthed Warden came back with two-thirds full bowls, and a large hunk of bread rested on the rims like a bridge.
As she sat down, she made a 'mmhmm?' at him, pointing with her nose at his bowl- and it was his; there had been no swaps. He took it, and when she had balanced her bowl between her knees, she grabbed the bread and tore it in half, holding the bigger chunk out to him.
"You didn't take any bread last time," she said once the spoon was finally out of her mouth, waving what she apparently considered to be 'his half'. "It's nicer with it."
As if out of nowhere, the flirty laugh that should have been consistently available finally returned.
"Mmm, my Warden! You are trying to fatten me up." Zevran bit his lip and waggled his brows. "Do you prefer your men soft, hmm?"
Rhodri's face went blank. "I don't have any men. Or anyone else. And people can be any shape they please. I brought you food because I don't want you to go to bed hungry."
Why did I even-
He took it, heavy rock of a thing that it was, and Maker be praised, that satisfied her. She had taken a large bite of bread, so further questions were, at least for the time being, impossible. After making peace with the possibility of grey stew and stale bread being his last meal, Zevran ate. He noted with relief that he had gotten the taste for food, no longer obliged to persuade ungrateful innards that filling them was what he and they both wanted.
He smirked inwardly. Let it never be said that Zevran Arainai is not an optimist.
"Zevran?"
Ah, but it couldn't last, could it?
Zevran let reflexes pull his mouth into a wide smile. "You rang?"
She chuckled. "'Rang.' Look, I noticed you were quiet on the way home. You didn't ask any questions, even though you're clearly a smart man and this is all new to you."
A lurching half-gasp pulled the lump of chewed bread in his mouth into the back of his throat, and it took two hard swallows to get the bolus down the correct pipe. He glanced at Rhodri, whose eyes hadn't left her dinner, and blessed the Maker– and his own ability to suffer silently– again.
"I just want you to know that when you're ready, you can ask me things any time you want. You don't have to worry about asking too many things, or if the questions seem too odd." She straightened up and chuckled. "Back at the Circle, I was an Enchanter. Answering everything day in and day out was a large part of my life, so it doesn't bother me."
Keep her talking about herself. Leave the rest, keep her talking.
"Ah, so you were a magic teacher, hmm?"
Rhodri hummed noncommittally. "My students were the newcomer children. I was expected to tutor them, certainly, but most of them arrive at the Tower half-dead and traumatised." She sighed into her stew. "They don't want to learn magic. They want to know when they'll be fed, and when they can go home again."
"When am I going home?"
The woman who had been leading Zevran by the arm stopped in front of a door to turn and watch him with a malice that made his empty belly drop.
"Back to that whorehouse, you mean?" She gave a derisive snort as he nodded warily. "Oh, no. You're compradi now. Talav paid three sovereigns for you!"
Three sovereigns was a princely sum. More than he had ever seen at once; the prostitutes were only paid with copper or silver.
"What does a compradi do?"
Before he could react to his arm suddenly being free, a sharp blow to the head sent him stumbling. He had just enough sense to swallow back his yelp, and covered his throbbing ear with one hand.
"Whatever we want you to, you little shit," the woman snapped as he straightened up. "You serve House Arainai until you die, and if you keep asking questions, that'll come sooner rather than later!"
She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and opened the door halfway. Inside, a slew of gleaming eyes breached the dimness as they snapped onto him.
"Fucking knife-ear," she spat. "Get in there."
He was on the floor before he could realise he had been thrown. The door clipped his foot as it slammed shut behind him, shrouding everything in darkness.
Zevran blinked and suppressed the shiver creeping into his muscles. The way this individual was effortlessly dredging up old memories was nerve-wracking, and worse still was the way it was making his mind whirr with questions about her and the children in her care. Or perhaps it would be beneficial to know, give an idea of what to expect as her 'equal.'
Why would you ask anything when you know the answer already?
The incursion of curiosity overpowered his doubt and pressed one enquiry over the threshold of his lips. "So what would you do with the children, then?"
The Warden shrugged with one shoulder. "Basic things. Look after them. Show them respect and tenderness. Listen to them. Children respond well to affection and stability. The ones who didn't… well, I kept them as safe as I could." She heaved a sigh that crumpled her upper body. "Like I said before, more damage control than teaching, but at least it got most into a fit state to learn. Children who don't master the early curriculum never reach adulthood in the Circle."
She had said a lot, and the words were making his fingers itch to do something to her. Something tactile and enjoyable, but none of the usual sexual things were fitting. He kept the conversation, decidedly lacking on his part though it was, on a simpler track: "What do you teach?"
Her eyes widened a little as a smile broke out on her face. Why, he couldn't imagine; it was a question, not a compliment.
"Oh! Right Mm! So!" She set down her bowl and held up four fingers (why were they trembling?).
"There are four schools of magic, two sets of opposites. There's primal, which is tangible things like fire, ice, lightning, and earth spells. Opposing that is spirit magic, which deals with the ephemeral and unseen. Then there's entropy, which is the study of death, transference and removal. Its opposite is creation, which is all about growth, transformation, and renewal. Usually a mage specialises in one of these."
Motion registered in the bottom of his periphery, and a brief glance down brought the Warden's feet, rocking from heel to toe, into view. She was looking near his shoulder now; anywhere but his eyes, it seemed. Those eyes had won him many compliments, but perhaps she found them ugly.
Or she was going to kill him and didn't want to give herself away. That seemed far more plausible.
"Before that, though," Rhodri continued with blithe cheeriness, "they need a solid education in the fundamentals- arcane magic, it's called. Teaches things like how magical energy works and is manipulated into spells, what makes a spell more or less powerful, mana, using staves without taking someone's eye out…"
She jabbed a finger in her chest, smiling proudly. "Arcane magic's what I taught– plus reading and writing, since many of the children were illiterate, and the ones who can read usually don't know runes. We use runes more than letters, see."
If Zevran's ears hadn't deceived him, she had said all that in one single breath. How her lips hadn't turned blue yet was anyone's guess, but as she proceeded to very audibly draw in a lungful of air, it seemed reasonable to conclude that blue lips hadn't been far off.
And he couldn't afford to laugh about it right now. He could not, absolutely could not. Even though this person had managed to out-strange Alvara, Antiva City's prizewinning eccentric, he would die if he laughed. Either because his body would give out from the effort, or she would kill him herself. Whichever it was, his death was certain if he indulged it.
Not that what he was doing instead was much better; the way he was looking at her was no doubt classifiable as staring, even by the standards of the gawking Fereldans. And with a studiously neutral face. Something had to change, and laughter absolutely could not be the end result.
He chanced looking away and clearing his throat. When he looked back, ready with a question about which branch of magic pertained to sensual experiences, his muscles wound like springs as he caught her softly frowning.
"That didn't really work, did it," she murmured. "I got too excited and talked a lot, and then you didn't say much at all. I think I managed to make you more nervous. Too much information. I'm sorry." She nodded and brought her hands together. "Well, the point is: if you need anything, you can come to me any time. Just… if you come to my tent, knock first, all right?"
Ah. Now they were in more comfortable territory. His smile came easily this time.
"Naturally. Be assured, my Grey Warden, I am the perfect gentleman." He slowly dragged a finger over his lips, dropping his voice to a husk. "Until, of course, I am asked not to be."
Why was she giving him a cheery smile? Why? Was she this jolly in the middle of sex, too?
"Oh, you don't have to be polite all the time. The rest of us certainly aren't, but if someone asks another person to stop, it's expected they'll comply. Anyway," she got to her feet, "after dinner is work time for me, and that cowhide won't skin itself. Would you excuse me?"
This 'would you excuse me' business was evidently some sort of rhetorical question, and Zevran itched to know if someone had ever said that they would not, in fact, excuse her.
By the time that thought had come to a close, though, she was already standing beside Morrigan, making slicing motions with her hand and nodding as the witch spoke to her. Discussing the best way to slice open the assassin, perhaps.
Oh, now he was just being ridiculous.
Though the witch did catch him looking at her and made a cutting gesture of her own while smirking at him. He bit his lip and shot her a lurid grin before looking away; surely she wouldn't take to him with a knife when she had magic at her fingertips. Did havers of spells not find it gauche to murder like the great unmagicked?
Alone again, and very much aware that he was, Zevran finished his food as slowly as he could. With enough time to focus on eating, he was able to register that the stew was roughly on par with Fereldan fare, and did a marvellous job of softening the bread. A victory, if only a tiny one.
When his bowl was almost empty and he had decided against making additional noise by scraping out the last dregs with the spoon (if only he hadn't finished his bread first), Zevran resigned himself to planning next steps. Which, in practice, meant ticking off everything he couldn't do.
Going out of sight was not an option for so many reasons. Without a tent, he had nothing to set up or hide away in. Unfurling his bedroll under a tree and going to sleep while the others were armed and awake was begging for disaster. The dog was availing himself of Alistair's lap, which ruled out any interaction there.
Zevran's eyes dragged over to where the Warden sat, carefully scraping the innards from the hide. He could help her and in doing so, subject himself to more agonising inner debates on if and when and how she would lure him in and kill him.
Or he could try a different flavour of discomfort by attempting conversation with one of the others. Zevran glanced between them; no-one appeared even vaguely inviting. Perhaps there might have been a chance of decent conversation with Leliana had Alistair not guarded her like a jealous husband. And the same Templar put paid to the option of Zevran sitting alone and fiddling with his possessions, as this would no doubt be interpreted as preparing to use them and would result in Zevran's summary beheading.
In reality, then, there was only one option. While he revisited the risk of chatting to Leliana, Zevran's legs were already carrying him toward the Warden. Why, he could not imagine; this way lay the unknown, with a depressing certainty of painfully awkward ominousness into the bargain.
On the other hand, though, perhaps this was an excellent time to hone his craft in handling said unknown. Education was never wasted, and all his misgivings aside, Rhodri had thus far been the safest bet of the group.
And really, even if she did defy his logic and offed him, it was no doubt for the best.
The Warden didn't stir from her work as he approached. Not so much as a glance, or even an involuntary muscle twitch betraying plans to consciously ignore him.
Zevran cleared his throat and waved his hand, knees bent in readiness to dodge a thrown spell or fist, and he nearly jumped as Rhodri startled. She peered up at him, looking like she had fallen into her body from a great height.
"... Perhaps I could assist you, my Grey Warden?" he offered cautiously. "Many hands make light work, after all."
"Oh, how kind!" She smiled broadly. "Very thoughtful of you, Zevran. Thank you."
Marvellous. More of the mockery, and worse still, a notion was threatening that this was someone who said 'please' and 'thank you' unironically. The truth of the matter remained unclear, and the thought of being successfully lured into a false sense of security was an uncomfortable one. Why had he come over here again?
He elected to give a soft laugh as he sat down beside her, a regrettable choice as Rhodri stared at him quizzically. The moment passed with merciful quickness when she shrugged, seemingly more to herself than him, and returned to work. Carefully drawing a knife of his own, he joined her.
The scraping went on in silence (and no doubt with Alistair watching them all the while), interrupted only by certain companions' theatrics to get the Warden's attention when 'good night, Rhodris' of growing volume went unnoticed. Alistair was the last to retire, barely taking his eyes off Zevran as he addressed the Warden. It took her indulging his demand that she put a shield on herself before the Templar was satisfied and left.
As Alistair disappeared into his tent, a rumble issued from the clouds. Rhodri frowned as she touched a hand to her belly. "Was that my stomach, or the weather?"
That had to be a joke. She had eaten an entire loaf of bread along with the stew. Her stomach could not possibly have anything to say with so much food in it, especially when her shape suggested little room for said food– unless, of course, she housed extra stomachs in those huge shoulders.
Zevran chuckled hesitantly. "If I heard correctly, it was the sky's doing."
She took this in with a nod before glancing up at the sky, and his heart sank as he did the same and caught the ominous thunderclouds drawing up overhead.
"Mmm, perhaps we shall have rain tonight," he mused, not quite keeping the glumness out of his voice.
"I think you might be right there." The Warden looked around. "Where's your tent, Zevran? Would you like me to help you set it up?"
He laughed mirthlessly as he recalled palming his tent off to one of the elven refugee families in Lothering. Sentimentality had almost had him convinced to keep his little home for himself, but reality was sharp-tongued in its reminder that dead men had no use for such things. The family's hushed, sincere thanks had, at least, taken the edge off the loss.
"I do not have one," he answered offhandedly. "Makes for very light travel, no? I shall skip my way along like nobody's business."
He cast his eyes around their campsite and saw several trees with thinning foliage that would do in a pinch– and a pinch this certainly would be. The prospect of waking up in a bedroll submerged in mud was a miserable one, but short of the clouds performing a vanishing act, there was no way around it.
"No, that won't do," Rhodri declared. "You must sleep in my tent until we can acquire one for you."
Ah, so it was sex she was after! Zevran smirked. "Oh-ho-ho, my Grey Warden! Already unable to resist me, hmm?" He bit his lip a little. "Tell me, do you sleep naked? I hope you do."
The Warden sat back on her haunches and let out a laugh that would have rattled windows. "Ah, you've caught me! I'm seducing you!" She held her hands up in dramatic mock confession. "In fact, I specifically went down that road looking for an itinerant assassin under orders to kill me. All so I could lure you back to camp and into my tent to have my wicked way with you! I'm certainly not putting you in my tent so you're comfortable and out of the elements while you sleep. No, ser!"
"You meant a handsome itinerant assassin, surely," he said with a wink, glossing over the rest before it could make him visibly cringe.
She lay a hand on her heart. "My apologies. I believe I'll be on the receiving end of strong censure if I share a tent with someone who tried to kill me today, though. Even if you are a newly-inducted group member. Something about lingering suspicions…" she shrugged with an off-handedness that bordered on theatrical. "Anyway, I feel quite sure none of the others will let you use or share theirs. They won't mind sharing with me, though, so it makes sense that you take my tent, and I bunk with someone else."
He didn't quite manage to keep the nerves out of his laugh, which the Warden appeared not to have picked up on as she shrugged and chuckled along. As the prospect of her slipping into the tent and killing him as he slept grew more plausible, spending the night in the rain seemed remarkably appealing.
"Do not worry about me, my dear," he assured her quickly. "I have slept in very unusual places. Getting rained on is not the worst thing that could happen."
Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, no doubt you can handle it, but even so, I couldn't justify one of us sleeping out in the rain. Not when it was avoidable."
"That is…" Zevran trailed off, pinning a smile over his despair as he tried again, only to find that no words came to him. There was only so much arguing one could do before it raised suspicion. As the Warden squinted at him, though, it seemed as though that level had already been exceeded.
He forced something, anything out. "Do forgive me, I… ah…" he chuckled wanly, trailing off when comprehension of some sort appeared to strike her.
"I know what the problem is." She nodded decisively and got to her feet. "Yes. Excuse me for a moment, would you please? I'll be right back."
With that, she was away to her tent and disappeared inside.
In the cool glow of the lyrium, her silhouette sat hunched over something, and if Zevran wasn't mistaken, he could hear the gentle scratching of pencil on vellum. He kept one eye on his surroundings and the other on the Warden until she returned with a piece of paper in hand.
She sat beside him and held the paper out to him. "I should have thought of this earlier, I'm sorry."
The curious 'hmm?' was out before he could stop it, his hand shifting closer to hers all the while.
"It's a schedule. I know it's hard when everything is new," she closed the gap and pressed the scrap into his palm. "It feels like you'll never settle in, even if you're doing very well, which you are. We stick as closely to this plan as possible, so you should find there won't be too many deviations."
He glanced down at the paper, caught the first words of a small list, and looked back up at Rhodri.
"I need to get back to scraping this hide clean before the rain comes, but you look through that as much as you like." She was already working by the time she had finished speaking, and Zevran quickly pocketed the paper and joined her.
They scraped together in an industrious, wordless harmony that might have been pleasant if his tight-wound muscles weren't fraying at the edges because of it. The Warden made no attempt at conversation, and it was hard to tell if she had become very comfortable around him, or if she had quite simply forgotten that he was there. It was tempting to find out which of the two it was, but given the situation, invisibility seemed more prudent than drawing attention to himself.
An answer came a few hours later anyway when Rhodri drew in a deep breath, wiped her knife clean and put it away.
"I'll retire for the night, Zevran. Let me retrieve some things, and then the tent is yours, yes?" She stood up. "You can keep your things in there. I only ask that you ensure all liquids are properly sealed, as I keep books and papers in my tent."
Zevran nodded quickly. "Of course."
As she disappeared into her tent, he looked through his bag, taking care to check and recheck the stoppers on each of the poison vials he had stashed away. Risk minimisation, Master Claudio called it, and on the dwindling odds that she had meant to be kind, following orders to the letter was an obvious step.
Rhodri strolled into his periphery with a small bundle of things balanced in the crook of one arm. "The tent's available," she announced as she made for a large, yellowing tent with a fur hanging over one side. "Make yourself at home. Sleep well!"
"Good night, Warden," Zevran said after her. He gingerly took his bag and bedroll and trudged over to her tent.
"Oh, and Zevran?"
Zevran paused when he was halfway inside and stepped back out. "You call?"
She smiled. "Thank you for helping me with the cowhide. I like working with you."
Now that was promising, if she meant it. A good work partner was indispensable in troubled times, and if he could keep that up, his risk of death– at her hand, at least– would drop dramatically.
"Mmm! I am glad to hear it," was all he said, but for the Warden, it seemed to suffice. With a wave, she knocked at the canvas and cooed the redhead's name, and Zevran lingered briefly before forcing himself into his own accommodations.
In the Warden's tent, two armfuls' worth of books were stacked neatly in one corner, three large flasks of lyrium glowed like bottled heavens in another, and the smell of salt water and sun dried linen hung thick in the air. If he closed his eyes for a moment, it was almost like being back in Antiva City.
Not that he would do anything as foolhardy as shutting his eyes before going over this schedule she claimed to have written him. Slipping off his boots, he opened out his bedroll and sprawled out on it. As he took out the paper and unfolded it, he froze as his eyes fell on the austere, sharp handwriting that made the title Schedule for Zevran. Was there any point in looking through it, really? If he really was going to die, it would happen whether or not he was prepared for it.
Do you really deserve to be prepared for it?
Rinna's gritty, purling wail pierced the hanging question and sat in his ears like glass, and the resignation he had half-dreaded, half-longed for all day settled in his belly with a grim, gentle finality. Pledging to slay darkspawn did not merit absolution, and even if he would rather have lived, it was reassuring to know that someone here would handle killing him before he could find a way to weasel out of it. He folded the paper, put it away, and dropped back onto the bedroll.
It wasn't all bad, though, really. There were worse ways to go than while sleeping inside a warm, dry tent. A comfortably loud drone started as sheets of rain pelted down, the noise sapping the thoughts out of his head. Zevran closed his eyes and nestled the blanket around him, hoping for a wry moment that whoever shanked him in the wee hours would be shirtless.
Language notes
Hollix- (Ancient Tevene) 'irrepressible rascal'
Perbonus- so/very good