A (Not So) Lonesome Night
"Well now, you should have told me you had such pretty women in your company," Gorim said with a hearty chuckle, raising his ale as he spoke. He and Duran were in the midst of draining their last mugs for the evening when Adela's return to camp caught Gorim's eye. Her figure emerged from the shadows, moonlight glinting off her damp hair as it clung to her shoulders, evidence of a recent bath beneath the nearby waterfall. She was lightly dressed, her simple attire hugging her form in a way that left little to the imagination, and she moved with the unintentional grace of someone who had long since forgotten to care about the opinions of others.
She was far enough away to not overhear their conversation, busy folding her freshly cleaned clothes near her sleeping area. Yet her presence was enough to inspire Gorim's commentary, his voice tinged with playful mischief.
Duran's gaze lingered on her for a moment too long before he finally replied, "Careful, Gorim. Appearances can deceive. She's tougher than she looks. A woman with a dwarven spirit, if you will—one that would leave most men without their trousers, both figuratively and literally."
Gorim barked out a laugh, his ruddy face lighting up. "I hope you mean that she wears the trousers in the relationship, not that men are losing their trousers around her. Because if it's the latter, I'd be in trouble—I'd never have mine on."
"Be cautious, my stout friend," came a smooth voice from the shadows. "Your lordship here already has his eyes on this exquisite creature of nature." Zevran's melodic tone preceded him as he emerged from the darkness, his sly grin illuminated by the firelight.
Duran shot him a sharp look. "If you weren't already an assassin, I'd hire you as a spy in Loghains castle. You sneak around camp like a shadow. It's unsettling."
The elf smirked, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight. "Ah, but where would the fun be in that, my dear prince? Surely, you must admit, I make our evenings far more entertaining."
The three men settled into an easy rhythm, trading barbs and jokes as the fire crackled between them. Yet, Gorim's earlier comment stuck in Duran's mind. After some time, the dwarf turned to him with a more serious expression. "So? Is he right? Do you have eyes for her?"
Duran tipped his mug back, draining the last of his ale in one long gulp. Standing up, he looked at Gorim and Zevran with a wry smile. "Gentlemen, I'd love to stay and chat, but tomorrow promises to be a hard day, and sleep might be our only ally tonight."
"And thus the prince of Orzammar exits the stage, leaving his loyal audience with unanswered questions," Zevran quipped, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. Rising, he stretched lazily and made his way to his tent.
As Duran walked away, Gorim's voice followed him, muttering in mock indignation. "Of course. Leave the insignificant dwarf to answer his own questions." The comment brought a faint smile to Duran's lips, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.
The night deepened, the camp falling silent save for the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. It was in this quiet that Gorim's question resurfaced in Duran's mind. Did he truly have feelings for Adela? She was undeniably beautiful, her presence commanding attention with an effortless ease. But was there more? Since their recent conversations, he couldn't deny feeling drawn to her. There was a depth to her, a quiet strength beneath her sharp edges, and he found himself intrigued. But why? And to what end? These were questions he wasn't yet ready to answer.
His musings were interrupted by a faint sound—soft footfalls on the forest floor. Instinctively, Duran reached for his dagger, his senses sharpening. The sound grew closer, steady and unhurried. Whoever approached wasn't trying to conceal their presence.
From the darkness, a familiar figure emerged. Adela.
"It's cruel, isn't it?" she said softly, her voice carrying an unusual vulnerability as she stepped into the glow of his candle. "How they send us into hopeless situations, ones we barely understand. They make us Grey Wardens without truly telling us what it will cost. As if we're meant to belong only to the Order, destined to be alone."
Her words lingered in the air as she drew closer. The firelight danced across her damp hair and lightly clad figure, her presence commanding yet unassuming. Duran's pulse quickened as she stopped mere steps away.
"Why such thoughts tonight?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended.
Adela tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with an unfamiliar mix of warmth and mischief. "Perhaps it's the solitude. Night after night, without someone to share the silence with… it wears on you, doesn't it?"
She knelt beside him, her fingers brushing his cheek in a gesture so tender it sent a jolt through him. Her touch was light, almost tentative, yet it ignited something in him that he couldn't quite name.
"Maybe you're right," he said, his voice steadier now. "Waht could we do against this loneliness?"
Adela's lips curved into a soft smile, though her eyes held a teasing glint. "Oh, Duran," she murmured. "I've seen the way you look at me. It's a look I've seen from many men before. But you…" Her voice softened, her gaze searching his. "You're the first man I've found worthy of returning it."
Before he could reply, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.
"Shh," she whispered, her tone playful yet commanding. "Speak only if you plan to object, my lord." The final words were laced with sarcasm, yet there was an unmistakable affection beneath them.
Duran didn't say another word. He couldn't. At that moment, nothing else mattered—not the questions, not the consequences. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to simply feel, to bask in her presence. Whatever lay ahead could wait. Tonight, Adela had surprised him once again, and he realized he didn't mind being caught off guard by her. Not one bit.