Avernus, Zevran pondered, was an obvious Tevinter name, and as such was an odd sort of a choice for a Fereldan man. Or a Fereldan anyone, for that matter. In his experience, the people here preferred names that used large numbers of vowels, whose purpose and intuitive pronunciation were clear to them alone. And the wretchedly unpredictable pattern of syllable stress! They couldn't have pronounced a foreign name if their lives depended on it. Zev- ran, everyone called him in this country. Agony! This Avernus had no doubt spent the first minutes of every introduction explaining how to pronounce his name.
In fact when he thought on it, hadn't Zevran seen Rhodri wince from in the corner of his eye when the ghostly vision of Sophia Dryden addressed the man himself as 'Av- ernus?' Ooh, it was possible.
Which begged the question: what was a Tevinter man, or a man who had taken a Tevinter name, doing somewhere like Ferelden? Of all the places. Riches? A completely unreasonable desire to recapture the coldest, muddiest edge of the continent for the Imperium? Oh, it was juicy. Juicy!
§
After witnessing his most notable ancestor instigating blood magic, Levi Dryden was silent. Whether or not he wanted to be was debatable; the man looked like he'd been force-fed extra strong glue, which could have meant anything, really. Had he been feeling a mite naughtier, Zevran would have started a betting ring on when the Dryden family pride would sweep back in and in so doing, reopen their guest's mouth.
But Zevran, who was compassion and sweetness writ large, did no such thing. Instead, he left the woebegone Levi to his mute wallowings, and kept to the task at hand. Said task was, if the Wardens were anything to go by, to empty the Peak of any and all unwanted presences (of which there were many), and to occasionally scrutinise small, seemingly everyday items found on the premises.
All in all, that was a perfectly fine way to spend the day. Murder, even if it wasn't officially Zevran's job any more, was still his profession, and culling demons and skeletons meant both utilising and broadening his skillset. Most satisfying.
And as for intently contemplating the purpose of ostensibly regular items, well. Who didn't love finding a little intrigue in the mundane? There was nothing like observing someone in the beginnings of soft curiosity. Zevran learned for example that Rhodri, when her attention was so captured, would go from stroking his hand to squeezing it. Gentle sweeps of her four fingers became short, featherlight presses, as steady and rhythmic as heartbeats, until her study was concluded.
It had taken an unspecifiable period of time observing this tendency (and driving off the attendant inner admonishment for doing so) before it occurred to Zevran to ask about these objects of interest. The first word of his enquiry came as Rhodri, having retrieved a green ceramic bottle from a table burgeoning with similar receptacles, uncorked it and wafted it under her nose. Eyes suddenly widening, she let out a revolted "Egh!" and recoiled; the rest of Zevran's question died in his mouth. After a moment, she straightened up and turned to him.
"Forgive me, dulcis," she said with a short bow of the head and an audible gulp. "You were saying something? Please, go ahead."
"No, no," he waved the hand that wasn't being held by her. "Nothing important. I was going to ask what you were thinking about this thing," Zevran pointed at the bottle with his nose and smirked, "but I do believe I have my answer already."
Alistair, who had seen the commotion from the other end of the room, bustled over to them.
"Pretty hefty reaction from you there," he remarked. "What's in the bottless? Is it old sauce?"
Rhodri shook her head. "No, this has to have come from a living thing."
"You mean–? Oh, no."
Zevran glanced over in time to see Alistair's face go green. "Hmm? What is the problem?"
"Oh, they wouldn't," Alistair whispered. "There has to be lavatories in a place this size, surely. They wouldn't just–"
It was Zevran's turn to let out a disgusted groan, and he did so loudly enough, thank the Maker, to cut Alistair off there.
"No," Rhodri spoke up again now, "it's not that." She handed the Templar the bottle. "There's something Tainted in here. It's not Joining elixir, and it doesn't stink enough to be Darkspawn blood."
Alistair winced and held both arms as far away from him as his physiology permitted, and squeaked out a request for Rhodri to waft the stench in his direction. Zevran, who could see the impending disaster a mile away, stepped in and took the bottle out of Alistair's hands and stayed in place as Rhodri obligingly fanned her sleeve in the Templar's direction. Alistair, quite predictably, retched and stumbled away, using both hands to claw at his face until Leliana had reached him from across the room and had immobilised his wrists.
"That bad, is it?" Zevran asked Rhodri out of the corner of his mouth. Rhodri had by this point pulled out the heat balm and shoved it under Alistair's nose, and she now turned to fix Zevran with an arch smile.
"I wouldn't be in a hurry to sniff it again," she said with a chuckle. "I just wonder what it could be."
"Whatever it is," Alistair said in a wobbly voice, "it's rotten. Actually putrid. I bet it didn't smell half as bad when it was fresh–"
"Ah!" Rhodri took the bottle back, corked it, and set it down on the table again. "Very true, Alistair. It could be old Warden blood, then! That blood mage, Avernus," (A- ver- nus! Zevran noted with glee, and promised himself to posit his Tevinter blood mage theory to her later) "he might have had some Wardens put a little aside for later use, and this could be what he didn't manage to use before– well, he would hopefully be long dead by now…"
Alistair groaned again and shook his head.
Rhodri frowned. "You don't think so?"
"No, you're prob'ly right, I just–" he paused and appeared to be exerting significant effort to swallow something back down, "I just don't want to think about it any more. Why do we always have to deal with things that stink?"
"Maybe Orzammar will smell like pastry," Zevran offered optimistically. Alistair gave a weak chuckle.
"I hope so," he replied, and let his head tip onto Leliana's. "Between the wolf turds and whatever this is, I think we deserve to end up in a place that smells nice for once."
Leliana, who had taken over waving the heat balm under Alistair's nose, assured him in cloying tones that the moment all this was over, she would take him to her beloved Val Royeaux, where everything smelled like strawberries and biscuits and all manner of delightful things. In a recovery that was nothing short of miraculous, all evidence of suffering from acute stink exposure vanished from Alistair's face. He looked up at Leliana with wide, glazed eyes.
"You mean it?" He asked in the most mawkish voice Zevran had ever heard. "Re-e-e-ally?"
"Really," Leliana cooed back, only for Alistair to start up again with a "Re-e-eally really?" that Leliana answered in kind, and on-and-bloody-on it went. Zevran took a moment, amid the sudden onslaught of nausea, to thank the Maker that he and Rhodri never spoke to each other like that. There wasn't a hint of sugariness to their interactions, and there never had been. And, as if to prove it to himself and everyone else, he turned to Rhodri with intentions of making some silly-bastard remark– only to find that Rhodri was already watching his cheek intently.
Zevran bit his lip. "Ooh, Rhodri," he purred. "I do love it when you look at me like that."
Rhodri's cheeks took on a pink tinge. Her eyes flickered up to meet his for a moment, and when she shifted a step away from the soppy pair without letting go of Zevran's hand, he took it as his cue to let himself be led away to privacy. Rhodri proved his suspicions correct when they found themselves standing in front of an unremarkable suit of armour like they were curating an art piece.
Her head ducked down to near his ear, and Rhodri addressed him in a low murmur.
"Val Royeaux doesn't smell like any of those things," she advised.
Between the furtive looks and the apparent secrecy of the conversation, Zevran couldn't help but ponder the possibility that this marked the beginnings of gossiping with Rhodri. So delicious was the thought that he nearly giggled to himself– until common sense saved the day again and turned his attention back to her.
"Oh really?" Zevran gave his most encouraging nod and palpated Rhodri's hand with his fingers."It does not?"
"It does not," she echoed gravely. "I went to Val Royeaux for a few months as a child, and that place stinks of wet dust, onions, and piss."
The first squeaks of a laugh threatened; Zevran clapped a hand over his mouth. Rhodri's eyes widened.
"Ah!" She peered at him worriedly. "Forgive me, dulcis, I was uncouth. You shouldn't have to hear me speaking that way."
There was something very ironic, Zevran mused as he sat squashed in the back of the Antiva City Metropolitan Chantry with the rest of House Arainai, about Crow obligations to attend weekly religious services.
Not that he was complaining, of course. Zevran privately considered himself as pious as any other Antivan, and exchanging an hour of the grit and wretchedness of assassination for an hour in the Maker's house was always wonderful. But murder was a sin. So were theft, deceit, poisoning, extortion, and wanton seduction. Zevran presumed that seduction with the intent to murder shortly thereafter, though it had never been explicitly mentioned anywhere and technically wasn't wanton, was likely also frowned upon.
The Revered Mother called for individual recitation of the Canticle of Transfigurations, and the Chantry Brothers and Sisters filed down from the altar. The Brothers stood in the middle of the aisles, sandalwood and sweet pine censers swinging gently by their knees, and the Sisters flanked the pews with silver sacramental ashes bowls cupped in both hands. Zevran dutifully, meaningfully, bowed his head and readied his prayer beads.
"The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
Shall know true peace," Zevran whispered with a kiss to the sunburst medal. He thumbed a bead, and started again.
It was true, wasn't it, that one who repented and had faith and kept strong in all things would know peace. Wasn't it? It wouldn't have been in the Chant of Light if it wasn't so. It was preached every Sunday that most everything Zevran did in his professional life was an abomination to the Maker, but Zevran confessed and repented with more sincerity than anyone. That had to count for something.
He kissed the medal, thumbed another bead, and started again.
And really, it was hardly as though he had the luxury of leaving the Crows. Goodness knows he hadn't even been able to choose to become a Crow. It was hard to say what he might have become had he been given the luxury of choice. A prostitute, Zevran supposed, was the most likely outcome, had he never left the brothel. Or perhaps a merchant, if he could discipline himself enough to learn his arithmetic better.
The Chantry Sister appeared in front of Zevran; he paused in prayer and musings both and lifted his head.
"Let Him take notice and shine upon you," she murmured, dipping a thumb into the ashes and painting a straight-lined sunburst on Zevran's forehead.
"In the light of His grace, I am seen," Zevran replied, and bowed his head again. In the corner of his eye, a Chantry brother stood in the aisle mouthing the Canticle, hypnotically swaying from foot to foot. The thurible he carried echoed each motion a beat too late, forever a step behind him as it swung on its chain like a pendulum. There was a certain grace that atiya nagranetas, the state of spiritual purity conferred to admitted clergy and laity, bestowed on its members. The Brother's face had a serenity to it that Zevran had only seen in sleeping people, a true peace that went down to the marrow and shone through him like sunlight. He looked weightless, existing in a world that consisted only of himself and his prayer, as close to the Maker and far from this life as one could ever hope to be.
"The one who repents, who has faith,
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
Shall know true peace."
Zevran could be a brother. It wasn't so out of his reach. A suitable candidate, he imagined, would need to love the Maker and want to contemplate Him (Zevran did); enjoy being in the Chantry for long periods (also doable); and not mind wearing robes and wafting incense during prayers (unfortunate that the robes covered so much, but worth a shot). There was likely something about participating in winemaking, too, from what he had heard, and that could only be to the good. Was this what a calling felt like? A yearning to leave one's worldly path and tread another in service of something bigger and better?
He would ask the Revered Mother after the sermon, and if she gave permission Zevran would join. The Crows wouldn't come after him, surely. Who would touch someone who had been called to serve the Maker? The Crows feared Him, if only outwardly, and striving to maintain an excellent veneer meant not pursuing Crows who defected to a closer spot to the Maker's side.
That settled it. He kissed the medal again, partly to conclude the prayer and partly for luck.
When the Revered Mother offered the closing benediction and everyone began to shuffle out, Zevran slipped back through the crush of people and made for the altar, where she stood extinguishing the incense and watching him approach. Her eyes went to his tattoo, fresh and dark and slightly peeling, and stayed there for most of Zevran's beeline to her. Brows furrowed, corners of the mouth turning down. Zevran ignored the sinking feeling in his chest and assured himself she was pondering a clergy matter.
But he got closer, and the Mother's frown deepened. Her eyes started to show a little white at the corners (was she unwell?), and Zevran giving the warmest smile he could muster failed to change that. He touched his tattoo self-consciously and felt grit on his fingers that no amount of rubbing removed. He stank, too, didn't he, of blood, debauchery and shamelessness, all of which he was bringing directly to a woman who was atiya nagrano.
The gall of him.
Under the weight of his shame and filth, Zevran's body took on a head-to-toe heaviness, proud shoulders relaxing, slumping, outright hunching by the time he reached the Revered Mother. If anything else was happening around him, he didn't notice. Was this what the Brother had felt while immersed in prayer? Or was it what happened if someone like Zevran had the hide to attempt it?
He passed through his conversation with the Mother like a spectre, without memory or thought or intention, and had somehow found his way back to the apartment afterward, where he washed himself fruitlessly for hours.
Zevran's chuckle turned rueful, but the wink he shot Rhodri, who was watching him with such remorse, was genuine.
"Oh, I don't mind," he purred. "Be as uncouth with me as you like."
Rhodri carefully took his other hand and studied his face a moment. Zevran preempted her with a reassuring smile and nod, and she kissed the back of both his hands.
"Only when it's necessary, then," she murmured onto his knuckles. "I won't shame you with anything uncalled-for. Especially in public."
What differentiated essential and needless coarseness was a mystery to Zevran, and how Rhodri's use of them might bring shame to him– saving face, after all, was impossible when one was born faceless– was even more baffling. But Rhodri kissed his hands again, and she looked at Zevran the way he had seen people look at religious relics. Unceasingly, relentlessly.
And Zevran, hopelessly stained within and without, stood there like a fool, boiling alive in something searing and unknowable, and let her do it.
§
Magic was a marvellous thing. It sealed even the most grievous wounds, leaving no hint of a scar afterward. It zapped enemies to death with the quick precision of a lightning strike. It gave sleep to the sleepless, made light in the darkness, and, according to Rhodri, could and would be used later on to complement all manner of carnal pleasures.
And, of course, at the very moment of thinking good thoughts about the practice as a whole, Zevran was being imbued, via the hand of Rhodri's he was holding, with warming magic that ensured his head-to-toe toastiness despite the freezing interior of the Keep.
And it was freezing. Even further into the Peak, where there were no doors or windows to the outside, the smallest exhalation condensed into a plume of fog. It didn't help, Zevran was sure, that most every room in the place was enormous. Whatever, or whoever was heating the place had to be working overtime for most of the year.
That was a problem, to be sure, but it wasn't Zevran's. In fact, as he pondered how many mages it would take to heat the place, another wave of heat flowed up his arm and fanned through the rest of him. Maker bless magic! Muscles loosened that he hadn't realised were beginning to stiffen, and he sighed happily, giving Rhodri's hand an appreciative squeeze. Rhodri squeezed back– and then, quite unexpectedly, her grip tightened further still and pulled Zevran to a standstill.
"Morrigan," Rhodri called over her shoulder softly, warily.
"The tear in the Veil?" Morrigan enquired, drawing up to Rhodri's right hand side. "I feel it, yes. In the next room, if I am not mistaken."
"Mm. Weapons at the ready, everyone, and stay behind me."
A near-audible whine of terror from Levi Dryden was the only sound as the armed party crept down the hallway. A set of double doors on the left were already open, and Zevran prepared himself for an onslaught of enraged Fade beasties, only to find–
"I stand corrected," Morrigan purred as she and Rhodri peered through the doors. The rest of the party, as requested by Rhodri, waited just out of sight.
"I don't think you were wrong by much," Rhodri murmured darkly. "And I would be willing to bet money that that," she gestured at something within, "is making it worse." She turned to the rest of the party and beckoned them over.
Zevran moved as quickly as he dared and looked in the direction Rhodri had indicated. In an adjoining room, an armoured human woman with grey, rotting skin and dark shoulder-length hair stood staring in their direction. Why she didn't move toward the party was something of a mystery; the undead were a hostile bunch and seldom hesitated to attack. On the other hand, though, she was a corpse, and with that in mind, staying still and doing nothing was perhaps one of the more logical things for someone like her to do. If only she did it more intensively.
"I do believe it is waiting for us," Morrigan said with a smirk.
"Hah," Rhodri smiled and nodded. "I think you might be right. Gently does it, everyone. In we go…"
The corpse (whose armour, it turned out, was actually a very handsome, very authoritative-looking set of plate with the Grey Warden emblem on it) kept its clouded, colourless eyes on the approaching party the entire time. It never spoke, never gestured, never blinked even once, and Zevran wondered why on earth the Maker permitted magic when this sort of thing happened.
When the party crossed the threshold of the little room, the corpse's voice rang out, low and unused and frankly disconcerting.
"Step no further, Warden. This one would speak with you."
A prominent vein appeared on Rhodri's temple; she squeezed Zevran's hand a little tighter and quirked a brow in the direction of the thing.
"Sorry," she said through a not-quite suppressed smile, "Which one is 'this one?'"
"This one is The Dryden. Commander. Sophia," the body laughed emptily, "all these things."
Rhodri gave a short, sharp wheeze of a laugh and turned to Zevran. "They're not so convincing when they haven't had people to practice on, are they?"
From the back of the party, Levi gasped and, in a wildly breaking voice, stuttered out, "G- grandmother?"
Morrigan groaned. "'Tis clearly a demon. Get on with it, Warden."
She took the remark with a good-natured grin and turned back to the would-be Sophia Dryden, who pressed on as soon as they were face-to-face again.
"You have slain many of the demon ilk to get here," the corpse said, tilting its chin up smugly. "This one would propose a deal."
At this, Rhodri threw her head back and let out a laugh that rang through the room. The Dryden watched on, its face not moving an inch, until she was calm enough to speak mid-cackle.
"You demons have the most absurd sense of self-importance," she gasped. "I'll– ooh-hoo-hoo– I'll never not find it funny. Ah. Hah. Ha-ha. Oh-h-h, discipline, Severin, stop laughing." Rhodri's smile strained and flattened into a tightly pursed line, "You have nothing of value to offer us, demon. Nothing."
Alistair leaned forward and addressed Rhodri out of the corner of his mouth, "If we're going to kill this thing, mind how you cast. That suit of armour it's wearing is a beauty. Must be the Warden-Commander's own plate."
Rhodri beamed at him. "It is lovely, isn't it? We'll get it to you without a scratch, amicus, no trouble."
"This one," The Dryden began again, as though it had not heard two people openly plotting its demise, "will seal the Veil." It pointed at the door they had come through. "No more demons, no more enemies. Your Peak will be safe. Just let this one go into the world."
Morrigan scoffed. "Sealing the Veil is nothing I could not do, demon." She drew up beside Rhodri and gave said Warden a look of impatience that made even Zevran uneasy. "Shall we cull the demon, Warden, or would you have it entertain you a while longer?"
The witch rolled her eyes as Rhodri gave her a jaunty little salute and summoned a shield over the party.
Chaos erupted from there, of course, because demons rarely went down willingly. A host of other demons clawed their way out of the ether, equally as irate as The Dryden, and as Zevran drew his knives, he couldn't help but wonder how often demons were tucked away on the other side of the Fade, eavesdropping and waiting for the opportunity to nose their way into others' affairs. Rude, was what it was. Out-and-out rude. There ought to be a mandatory etiquette class for all prospective visiting demons; and Zevran would have written a citizen's complaint advocating as much, if only he knew whom to forward it to.
The encounter was short but intense. The warriors charged, the mages cast, and the rogues backstabbed. And Levi Dryden, as he was becoming wont to do, hid in a corner until the last unwanted presence had had its skull caved in.
Morrigan resumed her impatience as Rhodri requested that the Veil tear in the next room be dealt with after Alistair had switched armour. Talks preceded the removal of the (very) late Sophia Dryden's equipment, in which Rhodri consulted Levi on his wishes regarding his ancestor's remains. Levi, who had more shrugs than words on the matter, eventually decided that the present mages should cremate her. The process itself was a quick one; mage fire, Rhodri advised Zevran over her shoulder as she and Morrigan cast, burned twice as hot as regular fire. It took less time for Sophia Dryden to be reduced to ashes than it took for Levi to leave the room and return with a suitable receptacle.
When Levi's great-great-great-great grandmother had been carefully deposited into a tasteful vase, Alistair picked up the armour and moved to an adjoining room without a sound, closing the door behind him. Aside from the occasional clank coming from within, not a word was spoken until the door opened again.
The room held its breath as Alistair strolled back in, head to toe in the Warden-Commander's plate. The emblem of the Grey Wardens took up half his chest piece, proud and regal, and at his elbows and knees, the armour had small, protruding wings. His steps were light and just a little springy, as though he was wearing nothing but pyjamas, and the midday light rippled like interrupted water over the flat, smooth plate. A new sword, larger and bearing griffon wings at the handle, was strapped to his hip and a colossal shield, interiorly lined with crimson leather, was at his back. His jaw was set, face sombre and gazing at something in the distance, and in that moment, Alistair looked more kingly– and less like himself– than Zevran had ever seen him. Leliana, who for once had been rendered speechless, floated over to Alistair and took his hand in hers. She had likely done it, Zevran surmised, to put herself in a better position to see the back end of him, but she had taken Alistair's hand so tentatively a less sensible person might have been forgiven for thinking it was to see if the boyish, irreverent, silly-bastard Alistair was still in there.
At the touch, Alistair's serious expression evaporated, and he grinned at Leliana, who looked relieved for reasons Zevran didn't deign to contemplate.
"This is so light, Lels!" Alistair said excitedly. "It must be dragonbone! Weighs nothing at all. Go on, try lifting my arm!"
With the sublimeness of the occasion well and truly over, Zevran glanced at Rhodri. She was standing at the Warden-Commander's desk, poring over a neat stack of papers there, and it occurred to Zevran he had never seen Rhodri in armour before. It made sense, to an extent: casting involved a great deal of bending and stretching– necessary, Rhodri had advised him once, if one is to utilise as much of the Fade around one as possible when casting multiple quick spells in a row. Each spell peeled some of the Fade away, the exact amount depending on the size and power of the spell, and it took a few beats for it to 'grow back'. The nature of the mage's offensive notwithstanding, however, it was well for a person to be as well-protected as could be. A simple chestplate, Zevran mused, strapped on without the arms and such, would at least cover the vital organs. And, of course, would look absolutely gorgeous.
"My delicious Grey Warden," he said to her as he sauntered over to the desk– and then he repeated it, putting a hand on hers when she didn't look up from her papers.
Rhodri looked up sharply, her pensive frown exploding into a grin when her eyes reached his face. Zevran decided, before the scream between his ears could decide anything for him, that this display of delight was because she had been trapped into reading a wretchedly boring paper, and it had taken outside interference to free her from her dull literary prison. He would have done the same himself, in her shoes.
With the matter settled, he started again.
"Lovely Rhodri," he crooned, "are you not going to try a little armour, yourself? I am sure there is a handsome chestpiece in here that matches your fine eyes and protects from arrows and the like."
Rhodri took the stack of papers, folded them, and wedged them into her pocket.
"No need," she said with a small shake of the head. "I have armour."
He squinted. "... You do?"
"We all do." She laughed now, "Did you think the shield I cast is to make your hair shinier?"
"I–" Zevran cleared his throat, willing the heat creeping into his cheeks to disappear, "do you know, I did forget about that."
She smiled. "Good. If you forget it's there, then I've been casting it properly. Rock armour turns the skin as impervious as granite, but you shouldn't be able to feel it or note extra weight."
"No, I never felt anything," he murmured, and rubbed his neck. "Forgive me, I– it should have occurred to me…"
The deeper his mortification went, the wider Rhodri's smile became. Did she like it when he was embarrassed? Surely not. More to the point, did she even know he was embarrassed? That seemed even less likely.
He became unmired from his thoughts as Rhodri leaned on the desk and chuckled.
"It shouldn't have to occur to you," she said gently. "The part I play in keeping you safe isn't for you to worry about. Whatever you want to know about the spell, I'll tell you, but don't waste energy dwelling on it."
Zevran looked at Rhodri, and then at his feet, and then at Rhodri again. An old, damnfool question that had been percolating in the back of his head from early on came to the front of his mind and then, before he could stop it, found its way through his teeth and into the world where everyone could hear it.
"Suppose two people with the shield," he said– blurted, really, "the armour, that is, ran at each other at speed and collided. What– what would happen?"
Rhodri watched him for a long time, and then said, very serenely, "Well, Zev, it would hurt."
Zevran's mouth fell open. "But–! But the shield repels! Does it not–?" he clapped his hands together and then threw them apart demonstratively. "There is no bounce?"
"Warden," came Morrigan's voice from by the exit a few paces away. She was standing at the door with folded arms, and had been there the entire time Alistair was gone. "We are finished here, are we not?"
"We'll go, Morrigan, yes." Rhodri pushed off from the desk, beckoned to the others, and turned back to Zevran. "No, dulcis, there is no bounce."
"None?"
"None."
"... Not even a little?"
"Would you like proof?"
He couldn't help but grin. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted."
Rhodri's hand found Zevran's– it couldn't have been the other way around– and the two of them sidled over to the witch.
"Tonight," she said to him as they walked, "I'll show you how the armour works, sic?"
"Ooh, my first magic seminar!" Zevran hummed delightedly. "I shall be on my best behaviour."
"As per usual, of course."
He smirked, "Naturally."