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Zevran Arainai

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Zevran had charming memories of his marks sound asleep in their bed chamber. Or their hired bed chamber, as was the case now.

The village was a quaint little thing replete with wet dogs and mud. All those fine things that Ferelden was known for. The village was not named, not being important enough for any royal cartographer to put a little dot on his map with a word next to it. Probably the Bannorn's cartographer had both a name and a dot for it. Still, a handy place. The great Imperial Highway lay in view, it's pointed arches cut through some of the stars and dissected clouds that glowed from the light cast by the moons. With the Highway so close, this cluster of farmland could build an inn. And that inn could have a stable attached with messenger horses fidgeting within.

Zevran finished his ale and smiled at the pretty lady. The ale had been vile and he escaped for his room (adjacent to the Vint's) before she tried to insist that he accept another on the house.

He climbed stairs that were well cared for. There was a conscientious carpenter in this little village.

His room was quite poor and lit by a single candle. The mattress was simply stuffed straw and there was only a middling of space between the bed and the wall. Zevran put his long elven ear against the wall and listened intently for any suspect noises. A moth danced on the window pane, glass from nowhere special. Zevran could see the bubbles trapped in the glass and the wave in it. 

There were no suspect noises.

Zevran sighed, a shame. He had caught sight of the Vint and he had been quite delicious. It would be a shame to kill him. (But how odd, that the Seeker wanted to pay a Crow to kill a Vint.) He already had his vial of poison hiding behind his coin purse. A purse that was weighted correctly but held nothing of value. He had his knives too, hidden except for one because what fool would not be armed normally? Let alone when the Circles were shattered and the Templars were roaming and looking for lyrium or lyrium's replacement. Zevran did not hide his face in a cowl or a mask. Not for this mark. A mage.

Zevran blew out the candle.

He opened and climbed out the window, moving cat quiet and eyes flashing white against the moon. There was no one on the street. Zevran dropped to hang from the window sill and carefully shuffled himself along from the fingers. They ached from his slight weight. When he reached the edge of the sill, he breathed in and then carefully clung one handed, using his other hand to grip Dorian's windowsill. He transferred his weight and the rest of him from his own windowsill to Dorian's. Zevran stayed still for a moment, his toes pointed to the road and his ears straining for anything untoward. Nothing. He hurled himself up and opened the window.

It screeched.

Zevran shoved it open and hurled himself onto the bed and onto Dorian.

"Shhh!" Zevran hissed and put his hand on Dorian's mouth. "A Crow has been hired to kill you."

@Ziggy the Almighty

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His journey had been so long, he couldn't even remember exactly when it had started. Could it even be called a journey? He had no destination, no goal. Only one driving force - to run. From his father, from his country, from himself. 

Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he would find himself in Ferelden - the land of barbarians and where everything smelled like shit. Least of all did he think he would find himself avoiding the main roads of this wild country, eating food he had only foraged or killed himself and freezing in his small fur sleep sack by night.

This was how he had been living for weeks now, maybe months. The days all melted together now, like so many distant hours. When he stumbled upon the small, unnamed Inn, unmarked on any map he had managed to squander, he simply could not resist. The call of a hot meal, and an actual bed were loud and strong, and rang through to his very sole. 

It was cheap, too. He didn't have time to gather supplies when he'd feld his father - he ran with all he had on him, and the handful of gold he carried was dwindling dangerously. 

He didn't imagine this inn saw many travelers - only those locals who knew it was here. Eyes followed him from the moment he entered, but he kept his hood low, and spoke from the shadows of it. He bought a room, simple, and ordered his food to be brought up to him. Business completed with minimal discussion, he departed swiftly to his room, and locked the door quickly behind him. He checked the windows, drew the linen curtains, and turned around to view what his precious gold had bought him. A straw bed with furs, a single candle, a small fireplace with a fire needing stoked, a small table with a jar of water, and a privy in the corner. 

His meal arrived quickly, and he devoured it like beast, which he thought was amusing, and fitting, given where he found himself. The comfort of the fire filling the room with warmth got the better of him, and with a secondary check of the door and the windows, he placed his staff by his bedside, and collapsed into bed. He was asleep instantly.

Dorian awoke with a start to find someone bent low over the top of him, his hand over his mouth. Panic shot through him, adrenaline pumping fresh through his blood. The person spoke at him, but in the confusion Dorian didn't hear what was said - he only focused now on survival. He called the flame to his hand as he tried to reach for his staff.  

 

@Kit

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Oh of course the mage still panicked. Did he not have strange men sneaking into his room at all hours? Handsome tanned man like him? A bit weathered now certainly, but that element of roughness had it's own kind of appeal. Still, it was quite irritating that Dorian hadn't heard him.

(And why didn't Zevran just stick him with a dagger now? Because Zevran was curious about the Vint worth a Seeker's gold. Because a mage might be able to defend and attack quicker than Zevran could either.)

"Ah kinky! But wait stop." Zevran's first instinct was to grab the mage. Curl fingers over Dorian's burning hand and grab his other hand, the one reaching for that staff. But a mage, a good mage, didn't need his staff or his hands. And this was a Vint, a mage of quite another class. Different even from the mages he had trekked with across Ferelden. Wynne, blue and bright and speaking with an other worldly voice. Morrigan, silky smooth and voice sharp like needles. Changing into things that were not human, bear and wolf and spider. He supposed really, he hadn't spent much time with normal mages.

Maybe the Vint would prove to be the most normal mage he'd ever met.

"Listen to me!" Zevran sat up and held up his hands, eyes wide and imploring.

@Ziggy the Almighty

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Jokes? He was making jokes? Dorian would be impressed and rather amused himself if he wasn't at that moment the victim in this strange situation. The man grabbed his fists, his fingers wrapping tightly over his own, he could only suppose to stop the flow of magic. Both hands occupied, it meant he was free to speak again, something he was most good at. 

"Get off me, filthy whoreson!" He struggled against the man's weight on his chest, and continuously trying to pry his hands free so he could sizzle him like so much meat. 

The man would not budge, and now stared directly at him with such an imploring look that Dorian couldn't help but pause in his struggles. He begged for him to listen. Given the futility of trying to free himself for the moment, Dorian stared back, bewilderment, caution and a tiny bit of curiosity forming various lines about his face. The man had since released his hands and sat up to show his good faith, Dorian assumed. "Who are you? What do you want?"

 

@Kit

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"You - you are very pretty. But we digress! A Crow has been hired to kill you." Zevran lowered his hands slowly. The elf himself looked rather a lot like an assassin. His black armour was supple and form fitting. His one dagger of good quality, it's pommel pointing towards Dorian. This was a dangerous game he played, toying with his mark.

Or not. Zevran frowned, a eyes no longer imploring Dorian to listen. It was very strange to find a Vint in Ferelden and for that self same Vint to be hunted by a Seeker.

"A Seeker has paid rather a lot of money for your head. I should know, they made me grandmaster to stop me from killing them. So it is I! The man hired to kill you! Unfortunately, the Hero of Ferelden has proven to be my undoing and I find I have not the desire to see the deed through." Zevran patted Dorian's shoulder. "Please don't kill me."

 

@Ziggy the Almighty

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Dorian couldn't make heads or tails of what the strange man was saying. He was dressed like an assassin, and even self admitted he had indeed been hired to kill Dorian, so what was with all this strange chatter. Dorian relished in a good bit of chatter himself, but there was definitely a time and a place. He didn't think this constituted as either. 

And still the strange man with the strange accent - Antivan? - continued to dither on about someone hired to kill him and that someone was he, blah blah blah. Dorian let out an exasperated sigh. "Are you here to kill me or not? You wouldn't be the first to try - and you won't be the last... His eyes darted to the dagger on his belt. One quick swipe and Dorian could have it in his hand and stuck deep in the stranger's gut.

"If you are here to kill me, why should I not kill you first? Is this a game? Am I being pranked?" He tried to look around in the darkness. "Felix, this is the worst prank you've ever tried to pull, honestly. Have I taught you nothing?"

@Kit

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"Oho! A confident mage." Zevran teased and looked around them too, as if this mysterious Felix would indeed materialize out of the shadows. But there was nothing there, just wooden walls and cold candles. 

"This is a game," Zevran agreed when he looked back at Dorian and he climbed off of the mage to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he shuffled to lay alongside Dorian, facing him. Dorian was beautiful, a chiseled jaw and a lovely mustache. "Why am I being paid to kill you?"

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