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Out of all the ways Zevran anticipated his life going after attempting to assassinate the Crown Prince, being tied to a bed and swapping stories with an unknown, strange, yet attractive elf was certainly not one of them. Especially because he hadn’t expected to even be alive after his failure. After a few stories, he learned that his new acquaintance’s name was Daolin, and technically, he was a conscript of these fledgling Wardens.
Daolin was explaining a bit of their journey to Redcliffe in between various yawns, and once he had finished, Zevran had decided to take over with a somewhat falsified tale of when he first left Antiva for the neighboring Rivain. Truthfully, the boat ride was very long and boring, but he had been flirting with the pirates quite a bit. As he continued to babble, his arms still tied above his head, it was hard to punctuate the story with as many flourishes as he would normally, with his arms still being tied. Zevran had hoped by endearing the other elf with stories that he might feel so moved as to free Zevran, but clearly that was not to be the case. It almost seemed like Daolin had even forgotten that Zevran was tied up, as Daolin leaned forward to pillow his own head on his arms and listen sleepily.
Zevran wasn’t going to let that get in the way of telling a good story however, and prided himself on being a stunning conversationalist. He continued reminiscing about Rivaini pirates, memories of misadventures coming to mind until he heard a little-
“Snrk”
Zevran’s eyes snapped to the other elf on the bed, assuming it might have been a small laugh. Which would have been a little odd, considering where he was at in the story, but instead he found the other elf had fallen almost entirely asleep at the end of the bed, and had let out a small snore. Zevran took a moment to be just a tad insulted, his story certainly wasn’t boring. He then reminded himself that Daolin had recently gotten here from Denerim, which was no small journey indeed, and felt his indignation soften. Under his breath, he recalled a melody from his own childhood, and started to hum without thinking too much about it.
The other elf couldn’t be any older than 23, at the most. Zevran knew what it was like to grow up hungry, and knew that this could be a case of malnourishment making him appear younger. Though Daolin had also teased him with that story with his own wedding being interrupted, so hopefully he wasn’t too much younger than Zevran either. With his hair pulled back into a braid, it only reinforced the youthfulness of Daolin’s face. While asleep, Zevran noticed the elf’s usually scowling face had finally smoothed out and looked more peaceful. Along his nose, Zevran noticed a small mole, and felt oddly fixated on it. There was a woman at the brothel he grew up in with a mole on her cheek, but something nags at his memory that he saw her draw it on, every morning in the common quarters.
While the other elf didn’t seem naive by any means, Zevran still got the impression that he was still innocent in many ways. Daolin had claimed to have killed the son of Denerim’s Arl, but without any further details than that, Zevran wasn’t sure that he bought it. Looking at the sleeping elf, all he could see was his young face. He could only look past the bruised knuckles, broadened shoulders, and busted lip, ignoring all of that for the soft face that hadn’t quite shed all traces of adolescence.
As Zevran fixated on the small mole, and in general on the elf in front of him, he barely noticed the door behind them start to creak open. However, he hadn’t been trained by the Crows for nothing and felt his body begin to tense as he refocused on the door just past Daolin. With his limbs tied taught like this he couldn’t do anything should whoever came in decided to hurt either of them. As he shifted slightly, he saw Daolin’s body freeze where it was on the bed. Thankfully this meant he wasn’t the only one awake, but it was highly likely that neither of them were armed, nor prepared in any way for whoever came in.
Zevran could hear the beginnings of a nasty growl, and suddenly remembered the warning that Arl Howe gave when briefing him on the escaped Couslands, that the younger brother had a full grown, and fully loyal, Mabari hound. However, what he heard next threw off all of his assumptions.
“Shhhh Calenhad, we’re being sneaky!” A young boy’s voice whispered harshly, the door starting to stall where it was being pushed open. The hound’s growl trailed off to a slight whimper, as if pleading with the young boy to stop what he was doing immediately. “Oh it’ll be fine Calenhad, I’ve never seen an assassin up close before! This could be my only chance. You and Father and Uncle got rid of them when we had to leave the castle so I never saw any” he pleaded. Zevran could just see the small hand start to wrap around the edge of the door, still pushing it open.
Lord Oren Cousland, if his memory served him. Arl Howe had mentioned that the Teryn to be already had an heir, but that he was only ten years old and shouldn’t be an issue. At the time, Zevran had ignored that remark, fully focused on his primary goal of killing the Crown Prince Alistair. Glancing at Daolin, it seemed the other elf had no idea who the young voice possibly could have belonged to, and Zevran had no way of warning him. He scrambled for an idea as the door silently swung further and further inward.
“Well, well, it seems I am a most popular visitor to this castle it seems, word of my charms must have spread far and wide” Zevran drawled, purposefully trying to relax his muscles, and extenuating the fact that he was tied up in hopes that the Mabari wouldn’t see him as a threat. The door revealed the small ten year old and the intimidating dog waiting just beyond the threshold. The boy gasped after Zevran spoke, his hand flying to his mouth, trying to hide his surprise and delight that the assassin was awake. The Mabari on the other hand, had its lips pulled back, all of its teeth firmly on display.
“Seriously, is there no security here?” Daolin grumbled under his breath, obviously thinking there should have been someone minding this child at the very least. Calenhad, the hound, huffed at that, as if he had taken offense to that statement and had wanted to retort with something like ‘Who needs security when I’m here?’
“Come in, come in, young ser, I’ve just been regaling my other guest here with stories of my previous misadventures,” Zevran says, entreating them, and especially the scary dog to not attack on sight. He hurriedly began trying to rack his brain for a child friendly story, but as he contemplated it, was there truly a need? Supposedly Arl Howe’s men had already murdered his mother and grandparents, it wasn’t as though this was a wholly sheltered child. Oren seemed to lose confidence a bit, a hand reaching out to steady himself with the Mabari’s back.
“I have one question for you ser assassin, were you at Castle Cousland at any time in the last month?” the young lad asked, speaking slowly so that his voice didn’t tremble. Zevran’s heart softened, just a teensy bit, though he did note Daolin’s confusion. It seems news of the slaughter at Castle Cousland hasn’t gotten out much.
“I was not, I just came to Ferelden from my lovely home of Antiva, and have only been to Denerim, and here at Redcliffe,” he said, hoping the ten year old knew some of his country’s geography. Oren’s face softened at those words and he nodded before going to take a step further into the room. Before he even could, the Mabari jumped in front of him with a stern look on its face, then crowded up against the boy and sat on top of him, forcing the boy underneath the large hound and close to the door. Zevran and Daolin both tried to hide their chuckles, as much as the dog could probably tell that neither of them were gearing up to attack, Calenhad wasn’t going to trust them being close to his ward whatsoever.
“Or maybe I’ll stay over here. Ser assassin, would you mind telling some more of your stories?” Oren asked from where he was on the ground, holding the massive hound in his lap. Daolin grinned at Zevran from where he sat, goading him on. With nothing else to do, other than to think about how tired his arms were getting from being tied up like this, Zevran figured that perhaps if he endeared himself to the young lad, maybe they might be a bit more lenient to him. Besides, it was still a failed assassination attempt. Regardless, he racked his brain and suddenly decided on a story.
“Well, I am missing my homeland quite a bit, so I shall share some legends of home for you, we have legends of witches in Antiva. One that tells of a Witch of the Wild, who traveled far from her home to settle in the Tellari Swamps…”