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peopleofthedas2011-01-07 06:27 pm
1smut_princess) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-01-07 06:27 pm
Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 1/? T for now
Title: A Guild-ed Cage
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO - eventually
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Summary: AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai, Hero of Ferelden finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight.
AN: I pulled this plot bunny outta my ass to toss tobellaknoti as she's wrapping up Wings at the moment. Unfortunately, it has wound up boomeranging back at me. Ugh. My life sucks.
Mods - may I have a tag for 'A Guild-ed Cage'?
Oh and because nowraonar still has me thinkin' theme songs and crap.... this one would probably be a cross between Timbaland's 'The Way I Are' (ugh, okay, I know, I know, why on earth would this nutty little fruitbat cybergoth girl be listening to Timbaland?), and Coldplay's “God Put A Smile Upon Your Face”. Both of these songs, lyrically, are great for descriptors. They are also the sort of music that is not my thing as it were. :points to all the Oingo Boingo, Clash, Dead Can Dance, Ska-p, Extremoduro, Rammstein, Correspondents, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, Tones on Tale, Sneaky Bat Machine, Combichrist, Wumpscut, Delerium, Dead Kennedys, Orbital, and that's just to name a few, tracks on current playlist: As you can see, there is little room for something like Coldplay or Timbaland on there. Oh well, go figure. Also, some of the 'sleezier' Zev moments in here are so Timbaland and Justin Timberlake singing “Carryout”. Yeah, I listen to the radio. STFU. ZG teases me enough for singing along to “Toxic” whenever it comes on...
But ultimately Miolanai's 'theme' song would be the Offspring's "Come Out And Play"....
XXX
Guild-ed 1
XXX
It was... a hard thing, being a Warden. In some ways, far easier than she could have ever imagined, in others... it almost made her long for the hemp noose to have been wrapped around her neck, rather than leaving her to this fate. She and the others had faced down bandits, darkspawn, soldiers, monsters and werewolves, ancient witches and fallen heroes. No matter their strength, in the end, there was one foe only she and Alistair could truly face. They had been friends – close friends – but nothing more. He and the others were family, as close as she could get to it after having left the Alienage. Miolanai had been prepared to die in his stead – that is what one did for family, take on the burdens others couldn't handle – but he had begged to take the last blow.
His reasons made sense: he would always be a pawn, a threat to Anora's rule. She would eventually have him killed because of this. His other reason, though, had been that he wasn't strong enough to live without her beside him. Miolanai had known of his feelings, but she always waved them off. Alistair had taken long enough to tell her that she was the sort who could survive and make a life for herself, while he simply could not. Ultimately she allowed him to take the blow, not for those reasons, but because she was scared.
Two months healing of body did nothing for the mind. Another year and a half serving in Amaranthine also did nothing to heal her in places that spells could not reach. The cold of Ferelden was bitter, not in temperature, but in soul, and so she stared at the shem messenger who had come after she sent her missive to far-off Antiva. A Crow.
How many of his ilk had she killed? Had this one known of the one who had been sent to kill her and Alistair, and their merry little band of crazies and disaffected misfits? It was possible... but this one, he stood in that patient, still way that she always would associate with an assassin. He was nameless, unremarkable but for that intensity, and was to serve as guide to Antiva City, to where Master Ignacio now resided, having moved far up in the Guild.
After a most uneventful trip over water, she found that the warm air was heavy and muggy with moisture and a riot of unfamiliar smells. Miolanai also found she was quite tired. No matter that the whole trek over the water had taken a month, she was still exhausted. Coupled with the extreme difference in weather, she was all done in, no matter that she had had plenty of time to acclimate slowly to the change in light and temperature. At the least she had stayed in fighting form, making use of her fellow rogues that she found in Captain Isabella and the Crow, who had rarely spoken to her at all. If she didn't know better, she would think he couldn't speak Common. Lucky for her that everyone considered Fereldens too dim to learn more than their native tongue – truly they were simply too stubborn – and so the language she had grown up knowing was the established trade tongue.
And now, in spite of her fatigue, she was following the, even now, nameless Crow to where Ignacio was to be waiting for her.
XXX
The villa was far less opulent than Miolanai had expected of a Crow Master. Yes, it had high walls that separated it from the street traffic, and she could hear the tinkling of fountains that were inset in the entrance. There were marble tiles that paved the floor in a mottled, formless mosaic of good taste, and the columns were sheathed in the same stone. Other than that, she found that it was rather... simple. Everything she had read led her to believe that the wealthy would showcase everything in a splendor that would rival anything a Ferelden noble could hope to acquire.
Her Crow guide walked ahead of her, leading her to an inner atrium, and that was where opulence reigned supreme. If one could think of beautiful plants and a pond with a fountain at its center as being 'opulent'. Even so, it was breathtaking.
Ignacio rose from the bench he had been sitting on, arms held open to her, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, my dear Warden, you have finally arrived.”
Miolanai accepted the embrace and clumsily returned the kiss on each cheek the old man gave her. “Was that ever in doubt? You should know by now that when I say I will do something, I do it.”
“Haha, yes, it is good to see you my dear; I have missed your refreshing honesty.” He held her at arms’-length, then guided her to sit on the bench he had just vacated. “I trust your journey was a comfortable one?”
Nodding, she watched as he gestured for a servant – slave, most likely – to open a fresh bottle of wine and pour two glasses of the blood red liquid. “As comfortable as could be expected, I suppose. I don't think I'm much cut out for seafaring. Too rough on the stomach,” she added, ruefully.
“Oh, now that is a shame my dear, that is just simply too bad.” He tutted to himself and sipped his wine. “You would make a fine pirate, I would think, if given the chance.”
“Well, I'm glad to be on solid ground once more.” She carefully took a slow taste of the wine.
Not that she thought it would be poisoned; Ignacio didn't seem the type to do something like that, not when there was no profit in it. Honor amongst rogues was a strange affair, but it was there. Even killers had to trust someone at their back, sometimes. No, Miolanai just didn't have a taste for wine; she preferred strong spirits that would strip rust from armor, if she were to bother drinking.
Ignacio gestured at the plate of fresh fruit and cheese that was on the table set between them. “Please, help yourself. Do not stint, my dear; you are too thin. Truly, I should take Captain Isabella to task for not feeding you enough.”
She shifted somewhat uncomfortably – she wasn't very good in such nice, social settings. “No, no, she was quite accommodating.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “Ignacio, I am grateful for your hospitality, but shouldn't we get down to business?”
He blinked several times, before letting out a deep belly laugh. “Ah! I always forget how hurried you Fereldens are. Well then, I suppose it couldn't hurt.” The bald man cocked his head. “But this is a new country for you, and its ways are vastly different than your own. Some would be easily offended at your straightforwardness.”
Shrugging, the elf was unapologetic. “I am what I am.”
“Hmm, yes, yes you are,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “This would be why I wish to offer you the services of one of my finest. My fair Antiva, it is an interesting place, filled with many interesting dangers for one such as yourself. So, as a friend, I will give you one of my Crows. He can translate for you, he can guide you through the many intricate nuances of this fine country, as well as protect you, both from other Guild members sent by other Masters, as well as the more mundane things. Not only that, but he could certainly stand around and look pretty for you.”
Taken aback, Miolanai protested, “A guide? Look, Ignacio, I appreciate it, but really, I am more... inclined to look for work as it were.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You are well known, and while your skills, as they are, are fine – excellent, indeed – you would make a poor assassin in the games of politics here. Though, if you should happen to hear of... interesting things.... during the many meetings you are sure to have with people here, I would be most appreciative of hearing such tales.” A smile came back over his face quickly, and he snapped his fingers. “Zevran!”
From out of the shadows in the corner of the atrium garden stepped an elf. He was golden, tanned to a deep bronze, his hair the colour of ripe wheat, and as he came closer, dipping a bow, Miolanai saw that his eyes, too, were golden. Not the pale gibbous yellow that Morrigan's had been, but deep and dark, the way some of the purest honey could be.
Needlessly, Ignacio introduced him. “This is Zevran. He is to be yours, and serve all your needs, as long as you have need of or wish him to.”
XXX
He was a golden shadow that radiated an intensity Miolanai had never felt before, and he was walking beside her, never betraying a single thought on his chiseled features. His lush mouth had said not a word, silent as the Crow who had led her to Ignacio had been. Somehow, though, with the lines at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, she thought that was an unnatural state for him. It seemed like he was probably more accustomed to laughter, to cover the veiled poison in his veins.
Well, at least she knew this Crow's name.
“Where is it, exactly, that we're going?” she finally asked.
It wasn't much that she cared, she was armed to the teeth, after all. Really, she was more curious than anything, to find out what his voice was like. A voice and its inflections would give more away than movement, at least in someone as measured as this 'Zevran' was... or, at the very least, she hoped so.
He glanced at her once, giving a lazy blink of eyes that reflected oddly in the setting sun's light. “Master Ignacio put aside a set of apartments for your use, until you decide to move elsewhere.” Zevran came to a stop, and passersby parted around them, as he pointed to the west. “Five streets that way. It is not so far, but if it is your wish to stop for a rest, there is a cafe up ahead where you would find acceptable fare.”
Miolanai almost hissed at the sound of his voice. It burned like scotch, his lyrical accent rolling the words around in his mouth as though he were savoring the strong liquor. He was golden hot, blazing like melted metal and sunlight cast in shadow.
Rather than admit to any fatigue on her part – best not to appear weak in front of a creature like him – she asked, “Are you hungry? If you are that would be alright, otherwise five streets doesn't sound like too much of a trek for someone who hiked across Ferelden and back enough times to make a map.”
His lips twisted into a smirk before that slipped from his face rapidly. “I could eat, however, the food in the cafe below your apartment is better. It is run by the Guild, after all, so its food has to be good.”
“The Guild runs.... a cafe?” she asked, startled, even as they resumed walking.
He nodded once as his pace slowed. “Business ventures make for excellent training grounds. Murder is good money, but if we were constantly taking out contracts, there would be few people left to kill, by now.”
“Well, that's a practical outlook.” Snorting, Miolanai settled in to walk beside him, allowing herself to relax, somewhat.
Zevran was almost a head and a half taller than her, and his earlier strides were long. So, Miolanai was grateful that he had slowed, especially since she had yet to fully regain her land legs. Sooner than she would have thought, they were entering a whitewashed building that was several stories high, decorated in bright blue, yellow, red and purple trim on every available edge. The Warden had yet to examine her surroundings much, more interested in weighing this odd companion, trusting him to be fully aware of what was going on around them enough that anything being amiss would register quickly.
When they came to the end of a hall, he held a hand out, motioning for her to stay back. Before she could ask, he shook his head, moving on silent feet to listen at the door. With a nod of satisfaction he picked the lock – not anywhere near as quickly as she could, but he managed – and then opened the door. He slipped in and she pulled stealth and shadow around her, following. Either he knew something she didn't, or he was overly cautious. Not that it was a bad thing, in a city that thrived on murder and intrigue. Watching as he quickly moved through the rooms, checking under a bed, behind the sofas, in the armoires and water closet, Miolanai waited to drop her shadows until she got the go-ahead.
He gave the room one last scan as he prowled back to the door, and his eyes skipped over her for a moment, before coming back to her quickly. He waved a hand, assuring her, “All is clear; you may unstealth now.”
“I would ask if that was paranoia or caution, on your part,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow, “But I've always ascribed to the belief that being paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.”
“A wise viewpoint,” he replied, inclining his head. “Shall I send for food now?”
Miolanai glanced around, and gave a shrug. “What's it like downstairs? I'm a little sick of having my meals brought to me like I'm some pampered princess.”
“If that is your wish, but downstairs may be... crowded.” The way he said it made Miolanai feel that it was probably wisest if she took his advice on that.
After all, this was a nest of Crows, even though she supposed she was as safe here as anywhere else in Antiva City. Pursing her lips, the elf dropped her pack by one of the low sofas; it had intricate carving all over the wood, and was upholstered in bright blues and silvers. Really, she had never seen anything like this apartment, and the furniture itself was.... magnificent. Each thing was a lovely piece of artwork, from the round, half barrel chair and the footstools, to the low table that had tiles inlaid in a starburst. Miolanai couldn't take it all in at once, and shut her eyes for a moment, before clinging to the fact that furniture was furniture, no matter how pretty it was.
Clearing her throat, she began to take off her baldrics. “Whatever you want, then. I've got a big enough appetite that I could even be tempted to eat a whole pot of Alistair's 'lamb and pea' stew, at this point.”
“I do not believe I have heard of such a dish, but I will ask if you like.” Zevran came up beside her quietly, stooping to take her pack from her. He carried it into one of the other rooms. “There is an armor stand in here for you if, you choose to make use of it.”
She laughed. “Oh no, anything in this world is better than Alistair's cooking was! Whatever you recommend would be good, I'd think. Ultimately, it'd be a damn sight better than what I used to eat.” She had been just about ready to flop onto the sofa, but followed him instead. “I feel like I haven't had a single day out of this getup since the Blight started.”
As she entered, she saw that he was opening a large armoire, its doors carved in a pierced latticework of geometric twisting designs. Her pack was on the bed, already open, clearly ready to have its contents put away, which the Crow seemed to be doing, presently.
“You don't have to do that.” Reaching out, Miolanai took from him a set of folded clothes that he was about to tuck into a drawer. “I don't need a servant. You're my guide, not my slave.”
“I am here to assist you however you need, and you seem tired.” A flicker of something flashed in his amber eyes, too fast for her to catch what it was. This time when he took the clothes from her, she let him. “You should make yourself comfortable. This is Antiva City, not Ferelden during a Blight. You are a guest, and should enjoy it. Life's rare pleasures are fleeting, and only the foolish waste them.”
She blinked slowly up at him in surprise. “You're right, but I don't feel right having others serve me in that sort of capacity. Especially not a....” She trailed off.
Not an elf.
“A Crow?” he supplied, tilting his head to one side. The sway of the motion revealed one, well-shaped ear clearly, and the three gold hoops in the lobe, and two near tip.
Gold, gold, gold, gold. Everywhere she looked at him, there was gold. Was it inescapable? Not all that glitters is gold....
Shaking her head, “No. I don't care about that. I'm from Denerim's Alienage, and I hate seeing elves treated as servants. Too few of them got fair wages; we lived in squalor and filth. I suppose,” she admitted, frowning, “that old habits die hard.” Sighing, she waved a hand at her pack and the armoire. “Let's say we just do this together, then?”
Zevran's lips curled, almost in a tolerant smile. “It will be done more quickly if I do this myself. Why not remove your armor and put something comfortable on? Worry not that I'll attack you, for it is worth more than my life if I were to do so, yes?”
Taken aback, she stared at him. “Why would I think you would attack me?”
To this he snorted, resuming unpacking her things. “I am a Crow. You say such things to put my ego at ease, but I assure you, that I am not easily offended. To be sure, only a stupid man would attack you, and I have never counted that as one of my many faults.” He didn't even pause as he removed one of her larger pouches of gems, setting it aside as he said, “This is not Ferelden, we are cultured, we do not... sit about in our armor in our places of rest, waiting for an attack. They will come whether we are armed or not, and being armed is rarely of any assistance.”
“I wouldn't think you would attack me without cause.” Grunting, she finally gave in to the need to be rid of her dragonskin leathers for a little while. Unbuckling and untying various parts, she quickly put them over the armor stand. “But I suppose you're right, might as well be comfortable. Does the same rule apply to you?” Jerking her chin, she encompassed the deep sable of his leathers. “Or are you staying elsewhere?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she found herself watching the way his hands moved over hangers, shaking out clothes that were rumpled before setting them on the bar. “My place is by your side, until such a time as you see fit to no longer require my presence. Where you go, I go. Where you stay, I stay. Where you eat, I eat.”
Laughing softly at that, she took the proffered tunic and trews from him. “Yes, well, wouldn't want the country bumpkin from the back alleys of Ferelden bumbling around in such a place as this, unescorted.”
“I hardly think you are a bumpkin.” Once he was finished with his self-appointed task – he had been right, he did get it done faster than she would have – he leaned casually against the armoire. “Ignorant of Antiva's ways, yes. ‘Bumpkin’ would mean you come from the countryside, while being from back alleys would mean you were from a city. You cannot be both.”
Sitting on the bed, Miolanai worked her boots off with a relieved sigh. “Oh please, you and I both know that when anyone thinks of Ferelden, they think of country bumpkins. So, I can be both a backwater redneck and a gutter rat.”
“May I be frank?” Instantly, he fell upon her boots, and set them under her armor.
“May you be Frank? And here I thought your name was Zevran...” she joked, needling him just a little. He was making too easy a target, and like she had said before – old habits die hard. Some don't die at all.
There was a twitch around his lips, like he had quickly smothered a laugh. “Zev to my friends.”
Sticking her hand out from her seated position, she introduced herself. “And I'm 'Mio' to my friends.”
His grip was strong, calloused, and warm – a fighter’s hand – as he took her hand in his, pulling her up. “Ah-ha, and do you know what that means in Antivan, my dear?”
“No,” she responded, shaking her head. “I don't know any Antivan at all.”
“Mph, it means 'mine'.” He released her hand and motioning for her to return to the sitting room. “I shall go now and seek something for our repast.”
After he left, Miolanai took the time to actually take in her apartment without fear of appearing foolish before the obviously dangerous man who was to be her guide. Miolanai was good at acting impervious to luxury; she had to learn that during the Blight, when faced with so many nobles and wealthy merchants. It was just a mask, for in the Alienage there were no luxuries beyond friendship and family. So she went to the door and finally looked at everything. Shimmering whitewashed walls, with tile borders in blue and yellow running at the base and near the ceiling, traveled the entirety of the sitting room. The sitting room itself was large, rugs laying thick upon the floor, and Miolanai fell to a quick squat, pulling the dense fabric back to see what sort of flooring lay beneath it. Dark wood planks, smoothed and vibrant, silkily soft, met her questing hand. Smiling at the sensation, Miolanai stroked the floor like a cat. It seemed that even something so simple as a floor was a piece of fine craftsmanship, in this warm country.
Gently settling the rugs back in place, but not before tracing one of the flower and starbursts of the woven pattern, Miolanai scanned the room. When she was in the Palace at Denerim, or Arl Eamon's estate, she had thought she knew what beauty and good craftsmanship was. In comparison, Ferelden trappings were heavy and clunky. Rising, she went to the low sofa she had originally intended to sit on and knelt, giving the brocade the same treatment she had granted the floor. Delicately rough knotwork was a a bumpy map under her palms, and Miolanai smiled in delight. Blues that were as dark as night blended with pale sky so light as to be almost white were interwoven with silvery threads.
Starbursts and flowers were the pervasive theme everywhere she looked. The cushions were thick and heavy, giving lightly when she pressed down on them. Chewing her lip, the elf turned and stroked the table that was nestled between the two sofas and chair that surrounded it in a horseshoe. It was cool to the touch, and so smooth, she couldn't detect any joints between the inlays of lighter wood and tile, and the surrounding materials.
Her gentle, meek father would have killed to get his hands on something so fine. He probably hadn't even thought something like this could even be made. Perhaps she should find out if she could buy something like this and have it sent to Cyrion. It had been a long time since she had done anything for the man who had sired her; she had never truly been a creature of his loins, no matter how she and others pretended otherwise. Adaia's blood ran far too thick in her veins, the long dead woman having gifted Miolanai with a name, life, personality and skills. It was strange to her that the women of her family were always far more headstrong than the men, but maybe that was because only a meek man would do for women who were all willpower and backbone.
Sighing at the turn of her thoughts, the Warden shook it off. There was more to touch and explore and smell. Everything in the room was thick with the scent of something honey sweet and spicy. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, as far as her lungs could go, savoring the way her senses were swamped. Tiny moments like this were fleeting, and to be relished as much as possible. In that, Zevran was right – they were in easy agreement, there. She went to the carved wooden screen; it looked so ethereal as to not even be real. Some sort of horned, halla-like creatures were etched and pierced through the wood, the scene showing grazing animals and crows circling overhead, under a sun that was more like a fifteen-pointed star, than anything else. It was just breathtaking. The amount of time someone had to spend on something like this was mind-boggling.
Finally, she peeked around the screen and saw a desk and chair. These, too were as covered in artwork as everything else. Was nothing simple here? Not that she minded. Somehow, it didn't feel gaudy, though, in spite of all the details that covered every inch of portable furnishings. If something in Ferelden had even attempted reflect any of what went on here – even in something so normal as a candle holder – it would come off as overdone and heavy-handed. But there weren't candle holders, just strange blocks and triangles and wall sconces that had little oil lamps in them. The vibrant shades were easily removed, revealing clay containers and wicks.
For a moment, Miolanai almost found herself skipping back to her bedroom. This country was so foreign, but not in the dark, foreboding way Orzamar had been, nor the stifling manner of Ferelden. It was merely delightful, like a playground of light and warmth and sea breezes. Curbing her desire to race to the bedroom, Miolanai entered it, fingers tracing the strangely peaked and bulbous shape of the door – it was no mere rectangle, but like a candle with a fat flame at its top. There was a window – a paned window, at that – that she swung open. Outside it was a flower-box that had colorful red and purple flowers in it, and below she saw the wide alley or narrow street, she wasn't sure which it was.
The bedroom itself was small when compared to the front room, but it held the armoire, armor stand and bed comfortably. The bed made her really want to just jump into it, roll up in the pink and blue covers, and go to sleep. Overhead there was some gauzy net made of sheer lavender material, its use unfathomable, as it was no good for keeping out light. Sighing, now that she was done with her exploration – she didn't dare go to the bed, for fear of simply passing out – Miolanai flopped gracelessly onto one of the couches, tipping her head back and closed her eyes. If this was what all of Antiva was like, she never, ever wanted to leave.
She wouldn't have gotten up again, but calls of nature demanded she do so. Heaving herself back up with a groan, she went into the room and stopped dead. Tiles, tiles everywhere, floor-to-ceiling – even the ceiling was tiled, and pierced by a window to the sky that bathed the room in clear light. There was green and blue and purple, everywhere she looked. A large teal ceramic basin sat perched on a marble pedestal, with taps shaped like fish and a mirror – a mirror – hanging over it. Round, with acid-etched designs, shaded in crimson and lavender around the edges, it was so clear; she had never seen something like it at all. It held her image: wide, green eyes under frequently knife-chopped white hair, pale face flushed with awe, the raspberry of her overfull lips opened in an 'o' of surprise and pleasure. Reaching out, she traced her image, not quite daring to touch the glass, for fear of smudging it. Shuddering once, she looked away, and spied what she assumed was the chamberpot, but it was more like a bowl in the ground that had a funny basin on one side and a lever. Curiously she pulled the lever and jumped when water roared through it, sucking down the water that had been held in the bowl. She was supposed to squat over that thing, and go?
Quickly the awestruck and slightly intimidated Warden went about her business, sparing the bathtub only a small glance. It was tiled, just like everything else, and more spigots hung over it, one handle red, the other a cool blue. Not only that, but the thing looked like it could have fit three of her in it. Shuddering again, Miolanai went back to the sitting room and plunked down once more. Her heart was racing in a mixture of rapture and a tiny thrill of fear. She had been right when she told Zevran that she was a country bumpkin and gutter rat rolled into one. This place, no matter how much she liked it, sort of drove that point home in a way she was unused to.
True to his word, Zevran returned, a large tray hoisted high on his shoulder. While the smell was divine, it certainly looked precarious; however, he carried it with ease, the tendons of one forearm standing in sharp relief beneath the bronzed skin the only sign that he was carrying more weight than a simple book. She half suspected he took awhile so as to give her the chance to familiarize herself with her surroundings, but she didn't know the assassin well enough to be sure. Before she could stand to assist him, he was carefully setting the tray onto the table between the couches.
It was a brief struggle to not open her eyes wide at the array of food, which was as colorful as everything else in this place. Most of it, Miolanai couldn't even begin to identify, so she didn't try.
She blinked rapidly as he pulled off the conical top of some terracotta thing, revealing some sort of stew that made her mouth water. “So you've heard of Wardens copious appetites huh?”
“Oh? No, I must confess I have not.” He set aside various lids, and unstacked six tall glasses – made of glass, not metal nor wood, nor even bone nor clay – that were red and yellow near the lips, fading into pure clear crystal at the bottom. “I was unsure of what sorts of things you might like, so chose some variety.”
Too hungry to care much for niceties, Miolanai grabbed one of the spoons and scooped up some of the stew from the terracotta pot. Blowing on it once, she then shoved the spoon in her mouth. The initial explosion of flavor was overpowering, and exquisite. Making a little sound of joy, she took no note of Zevran's expression of surprise. That is, until heat bloomed over her tongue, setting fire to her mouth, making her throat constrict in pain. Dropping the spoon, she clutched at her neck, eyes wide and panicked.
“Poison!” she exclaimed, gasping and gagging as she bent double.
The assassin came to sit beside her, patting her back firmly. “Tchk, no it isn't poison. Peppers. I apologize; I was about to tell you that you should take it slow; the flavors may be too spicy at first. Here have some –”
Before he could finish, Miolanai grabbed one of the glasses filled with water, downing it in frenzied gulps, which only cooled her mouth for a moment. Whimpering, she grabbed for another glass, but Zevran stopped her, passing her one that was filled with the steamy milky drink he had poured from the silver teapot. Was he crazy? She needed something to cool the fire, not make it hotter! But anything was better than the riot going on in her mouth, so she gulped that down too.
Beside her the Crow sighed audibly, shaking his head, and slowly began rubbing his forehead in circles.
“I was about to tell you to take some yogurt,” he said, speaking slowly, and suddenly there was a spoon held before her mouth, overflowing with something white with chunks of something else in it. “It will settle your stomach, and the fire. Clear things only bring the oils to the surface of the stomach, so that they can burn your throat.”
Opening her mouth, Miolanai accepted the spoonful of 'yogurt' and found that he was right. The fire was gone within seconds, and her stomach stopped burning as well. Sighing in relief, she wiped at the sweat on her brow.
Wincing, she mumbled, “Sorry; I probably look really stupid right now.”
An amused smile graced his face, looking far more natural for the moment than he had when they met earlier. “‘Stupid’ is not the word I would choose, Warden. Headstrong, or perhaps impatient. Hasty? Yes, hasty would be an excellent word. So urgent.”
Laughing, she elbowed him a little. “Well you'll just have to tell me what all this stuff is. Where I come from, soup is soup; you just eat it and be grateful for it.”
“Ah, then you are about to gain an education.” He pointed to a bowl of small, round, blackish-purple things. “Olives. They have a sharp pungent taste. Careful of the pits; you merely spit them out, do not attempt to eat them if you value your teeth.”
Selecting one of the thumbnail sized objects she ate it cautiously. “Tastes... strange.”
“Perhaps an acquired taste, but they are everywhere here,” he said, waving a hand to encompass Antiva at large. “Oil is pressed from them that is then used in many things, from cooking to skin care.” He gestured at the basket of breads. “You use this to scoop some of the tagine and a bit of rice, and eat it that way. Spoons are mostly a consideration for foreigners unfamiliar with Antivan cuisine. Most things are eaten with fingers.” Demonstrating by using two fingers and thumb, he snagged some rice, depositing it easily in his mouth, not spilling any or looking messy at all. “We use this,” he said, dipping his fingers in a shallow bowl filled with water, “to remove any residue from the food, before selecting something else.”
“What's tag-nee?” she asked, attempting to copy his movements with the rice. The rice itself was a wild collection of some dried fruits, peas, carrots, and what looked like sticks that revealed itself to be cinnamon, when she got it close enough to pick out the individual smells.
Zevran tore off a thin strip of bread, folding it and using it to pick out some of the stew she had earlier accosted her mouth with. “This. It is a stew that is prepared in this dish; meats, vegetables and herbs are simmered in it slowly. The shape of the cone keeps the moisture in, and as it becomes steam, the top collects it, the water trickling slowly back down to the pot.”
Wary, she squinted at it. “I don't think I should eat that...”
He made a minute shrug. “The yogurt. Use it like this; it should be manageable then.” He held out some of the bread, which he then spooned some of the tagine onto it, followed by rice, and a little dollop of yogurt.
Trying it, she made a happy sound. “Oh that is good! And it doesn't make me feel like I'm a dragon lady!”
Tucking into the food, once she got the hang of it, she watched her fellow elf from the corner of her eye, mimicking everything he did. Half-starved, Miolanai set upon the meal, leaving vast empty spaces everywhere she went on the platter. The milky tea Zevran poured after she sat back with a contented sigh, patting her stomach, eyes partially closed, was sweet and spiced. Antiva seemed mad for spices, as well as decoration.
“I have... never seen a woman set to so,” he commented, sipping slowly from his glass.
Yawning, stretching as she did so, she sighed with pleasure. “Hmm... this was a good lunch size. If I had been really hungry I could have eaten most of that.”
A flitter of shock was masked quickly, but she caught it. “Ah. This was a spread usually for three or four men. I only brought so much as I was unsure of what you might like.”
“Really?” Yawning again and covering her mouth, she squinted at him. “Alistair would have polished this off in one go. That is, if he could have stomached anything that didn't taste like dirty socks.”
The Crow shifted, clearly deciding if he should hazard any questions. “A former lover perhaps?”
Snorting, she savored the spicy milk tea slowly. “Alistair? Ha. No. More like a big brother. He... he's the one who took the last blow to the Archdemon.”
“Ah.” He nodded, a depth of meaning in that single sound, then he leaned forward, rearranging the contents of the tray. “Perhaps you would like to rest for awhile. I shall take this back down to the kitchens and return. That is, unless you require anything else?”
Rubbing the back of her neck, she muffled yet another yawn. “Mmmno. I'm fine, thank you very much, Zevran. I'll wait until you come back. Twitchy sleeper and all that, you know?”
Author: Rhion
Rating: AO - eventually
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Summary: AU. Zev never went to Ferelden. Now, Miolanai, Hero of Ferelden finds herself in Antiva. Master Ignacio assigns her a bodyguard and guide. A guide who just so happens to have been friends with the Crow she killed so long ago during the beginnings of the Blight.
AN: I pulled this plot bunny outta my ass to toss to
bellaknoti as she's wrapping up Wings at the moment. Unfortunately, it has wound up boomeranging back at me. Ugh. My life sucks.Mods - may I have a tag for 'A Guild-ed Cage'?
Oh and because now
raonar still has me thinkin' theme songs and crap.... this one would probably be a cross between Timbaland's 'The Way I Are' (ugh, okay, I know, I know, why on earth would this nutty little fruitbat cybergoth girl be listening to Timbaland?), and Coldplay's “God Put A Smile Upon Your Face”. Both of these songs, lyrically, are great for descriptors. They are also the sort of music that is not my thing as it were. :points to all the Oingo Boingo, Clash, Dead Can Dance, Ska-p, Extremoduro, Rammstein, Correspondents, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, Tones on Tale, Sneaky Bat Machine, Combichrist, Wumpscut, Delerium, Dead Kennedys, Orbital, and that's just to name a few, tracks on current playlist: As you can see, there is little room for something like Coldplay or Timbaland on there. Oh well, go figure. Also, some of the 'sleezier' Zev moments in here are so Timbaland and Justin Timberlake singing “Carryout”. Yeah, I listen to the radio. STFU. ZG teases me enough for singing along to “Toxic” whenever it comes on...But ultimately Miolanai's 'theme' song would be the Offspring's "Come Out And Play"....
XXX
Guild-ed 1
XXX
It was... a hard thing, being a Warden. In some ways, far easier than she could have ever imagined, in others... it almost made her long for the hemp noose to have been wrapped around her neck, rather than leaving her to this fate. She and the others had faced down bandits, darkspawn, soldiers, monsters and werewolves, ancient witches and fallen heroes. No matter their strength, in the end, there was one foe only she and Alistair could truly face. They had been friends – close friends – but nothing more. He and the others were family, as close as she could get to it after having left the Alienage. Miolanai had been prepared to die in his stead – that is what one did for family, take on the burdens others couldn't handle – but he had begged to take the last blow.
His reasons made sense: he would always be a pawn, a threat to Anora's rule. She would eventually have him killed because of this. His other reason, though, had been that he wasn't strong enough to live without her beside him. Miolanai had known of his feelings, but she always waved them off. Alistair had taken long enough to tell her that she was the sort who could survive and make a life for herself, while he simply could not. Ultimately she allowed him to take the blow, not for those reasons, but because she was scared.
Two months healing of body did nothing for the mind. Another year and a half serving in Amaranthine also did nothing to heal her in places that spells could not reach. The cold of Ferelden was bitter, not in temperature, but in soul, and so she stared at the shem messenger who had come after she sent her missive to far-off Antiva. A Crow.
How many of his ilk had she killed? Had this one known of the one who had been sent to kill her and Alistair, and their merry little band of crazies and disaffected misfits? It was possible... but this one, he stood in that patient, still way that she always would associate with an assassin. He was nameless, unremarkable but for that intensity, and was to serve as guide to Antiva City, to where Master Ignacio now resided, having moved far up in the Guild.
After a most uneventful trip over water, she found that the warm air was heavy and muggy with moisture and a riot of unfamiliar smells. Miolanai also found she was quite tired. No matter that the whole trek over the water had taken a month, she was still exhausted. Coupled with the extreme difference in weather, she was all done in, no matter that she had had plenty of time to acclimate slowly to the change in light and temperature. At the least she had stayed in fighting form, making use of her fellow rogues that she found in Captain Isabella and the Crow, who had rarely spoken to her at all. If she didn't know better, she would think he couldn't speak Common. Lucky for her that everyone considered Fereldens too dim to learn more than their native tongue – truly they were simply too stubborn – and so the language she had grown up knowing was the established trade tongue.
And now, in spite of her fatigue, she was following the, even now, nameless Crow to where Ignacio was to be waiting for her.
XXX
The villa was far less opulent than Miolanai had expected of a Crow Master. Yes, it had high walls that separated it from the street traffic, and she could hear the tinkling of fountains that were inset in the entrance. There were marble tiles that paved the floor in a mottled, formless mosaic of good taste, and the columns were sheathed in the same stone. Other than that, she found that it was rather... simple. Everything she had read led her to believe that the wealthy would showcase everything in a splendor that would rival anything a Ferelden noble could hope to acquire.
Her Crow guide walked ahead of her, leading her to an inner atrium, and that was where opulence reigned supreme. If one could think of beautiful plants and a pond with a fountain at its center as being 'opulent'. Even so, it was breathtaking.
Ignacio rose from the bench he had been sitting on, arms held open to her, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, my dear Warden, you have finally arrived.”
Miolanai accepted the embrace and clumsily returned the kiss on each cheek the old man gave her. “Was that ever in doubt? You should know by now that when I say I will do something, I do it.”
“Haha, yes, it is good to see you my dear; I have missed your refreshing honesty.” He held her at arms’-length, then guided her to sit on the bench he had just vacated. “I trust your journey was a comfortable one?”
Nodding, she watched as he gestured for a servant – slave, most likely – to open a fresh bottle of wine and pour two glasses of the blood red liquid. “As comfortable as could be expected, I suppose. I don't think I'm much cut out for seafaring. Too rough on the stomach,” she added, ruefully.
“Oh, now that is a shame my dear, that is just simply too bad.” He tutted to himself and sipped his wine. “You would make a fine pirate, I would think, if given the chance.”
“Well, I'm glad to be on solid ground once more.” She carefully took a slow taste of the wine.
Not that she thought it would be poisoned; Ignacio didn't seem the type to do something like that, not when there was no profit in it. Honor amongst rogues was a strange affair, but it was there. Even killers had to trust someone at their back, sometimes. No, Miolanai just didn't have a taste for wine; she preferred strong spirits that would strip rust from armor, if she were to bother drinking.
Ignacio gestured at the plate of fresh fruit and cheese that was on the table set between them. “Please, help yourself. Do not stint, my dear; you are too thin. Truly, I should take Captain Isabella to task for not feeding you enough.”
She shifted somewhat uncomfortably – she wasn't very good in such nice, social settings. “No, no, she was quite accommodating.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “Ignacio, I am grateful for your hospitality, but shouldn't we get down to business?”
He blinked several times, before letting out a deep belly laugh. “Ah! I always forget how hurried you Fereldens are. Well then, I suppose it couldn't hurt.” The bald man cocked his head. “But this is a new country for you, and its ways are vastly different than your own. Some would be easily offended at your straightforwardness.”
Shrugging, the elf was unapologetic. “I am what I am.”
“Hmm, yes, yes you are,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “This would be why I wish to offer you the services of one of my finest. My fair Antiva, it is an interesting place, filled with many interesting dangers for one such as yourself. So, as a friend, I will give you one of my Crows. He can translate for you, he can guide you through the many intricate nuances of this fine country, as well as protect you, both from other Guild members sent by other Masters, as well as the more mundane things. Not only that, but he could certainly stand around and look pretty for you.”
Taken aback, Miolanai protested, “A guide? Look, Ignacio, I appreciate it, but really, I am more... inclined to look for work as it were.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You are well known, and while your skills, as they are, are fine – excellent, indeed – you would make a poor assassin in the games of politics here. Though, if you should happen to hear of... interesting things.... during the many meetings you are sure to have with people here, I would be most appreciative of hearing such tales.” A smile came back over his face quickly, and he snapped his fingers. “Zevran!”
From out of the shadows in the corner of the atrium garden stepped an elf. He was golden, tanned to a deep bronze, his hair the colour of ripe wheat, and as he came closer, dipping a bow, Miolanai saw that his eyes, too, were golden. Not the pale gibbous yellow that Morrigan's had been, but deep and dark, the way some of the purest honey could be.
Needlessly, Ignacio introduced him. “This is Zevran. He is to be yours, and serve all your needs, as long as you have need of or wish him to.”
XXX
He was a golden shadow that radiated an intensity Miolanai had never felt before, and he was walking beside her, never betraying a single thought on his chiseled features. His lush mouth had said not a word, silent as the Crow who had led her to Ignacio had been. Somehow, though, with the lines at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, she thought that was an unnatural state for him. It seemed like he was probably more accustomed to laughter, to cover the veiled poison in his veins.
Well, at least she knew this Crow's name.
“Where is it, exactly, that we're going?” she finally asked.
It wasn't much that she cared, she was armed to the teeth, after all. Really, she was more curious than anything, to find out what his voice was like. A voice and its inflections would give more away than movement, at least in someone as measured as this 'Zevran' was... or, at the very least, she hoped so.
He glanced at her once, giving a lazy blink of eyes that reflected oddly in the setting sun's light. “Master Ignacio put aside a set of apartments for your use, until you decide to move elsewhere.” Zevran came to a stop, and passersby parted around them, as he pointed to the west. “Five streets that way. It is not so far, but if it is your wish to stop for a rest, there is a cafe up ahead where you would find acceptable fare.”
Miolanai almost hissed at the sound of his voice. It burned like scotch, his lyrical accent rolling the words around in his mouth as though he were savoring the strong liquor. He was golden hot, blazing like melted metal and sunlight cast in shadow.
Rather than admit to any fatigue on her part – best not to appear weak in front of a creature like him – she asked, “Are you hungry? If you are that would be alright, otherwise five streets doesn't sound like too much of a trek for someone who hiked across Ferelden and back enough times to make a map.”
His lips twisted into a smirk before that slipped from his face rapidly. “I could eat, however, the food in the cafe below your apartment is better. It is run by the Guild, after all, so its food has to be good.”
“The Guild runs.... a cafe?” she asked, startled, even as they resumed walking.
He nodded once as his pace slowed. “Business ventures make for excellent training grounds. Murder is good money, but if we were constantly taking out contracts, there would be few people left to kill, by now.”
“Well, that's a practical outlook.” Snorting, Miolanai settled in to walk beside him, allowing herself to relax, somewhat.
Zevran was almost a head and a half taller than her, and his earlier strides were long. So, Miolanai was grateful that he had slowed, especially since she had yet to fully regain her land legs. Sooner than she would have thought, they were entering a whitewashed building that was several stories high, decorated in bright blue, yellow, red and purple trim on every available edge. The Warden had yet to examine her surroundings much, more interested in weighing this odd companion, trusting him to be fully aware of what was going on around them enough that anything being amiss would register quickly.
When they came to the end of a hall, he held a hand out, motioning for her to stay back. Before she could ask, he shook his head, moving on silent feet to listen at the door. With a nod of satisfaction he picked the lock – not anywhere near as quickly as she could, but he managed – and then opened the door. He slipped in and she pulled stealth and shadow around her, following. Either he knew something she didn't, or he was overly cautious. Not that it was a bad thing, in a city that thrived on murder and intrigue. Watching as he quickly moved through the rooms, checking under a bed, behind the sofas, in the armoires and water closet, Miolanai waited to drop her shadows until she got the go-ahead.
He gave the room one last scan as he prowled back to the door, and his eyes skipped over her for a moment, before coming back to her quickly. He waved a hand, assuring her, “All is clear; you may unstealth now.”
“I would ask if that was paranoia or caution, on your part,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow, “But I've always ascribed to the belief that being paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.”
“A wise viewpoint,” he replied, inclining his head. “Shall I send for food now?”
Miolanai glanced around, and gave a shrug. “What's it like downstairs? I'm a little sick of having my meals brought to me like I'm some pampered princess.”
“If that is your wish, but downstairs may be... crowded.” The way he said it made Miolanai feel that it was probably wisest if she took his advice on that.
After all, this was a nest of Crows, even though she supposed she was as safe here as anywhere else in Antiva City. Pursing her lips, the elf dropped her pack by one of the low sofas; it had intricate carving all over the wood, and was upholstered in bright blues and silvers. Really, she had never seen anything like this apartment, and the furniture itself was.... magnificent. Each thing was a lovely piece of artwork, from the round, half barrel chair and the footstools, to the low table that had tiles inlaid in a starburst. Miolanai couldn't take it all in at once, and shut her eyes for a moment, before clinging to the fact that furniture was furniture, no matter how pretty it was.
Clearing her throat, she began to take off her baldrics. “Whatever you want, then. I've got a big enough appetite that I could even be tempted to eat a whole pot of Alistair's 'lamb and pea' stew, at this point.”
“I do not believe I have heard of such a dish, but I will ask if you like.” Zevran came up beside her quietly, stooping to take her pack from her. He carried it into one of the other rooms. “There is an armor stand in here for you if, you choose to make use of it.”
She laughed. “Oh no, anything in this world is better than Alistair's cooking was! Whatever you recommend would be good, I'd think. Ultimately, it'd be a damn sight better than what I used to eat.” She had been just about ready to flop onto the sofa, but followed him instead. “I feel like I haven't had a single day out of this getup since the Blight started.”
As she entered, she saw that he was opening a large armoire, its doors carved in a pierced latticework of geometric twisting designs. Her pack was on the bed, already open, clearly ready to have its contents put away, which the Crow seemed to be doing, presently.
“You don't have to do that.” Reaching out, Miolanai took from him a set of folded clothes that he was about to tuck into a drawer. “I don't need a servant. You're my guide, not my slave.”
“I am here to assist you however you need, and you seem tired.” A flicker of something flashed in his amber eyes, too fast for her to catch what it was. This time when he took the clothes from her, she let him. “You should make yourself comfortable. This is Antiva City, not Ferelden during a Blight. You are a guest, and should enjoy it. Life's rare pleasures are fleeting, and only the foolish waste them.”
She blinked slowly up at him in surprise. “You're right, but I don't feel right having others serve me in that sort of capacity. Especially not a....” She trailed off.
Not an elf.
“A Crow?” he supplied, tilting his head to one side. The sway of the motion revealed one, well-shaped ear clearly, and the three gold hoops in the lobe, and two near tip.
Gold, gold, gold, gold. Everywhere she looked at him, there was gold. Was it inescapable? Not all that glitters is gold....
Shaking her head, “No. I don't care about that. I'm from Denerim's Alienage, and I hate seeing elves treated as servants. Too few of them got fair wages; we lived in squalor and filth. I suppose,” she admitted, frowning, “that old habits die hard.” Sighing, she waved a hand at her pack and the armoire. “Let's say we just do this together, then?”
Zevran's lips curled, almost in a tolerant smile. “It will be done more quickly if I do this myself. Why not remove your armor and put something comfortable on? Worry not that I'll attack you, for it is worth more than my life if I were to do so, yes?”
Taken aback, she stared at him. “Why would I think you would attack me?”
To this he snorted, resuming unpacking her things. “I am a Crow. You say such things to put my ego at ease, but I assure you, that I am not easily offended. To be sure, only a stupid man would attack you, and I have never counted that as one of my many faults.” He didn't even pause as he removed one of her larger pouches of gems, setting it aside as he said, “This is not Ferelden, we are cultured, we do not... sit about in our armor in our places of rest, waiting for an attack. They will come whether we are armed or not, and being armed is rarely of any assistance.”
“I wouldn't think you would attack me without cause.” Grunting, she finally gave in to the need to be rid of her dragonskin leathers for a little while. Unbuckling and untying various parts, she quickly put them over the armor stand. “But I suppose you're right, might as well be comfortable. Does the same rule apply to you?” Jerking her chin, she encompassed the deep sable of his leathers. “Or are you staying elsewhere?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she found herself watching the way his hands moved over hangers, shaking out clothes that were rumpled before setting them on the bar. “My place is by your side, until such a time as you see fit to no longer require my presence. Where you go, I go. Where you stay, I stay. Where you eat, I eat.”
Laughing softly at that, she took the proffered tunic and trews from him. “Yes, well, wouldn't want the country bumpkin from the back alleys of Ferelden bumbling around in such a place as this, unescorted.”
“I hardly think you are a bumpkin.” Once he was finished with his self-appointed task – he had been right, he did get it done faster than she would have – he leaned casually against the armoire. “Ignorant of Antiva's ways, yes. ‘Bumpkin’ would mean you come from the countryside, while being from back alleys would mean you were from a city. You cannot be both.”
Sitting on the bed, Miolanai worked her boots off with a relieved sigh. “Oh please, you and I both know that when anyone thinks of Ferelden, they think of country bumpkins. So, I can be both a backwater redneck and a gutter rat.”
“May I be frank?” Instantly, he fell upon her boots, and set them under her armor.
“May you be Frank? And here I thought your name was Zevran...” she joked, needling him just a little. He was making too easy a target, and like she had said before – old habits die hard. Some don't die at all.
There was a twitch around his lips, like he had quickly smothered a laugh. “Zev to my friends.”
Sticking her hand out from her seated position, she introduced herself. “And I'm 'Mio' to my friends.”
His grip was strong, calloused, and warm – a fighter’s hand – as he took her hand in his, pulling her up. “Ah-ha, and do you know what that means in Antivan, my dear?”
“No,” she responded, shaking her head. “I don't know any Antivan at all.”
“Mph, it means 'mine'.” He released her hand and motioning for her to return to the sitting room. “I shall go now and seek something for our repast.”
After he left, Miolanai took the time to actually take in her apartment without fear of appearing foolish before the obviously dangerous man who was to be her guide. Miolanai was good at acting impervious to luxury; she had to learn that during the Blight, when faced with so many nobles and wealthy merchants. It was just a mask, for in the Alienage there were no luxuries beyond friendship and family. So she went to the door and finally looked at everything. Shimmering whitewashed walls, with tile borders in blue and yellow running at the base and near the ceiling, traveled the entirety of the sitting room. The sitting room itself was large, rugs laying thick upon the floor, and Miolanai fell to a quick squat, pulling the dense fabric back to see what sort of flooring lay beneath it. Dark wood planks, smoothed and vibrant, silkily soft, met her questing hand. Smiling at the sensation, Miolanai stroked the floor like a cat. It seemed that even something so simple as a floor was a piece of fine craftsmanship, in this warm country.
Gently settling the rugs back in place, but not before tracing one of the flower and starbursts of the woven pattern, Miolanai scanned the room. When she was in the Palace at Denerim, or Arl Eamon's estate, she had thought she knew what beauty and good craftsmanship was. In comparison, Ferelden trappings were heavy and clunky. Rising, she went to the low sofa she had originally intended to sit on and knelt, giving the brocade the same treatment she had granted the floor. Delicately rough knotwork was a a bumpy map under her palms, and Miolanai smiled in delight. Blues that were as dark as night blended with pale sky so light as to be almost white were interwoven with silvery threads.
Starbursts and flowers were the pervasive theme everywhere she looked. The cushions were thick and heavy, giving lightly when she pressed down on them. Chewing her lip, the elf turned and stroked the table that was nestled between the two sofas and chair that surrounded it in a horseshoe. It was cool to the touch, and so smooth, she couldn't detect any joints between the inlays of lighter wood and tile, and the surrounding materials.
Her gentle, meek father would have killed to get his hands on something so fine. He probably hadn't even thought something like this could even be made. Perhaps she should find out if she could buy something like this and have it sent to Cyrion. It had been a long time since she had done anything for the man who had sired her; she had never truly been a creature of his loins, no matter how she and others pretended otherwise. Adaia's blood ran far too thick in her veins, the long dead woman having gifted Miolanai with a name, life, personality and skills. It was strange to her that the women of her family were always far more headstrong than the men, but maybe that was because only a meek man would do for women who were all willpower and backbone.
Sighing at the turn of her thoughts, the Warden shook it off. There was more to touch and explore and smell. Everything in the room was thick with the scent of something honey sweet and spicy. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, as far as her lungs could go, savoring the way her senses were swamped. Tiny moments like this were fleeting, and to be relished as much as possible. In that, Zevran was right – they were in easy agreement, there. She went to the carved wooden screen; it looked so ethereal as to not even be real. Some sort of horned, halla-like creatures were etched and pierced through the wood, the scene showing grazing animals and crows circling overhead, under a sun that was more like a fifteen-pointed star, than anything else. It was just breathtaking. The amount of time someone had to spend on something like this was mind-boggling.
Finally, she peeked around the screen and saw a desk and chair. These, too were as covered in artwork as everything else. Was nothing simple here? Not that she minded. Somehow, it didn't feel gaudy, though, in spite of all the details that covered every inch of portable furnishings. If something in Ferelden had even attempted reflect any of what went on here – even in something so normal as a candle holder – it would come off as overdone and heavy-handed. But there weren't candle holders, just strange blocks and triangles and wall sconces that had little oil lamps in them. The vibrant shades were easily removed, revealing clay containers and wicks.
For a moment, Miolanai almost found herself skipping back to her bedroom. This country was so foreign, but not in the dark, foreboding way Orzamar had been, nor the stifling manner of Ferelden. It was merely delightful, like a playground of light and warmth and sea breezes. Curbing her desire to race to the bedroom, Miolanai entered it, fingers tracing the strangely peaked and bulbous shape of the door – it was no mere rectangle, but like a candle with a fat flame at its top. There was a window – a paned window, at that – that she swung open. Outside it was a flower-box that had colorful red and purple flowers in it, and below she saw the wide alley or narrow street, she wasn't sure which it was.
The bedroom itself was small when compared to the front room, but it held the armoire, armor stand and bed comfortably. The bed made her really want to just jump into it, roll up in the pink and blue covers, and go to sleep. Overhead there was some gauzy net made of sheer lavender material, its use unfathomable, as it was no good for keeping out light. Sighing, now that she was done with her exploration – she didn't dare go to the bed, for fear of simply passing out – Miolanai flopped gracelessly onto one of the couches, tipping her head back and closed her eyes. If this was what all of Antiva was like, she never, ever wanted to leave.
She wouldn't have gotten up again, but calls of nature demanded she do so. Heaving herself back up with a groan, she went into the room and stopped dead. Tiles, tiles everywhere, floor-to-ceiling – even the ceiling was tiled, and pierced by a window to the sky that bathed the room in clear light. There was green and blue and purple, everywhere she looked. A large teal ceramic basin sat perched on a marble pedestal, with taps shaped like fish and a mirror – a mirror – hanging over it. Round, with acid-etched designs, shaded in crimson and lavender around the edges, it was so clear; she had never seen something like it at all. It held her image: wide, green eyes under frequently knife-chopped white hair, pale face flushed with awe, the raspberry of her overfull lips opened in an 'o' of surprise and pleasure. Reaching out, she traced her image, not quite daring to touch the glass, for fear of smudging it. Shuddering once, she looked away, and spied what she assumed was the chamberpot, but it was more like a bowl in the ground that had a funny basin on one side and a lever. Curiously she pulled the lever and jumped when water roared through it, sucking down the water that had been held in the bowl. She was supposed to squat over that thing, and go?
Quickly the awestruck and slightly intimidated Warden went about her business, sparing the bathtub only a small glance. It was tiled, just like everything else, and more spigots hung over it, one handle red, the other a cool blue. Not only that, but the thing looked like it could have fit three of her in it. Shuddering again, Miolanai went back to the sitting room and plunked down once more. Her heart was racing in a mixture of rapture and a tiny thrill of fear. She had been right when she told Zevran that she was a country bumpkin and gutter rat rolled into one. This place, no matter how much she liked it, sort of drove that point home in a way she was unused to.
True to his word, Zevran returned, a large tray hoisted high on his shoulder. While the smell was divine, it certainly looked precarious; however, he carried it with ease, the tendons of one forearm standing in sharp relief beneath the bronzed skin the only sign that he was carrying more weight than a simple book. She half suspected he took awhile so as to give her the chance to familiarize herself with her surroundings, but she didn't know the assassin well enough to be sure. Before she could stand to assist him, he was carefully setting the tray onto the table between the couches.
It was a brief struggle to not open her eyes wide at the array of food, which was as colorful as everything else in this place. Most of it, Miolanai couldn't even begin to identify, so she didn't try.
She blinked rapidly as he pulled off the conical top of some terracotta thing, revealing some sort of stew that made her mouth water. “So you've heard of Wardens copious appetites huh?”
“Oh? No, I must confess I have not.” He set aside various lids, and unstacked six tall glasses – made of glass, not metal nor wood, nor even bone nor clay – that were red and yellow near the lips, fading into pure clear crystal at the bottom. “I was unsure of what sorts of things you might like, so chose some variety.”
Too hungry to care much for niceties, Miolanai grabbed one of the spoons and scooped up some of the stew from the terracotta pot. Blowing on it once, she then shoved the spoon in her mouth. The initial explosion of flavor was overpowering, and exquisite. Making a little sound of joy, she took no note of Zevran's expression of surprise. That is, until heat bloomed over her tongue, setting fire to her mouth, making her throat constrict in pain. Dropping the spoon, she clutched at her neck, eyes wide and panicked.
“Poison!” she exclaimed, gasping and gagging as she bent double.
The assassin came to sit beside her, patting her back firmly. “Tchk, no it isn't poison. Peppers. I apologize; I was about to tell you that you should take it slow; the flavors may be too spicy at first. Here have some –”
Before he could finish, Miolanai grabbed one of the glasses filled with water, downing it in frenzied gulps, which only cooled her mouth for a moment. Whimpering, she grabbed for another glass, but Zevran stopped her, passing her one that was filled with the steamy milky drink he had poured from the silver teapot. Was he crazy? She needed something to cool the fire, not make it hotter! But anything was better than the riot going on in her mouth, so she gulped that down too.
Beside her the Crow sighed audibly, shaking his head, and slowly began rubbing his forehead in circles.
“I was about to tell you to take some yogurt,” he said, speaking slowly, and suddenly there was a spoon held before her mouth, overflowing with something white with chunks of something else in it. “It will settle your stomach, and the fire. Clear things only bring the oils to the surface of the stomach, so that they can burn your throat.”
Opening her mouth, Miolanai accepted the spoonful of 'yogurt' and found that he was right. The fire was gone within seconds, and her stomach stopped burning as well. Sighing in relief, she wiped at the sweat on her brow.
Wincing, she mumbled, “Sorry; I probably look really stupid right now.”
An amused smile graced his face, looking far more natural for the moment than he had when they met earlier. “‘Stupid’ is not the word I would choose, Warden. Headstrong, or perhaps impatient. Hasty? Yes, hasty would be an excellent word. So urgent.”
Laughing, she elbowed him a little. “Well you'll just have to tell me what all this stuff is. Where I come from, soup is soup; you just eat it and be grateful for it.”
“Ah, then you are about to gain an education.” He pointed to a bowl of small, round, blackish-purple things. “Olives. They have a sharp pungent taste. Careful of the pits; you merely spit them out, do not attempt to eat them if you value your teeth.”
Selecting one of the thumbnail sized objects she ate it cautiously. “Tastes... strange.”
“Perhaps an acquired taste, but they are everywhere here,” he said, waving a hand to encompass Antiva at large. “Oil is pressed from them that is then used in many things, from cooking to skin care.” He gestured at the basket of breads. “You use this to scoop some of the tagine and a bit of rice, and eat it that way. Spoons are mostly a consideration for foreigners unfamiliar with Antivan cuisine. Most things are eaten with fingers.” Demonstrating by using two fingers and thumb, he snagged some rice, depositing it easily in his mouth, not spilling any or looking messy at all. “We use this,” he said, dipping his fingers in a shallow bowl filled with water, “to remove any residue from the food, before selecting something else.”
“What's tag-nee?” she asked, attempting to copy his movements with the rice. The rice itself was a wild collection of some dried fruits, peas, carrots, and what looked like sticks that revealed itself to be cinnamon, when she got it close enough to pick out the individual smells.
Zevran tore off a thin strip of bread, folding it and using it to pick out some of the stew she had earlier accosted her mouth with. “This. It is a stew that is prepared in this dish; meats, vegetables and herbs are simmered in it slowly. The shape of the cone keeps the moisture in, and as it becomes steam, the top collects it, the water trickling slowly back down to the pot.”
Wary, she squinted at it. “I don't think I should eat that...”
He made a minute shrug. “The yogurt. Use it like this; it should be manageable then.” He held out some of the bread, which he then spooned some of the tagine onto it, followed by rice, and a little dollop of yogurt.
Trying it, she made a happy sound. “Oh that is good! And it doesn't make me feel like I'm a dragon lady!”
Tucking into the food, once she got the hang of it, she watched her fellow elf from the corner of her eye, mimicking everything he did. Half-starved, Miolanai set upon the meal, leaving vast empty spaces everywhere she went on the platter. The milky tea Zevran poured after she sat back with a contented sigh, patting her stomach, eyes partially closed, was sweet and spiced. Antiva seemed mad for spices, as well as decoration.
“I have... never seen a woman set to so,” he commented, sipping slowly from his glass.
Yawning, stretching as she did so, she sighed with pleasure. “Hmm... this was a good lunch size. If I had been really hungry I could have eaten most of that.”
A flitter of shock was masked quickly, but she caught it. “Ah. This was a spread usually for three or four men. I only brought so much as I was unsure of what you might like.”
“Really?” Yawning again and covering her mouth, she squinted at him. “Alistair would have polished this off in one go. That is, if he could have stomached anything that didn't taste like dirty socks.”
The Crow shifted, clearly deciding if he should hazard any questions. “A former lover perhaps?”
Snorting, she savored the spicy milk tea slowly. “Alistair? Ha. No. More like a big brother. He... he's the one who took the last blow to the Archdemon.”
“Ah.” He nodded, a depth of meaning in that single sound, then he leaned forward, rearranging the contents of the tray. “Perhaps you would like to rest for awhile. I shall take this back down to the kitchens and return. That is, unless you require anything else?”
Rubbing the back of her neck, she muffled yet another yawn. “Mmmno. I'm fine, thank you very much, Zevran. I'll wait until you come back. Twitchy sleeper and all that, you know?”
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I actually found a buncha the livingroom furniture I described on a few websites, and plan on makin' a picspam of them.... (>.>)
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