Fic: A Guild-ed Cage 5/? T for now

[1smut_princess]

Title: A Guild-ed Cage 5/?
Author: Rhion
Rating: T still
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'm supposedta be workin' on A Murder of Crows. But GZ is just too... damn... awesome. As is Zamitie. And Salvail? Fuckin' epic my friend, epic.
Beta'd as per usual by our beloved Comma Fairy bellaknoti.

Reviews will be met with squee-age. They also make my day. I love ya'll, cuz ya'll make my day.

XXX
Guild-ed 5
XXX

Squirming in the slit thigh pantaloons she was wearing, Miolanai tugged at her fitted tunic. “I look ridiculous.”

The Crow was sitting on the floor, a pad and charcoal pencil in hand, sketching. “Only because you wiggle like a spoilt child. Now cease your wriggling, and stay still.”

“It's... orange,” she observed, dubiously frowning at the tunic with its wild embroidery in gold and silver threads. “I don't like it. And whose idea was it to put teal pants with orange?”

“Mine,” he grunted as he rolled a glance up to her.

“I'm not wearing this,” she declared, wrinkling her nose at it, even as the stout, dark-haired Sula fussed around her.

Miolanai was glaring at the partially-unwrapped pile of packages, clothes spilling all over the floor. There was no way she was going to wear any of it. None of it was anything she could fight in. Granted, the materials felt nice on her skin – lightweight and cool – but they were utterly impractical. Jerking away when Sula tried to tuck her hair into some sort of weird flat clips, the Warden wanted nothing more than to pull her armor back on.

The Crow scooted from his place on the floor to the couches, fishing out various items, then tossed them to Sula. “Try these.”

Growling, Miolanai tromped to the bathroom area, and changed behind one of the screens. Sula was hovering, and hadn't made any comment about the scars on her body, but there had been a flash of surprise that the Warden had caught in the older woman's eyes before it was quickly covered. Silver embroidery in strange paisley patterns ran the length of a teal tunic, with the plunging V-neck having a heavier encrusting of threads, and blood red beads stitched in amongst it all. It was summarily yanked over her head, followed by being stuffed into a different pair of pantaloons with broad, winding stripes of eggplant and thinner ones of maroon, which were fitted from the knee down, but she found that the thighs were slit. The length of the tunic covered this fact, and she surmised that this was on purpose. Having bare arms felt strange, as did the fact that she wasn't in trews and linen tunic, but she did have to admit that at least she didn't feel like she was baking for once.

Sula draped a light, maroon scarf around her arms, tucking it so that it looped around her upper arms above her elbows, as she said, “Good look. You like?”

Managing to not glower at the woman, she muttered, “It's... acceptable... for a costume.”

The shem nodded approvingly, motioning for her to return to Zevran for inspection. Bare feet slapped the polished wood floor, Ember bouncing around her and chirping happily. If she had known that she was going to be subjected to all this, she would have stayed in Ferelden. As much as she hated the place, she hated feeling vulnerable even more. Plus, this meant she would have to depend on the Crow for all of her physical protection. Such a thing was unacceptable. She vowed silently that if it came down to it, then she would remain in the more mixed areas, where plenty of foreigners were – including armed and armored women – rather than deal with this again.

Zevran's expression was interesting – guarded, she decided – as she came into his view. “You are not wearing boots my dear, do not stomp as though you are. It makes you look awkward.” He reached out, grabbing one of her arms, and clapped a strange bracelet around her wrist and lower forearm. “Hmm... not quite enough.” The Crow turned around, fishing out more jewelry, and quickly grabbed her other arm, shoving silver, garnet encrusted bangles over her hand. “There. Now you look wealthy enough to afford a Crow bodyguard.”

“I only look awkward because of all this!” Waving at herself, she rattled the bangles on her arm at him in irritation.

Infuriatingly he laughed. “No, you look beautiful as you are. Except your manner – it is as if someone stuck a Templar into fine women’s clothes. Now, sit down, so I can put the finishing touches on.”

Eyes widening, Miolanai backed away. “Oh no. No more. I don't even want to know what else you've got in mind!”

“Just a little paint; everyone wears it.” He had a small pallet that held several small hard cakes of colors on it, a brush in one hand.

“I don't see you wearing any!” she snapped waspishly.

“I haven't left my flat, and yesterday I had just woken up when I was called to attend you.” He was crowding her, and Miolanai backed up instinctively, until she hit one of the chairs, and landed with a grunt. “And this morning, you did not allow me the time.”

Jerking her head this way and that, she held up her hands, hoping to fend him off. “Fine, then you can be the one in this getup, and I'll play the bodyguard. You'd look better in this than me, anyway!”

“While I've no problem with dressing as a woman,” he was chuckling as he squatted before her, setting the pallet to one side, twirling the brush over one of the cakes, “you are far more obviously female than I could ever look, while I am far more male in appearance than you could ever hope to look. So, you see, the roles are dictated by the nature of our births. Now, hold still.”

Wincing when he grabbed her chin, Miolanai sucked in deep breaths. At least Sula had gone to the kitchen, and Aedur was up on the roof doing whatever had to be done with Zevran's plants. That meant there was no audience to see her so thoroughly humiliated. The brush tickled around her eyes as, with delicate strokes, the Crow painted her face. She was sure she would look like a dockwhore by the time he was finished. In fact, no one could be more surprised than her when, after Zevran finished with her make-up, he moved to apply some on himself. Just around the eyes, she noted, in thin black lines that made his naturally slanted eyes even more so.

“Why are you wearing that anyway?” she asked, finding that curiosity was getting the better of her.

He hummed, looking in the small mirror. “It cuts the glare of reflected light so I do not have to squint.” The mirror was passed to her. “Take a look at yourself. You look quite lovely.”

Taking the mirror as if it would poison her, she intended to only cast a cursory glance, but she had to stop in surprise. No, she didn't look like a dockwhore at all. Or even a whore. Or like the women in Ferelden did when they slathered on their facepaints. She looked... soft.

“I look like a girl!” she exclaimed, gasping in surprise.

Beside her, Zevran laughed throatily. “I should hope so!”

There were little designs at the outer corners of her eyes, sweeping upwards faintly, as well as three little dots below her tear ducts. A rim of purple framed her eyes, with a overlay of black, and her lips appeared as if she had just bitten them. This was wholly unfamiliar. She was used to looking as though someone had slapped her on each cheek, and then splashed a tin of powdered paint on her lids, if she was forced to wear women's paints. Now, she looked completely foreign.

Fingers went to her earlobes. “Mph, not even the first holes? Tchk, we shall have to remedy that. Everyone has at least those done.”

Licking her lips, she was unable to look away from her reflection. “Won't people look at me more now?” Reaching up, she touched her ears, near where Zevran's hand was still touching her lightly. “You make it sound like it's weird for someone to not have piercings. And where else would people put them other than their ears?”

“People who look at you now may look for a little bit, but only appreciatively, rather than with any hostility,” he said, his voice low. “As for where else people would pierce,” another chuckle, and she felt him leaning in close, his breath warm and sending a shiver through her as it brushed her ear and neck, “there are many places. Lips, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, nipples, belly button...” Each place was indicated by a light touch over her face, then her chest and stomach, before his hand drifted lower. “...genitals. Anywhere can be pierced. Even your back or arms or legs. If there is skin that can be gathered, it can and has been pierced by someone before.”

Incredulous, she snorted. “Bronto shit!”

Zevran's face was split by a wide grin. “Oh yes. I myself have several, beyond what's in my ears. I used to have more,” he said, waving a hand towards his face, “but I felt I was too old to pull it off any longer, so removed them.”

Narrowing her eyes, Miolanai leaned close, and saw that there were faint marks near his eyebrows, and on one side of his nose. “I didn't notice any.”

“You weren't looking closely enough then.” The tip of his tongue darted over his upper teeth, and she felt him take her hand, resting it on his inner thigh. “Next time you see me without pants on, take a closer look if you are curious.”

Leaning even nearer, Miolanai got so close that they were almost kissing. “If I ever get close enough to look, you probably wouldn’t want me to be there.” She clicked her teeth together. “I tend to bite.”

“Ohh, saucy then?” he remarked, seeming infinitely amused. “What a little minx you are.”

Miolanai only just realized that she had left her hand resting on his thigh when it flexed on the thick muscle in her irritation. He was aggravating, and while she was aware that she herself was just as aggravating, the Warden did not like being paired off with someone so similar. And his smile was saying it all.

Jerking her hand from the other elf's leg, she went back to her original theme. “I'm not wearing this get-up. Where's my armor?”

There was a deep laugh, his head thrown back. “I had Aedur hide it.”

“What?” she asked, her voice going deadly soft.

“You are wearing protective camouflage, my dear.” Standing up, the Crow went to find his own armor, damn him to the Black City. “And will do so until we, at the very least, return to your apartments. Unless, of course, you wish to traipse through Antiva City entirely as the Maker made you?”

Spluttering, she pointed at him. “You-you-you! No. Give me your armor. I'm not going through the city like this.” Jumping to her feet, she cut her hand sharply through the air. “It's night, no doubt. I'll not traipse through an unknown place like some... harlot, with some... some... Crow on my arm my only protection!”

She was enraged, and without her weapons, her armor – she was utterly disarmed. Certainly, she could fight dirty, brawl with the best... but they had to go many blocks to return to her flat, through almost entirely unknown places, and how would she do anything other than stand by and watch some... strange, assassin, old man, that she didn't know, try and fight when she was covered in expensive garments and jewels? No, it would not do.

And he was standing there, his arms crossed, head cocked, weight balanced on one leg as if he were merely watching a toddler have a temper tantrum. “This is Antiva. Women are not accosted randomly on the street when they have an escort. Especially a Crow escort.” He said this far too calmly for her liking. “Your appearance will invite no extra scrutiny; you will not stick out as 'different', and that means no one will attack.” The Crow's movements were graceful as he made to stand closer, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “And no one would mistake you for a whore. Whores are comfortable with what they are, and every move is an enticement, an invitation. No, you don't have the capability for it. So worry not that anyone would be fool enough to approach you like that, even here.”

Torn between being offended that he thought she couldn't do something and relief that she couldn't do something, Miolanai bared her teeth up at him. “That's what they always say. They always say, 'Oh, no one would be stupid enough to attack'. Trust me, there are so many stupid people in this world that it boggles my mind. And it's nighttime – that's when all the thugs are out. Don't even try and take me for a fool.” She batted his arms hard, the smack of the back of her hands to his inner forearms satisfying when she thought she detected him flinch as she made contact with his left arm.

He had been wearing a support wrap on it the whole time. Not once had she seen it removed. Yes, the wrap had been changed, from a white one to a black one, before he put his armor on, but that meant he needed it for some reason – a wound or a sore tendon, or some such. It wound around his arm from the wrist to elbow, looped smooth like an archer's support guard. It was a weakness she could exploit, if needed.

“Yes, it is nighttime,” he acknowledged, nodding slowly, “And that means people will be out and about. Many people. Far more than there were this morning. Enough to dissuade all but the truly suicidal from open attacks.”

Snorting, her lip curled. “No, they'll be abed. Quit trying to sell me that bronto shit, I didn’t fall off the back of a turnip cart yesterday dammit.”

“People do not go outdoors when it is hot, so they sleep during midday,” he said, shaking his head, his expression firm. “Antivans are more nocturnal than diurnal. But, enough of this; sit, dinner is almost ready, by the smell of it. Perhaps you will be less confrontational with a full belly.”

Feeling like she had been slapped as if she were a naughty child, she pressed him. “My armor. Now.”

The elf ignored her as he made a show of making himself comfortable at his low table, legs crossing as he sank elegantly on a cushion. “Sula? It smells divine; I look forward to sampling today's fare.”

The woman was smiling at him as she carried a tray and set it down. “Gracias, guapo.”

XXX

Tense, Miolanai clenched her fists open and closed. The streets had lanterns out, brightly colored cloth affairs that glowed warmly on the street. Somehow she was still in the strange, lightweight, vibrantly colored affair that Zevran had shoved at her before dinner. Except there had been some concession, and the Warden had found out why the pantaloons had slit thighs. With careful maneuvering of fabric, she had decent-length daggers strapped to her thighs. And under her shirt was a belt of throwing daggers. At least she wasn't unarmed. The only other thing that the Crow had given in on was the choice of shoes. Ankle-high boots of molded leather, embossed in flower and vine designs, encased her feet, rather than the strange little curly-toed slipper things he had only glanced at before going to something else. She supposed that she should be grateful that he hadn't even tried to get her to wear those things.

Also, true to the Crow's word, people were out and about. Far more people than she had seen, and that made her distinctly uncomfortable, all things considered. Now she found herself inspecting the people, down to the very last detail, rather than paying attention to just their body language.

Reaching out she touched the Crow's elbow. “What are they doing?”

“Hmm?” There was a minor hitch in his step before he glanced in the direction she was looking in. “Cuerpo Volante. Flying body. It is a fighting form.”

There were two men, bare-chested and wearing loose white pants, doing what looked like an acrobatic act. That's what the Warden had taken them for, at first. But as she watched, after Zevran tugged her to the side, she could see that while each kick, flip and lunge made no contact, she realized that if such things had landed, the one on the receiving end would be hurting. Badly. As is, it mostly looked like an intense dance when coupled with the three men encircling the two combatants playing hand drums, and some droning single stringed instrument. Fascinated, she momentarily forgot her unease.

“How did he do that?” she asked, gasping in surprise as the shorter of the two humans went into what looked like a leap that spun him horizontally. Tattoos twisted with the motion, the lantern's light making the man look as if he were wrapped in smoke.

“The same way you fight: practice,” he replied, sounding vaguely amused.

“Why does he have tattoos all over?” She was staring openly. “I mean, you have tattoos, but aren't those Crow things?”

A long-fingered hand came to rest at the small of her back. “Look around, Mio. Everyone has them, or piercings. Only foreigners do not adorn the body.”

Without thought, she did as he instructed, her gaze cutting around the participants and onlookers. One woman had gold balls laying flat around her lips, making the already plump flesh appear even more so, and there was a man who had half his face rimed with thick black lines that curved from the top of his nose, up his cheek to his temple, while a flat arrow shape was inked in his chin. Another person – whether a woman or a man, Miolanai couldn't really be sure, from the long hair and the gauzy clothing – had ear lobes that had been stretched and were held wide by open hoops made of wood.

Shivering, the Warden felt as if she were surrounded by wild creatures or spirits from the Fade, come to be stuck in the land of mortals. During the day, she had never really noticed any of these things, as she had been too busy watching the way people moved to look at their faces or clothes.

By comparison, Zevran seemed positively normal. And her? She seemed plain.

The display came to an end and Zevran nudged her. “Put two or three silvers in the bowl.”

“Huh?” she asked, looking up at him, even as she noted musicians going about with bowls in their hands.

“Body guards are to watch the surroundings; since you were the one who was being entertained, and have no duty other than to be entertained, it is you who pays,” he explained, like it was the most logical thing in all of heaven and earth.

Which, actually, it was.

Fishing a few slim, silver coins out, she dropped them in the wooden bowl one of the drummers held out. She saw that he, like the others, was tattooed, but his dark skin was already so dark that the deep brown of the ink blended in, so much that she hadn't been able to pick out individual shapes and designs. Mostly what she gathered from her brief glance was winged skeletons.

The shaggy, dark hair bobbed along with his head. “Muchas gracias, guapa!”

Tensing at the word 'guapa', Miolanai knew that it wasn't an insult. She had heard plenty of people call Zevran 'guapo', and he had already explained the difference between masculine and feminine words in Antivan. But she was not the sort who had ever taken compliments well, particularly from strangers, and this was a shem saying it. Just like the thugs early that morning. If she had been armed she would have turned the dancer into so much meat. Yet, Zevran's hand pressed firmly on the small of her back warned her from action. She suspected he would throw her on the ground and spank her for 'rash actions unfit of a lady'.

Reluctantly, Miolanai let the gentle pressure on her back steer her away from the group of performers and further up the street. Realizing that the route they were now taking was different from the one they took to get to his place, she cast him a distrustful glance. "This isn't the way we came," she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

The Crow's gaze cuts towards her before moving on. “The city is large. You should learn it. Besides, if we went through the Mercede at this hour, we would be surrounded by many people.”

“This isn't many people?” she asked, eyes widening. They were surrounded on all sides by people. “You've got to be joking.”

“Ah, no joke my Warden. However, if you wish, we could swing that way.” His tone was light, as he continued. “It would be no problem. Though, I must warn you, that at this hour, many of those in the Mercede will proposition you.”

Irritated, she looked at him askance. “I thought you said no one would take me for a prostitute?”

One of those whiskey strong chuckles, met her ears. “Oh, they would not, but the prostitutes would take you for a potential patron, and one who is pleasing to look upon, with enough coin to afford both a bodyguard, and a Crow at that.”

She still didn't believe him - couldn't - that is, not until she glanced down an alley and saw a clear path outward toward a large square. The veritable sea of people visible through just that tiny little gap made her head swim, and it was another two blocks before she realized that she was practically clinging to his arm. Zevran took it all in stride apparently, his gait smooth as he picked their path out, delicately pulling her from the path of what he would probably call an 'admirer' who gave a low whistle when he saw her.

Shuddering, Miolanai forced herself to put a small distance back between she and Zevran. “Why so many people? I... I've never seen so many. Where do they all come from?”

“There are as many people as there are, simply because there are.” He shrugged eloquently. “This is a city, with many natives, and many traders. Some are tourists as well.” A hand was waved about, encompassing the street, they were on. “There are artisans who operate only in the evenings, when the highest concentration of people are about. Some shops operate exclusively at night, like the pintores de la lona viva who make each of us into living canvases, breathing pieces of artwork, for that is what we are, the Maker or Creators, or whatever gods you hold dear made us, and each and every person is a work of art, waiting to be made even more glorious.” His expression was thoughtful. “Every person's body is a temple, and thus sacrosanct in its' own way, and a temple is no temple at all if it is not adorned.”

She watched as he reached out, snagging some strange fruit from a boy going past with a basket of them, while flipping the boy a copper. “That is the strangest... logic I have ever heard.”

“Hmm, because you take logic as a linear thing.” A knife was flicked out, and he was slicing the fruit in half, dragging the tip down in a series of slashes that when he passed half to her, all she had to do was pull out the resulting squares from the flesh. “Logic is linear, circular, vertical and horizontal.” One of the cubes was popped into his mouth. “Do you see the people behind you?”

Miolanai jerked, hand going to her thigh, reaching for one of the weapons there as she began to turn, to see what threat he was speaking of. “No, which one?”

There was a snort, and Zevran was pushing her hand away from her dagger, urging her to try the fruit he had given her. “No. Do not look, there is no danger. What I mean to say is, when you are facing forward, do you see the people behind you?”

Her face twisted incredulously. “Of course not! I'm looking straight ahead!”

“Ah, so if you do not see them, does that mean they are not there?” Of course she nodded, but he didn't seem to care, for all he did was continue. “You only look forward, you do not look around, you do not look up, nor down, nor to the left or right, you do not look behind or around corners. You act as though everything before you is the only thing real. It is not. You remind me of a man I met once from the barbarous areas of your country, the ah... what was it? Ah yes the Korcari Wilds. A Chasind?”

“Yes, Chasind, they're... swamp and mountain folk who live to the south.” Sourly, Miolanai thought of Morrigan. “I wouldn't call them barbarians though. They've a code of ethics that they abide by, and they don't believe in the Maker – just because they're different doesn't make them barbarians.”

She had always known the Chasind witch had held her secrets to her breast, not having revealed them until the night at Redcliffe. Miolanai had understood, she had known that Morrigan had been afraid to tell her of her 'true' reasons for being with them. They had been friends, close as sisters should be. Morrigan had reminded her of a version of Shianni, if she had grown up without love or friendship. If only the Witch had told her sooner, had waited and not fled at Alistair's rejection of the ritual.... But no, Morrigan had fled after Miolanai had told her that Alistair had refused to go through the ritual, probably seeing it as utter rejection of all she was, as confirmation of all her hidden fears about Miolanai and the party, including Alistair.

“Mmn, so you are capable of having an open mind,” he remarked, nodding to himself and finishing off his fruit. “Simply put, he could not understand that there are many more ways of thinking, many more angles to thought and logic, than what he had been raised with.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, keeping her focus locked on the elf. She could no longer deal with all the noise and bustle and people flowing around her. If she tried to look around, she would go mad, she would attack, she would panic. The last time she had been surrounded by this much noise, this much stimuli, had been in Denerim, the darkspawn horde having descended on the city, burning and destroying all in its path. No, she could only pay attention to the Crow, else she'd begin to scream.

A shrug, and he tossed the rind of his fruit to the street, near a gutter. “He died in all the ways that count.” He glanced at her, and she wasn't sure, but she felt like he was measuring her. “Eat your mango. Like many things, if only you try it, you'll like it.”

Shuddering, she did as he said. Reluctantly. Being around Zevran today had been strange; he kept prodding her with words and actions like he was trying to make her think about everything, like he was teaching her, but if this was being taught something, then it was the strangest method of instruction she had ever come across. I wonder how he and Wynne would get along? She took in his profile from the corner of her eye. Probably not that well. He would needle her ceaselessly, and she would probably preach at him. Just like Wynne had preached at her. Finally biting into her second piece of 'mango' Miolanai tasted it. It was rich and thick and honey sweet.

She grunted her surprise. “Mph! S'good,” she said, mumbling around another piece that she shoved into her mouth.

Beside her the Crow chuckled. “Ah, new things can be good.” His hand went to rest at the small of her back again. “Would you like to go on a small adventure?”

“Mmph,” she muttered, devouring her half mango, and squinted one eye up at him. “Mebbe?”

“Pintores vida; there is an artist I know, whose shop we are approaching,” he said, pointing with his chin in the general direction they were already heading. “She is one of the finest, and could do your ears. Come now, at least the first holes, yes?”

Blinking rapidly, she tried to backpedal. “Um... I don't think I want dangly things in my ears. Too easy to yank out in a fight.”

“Ah, but that is only if you get 'dangly' ones,” he said, eyebrows bouncing up and down at her, his expression teasing. “Besides, yanking dangly things is rude in a fight. Unless it is naked, bare handed, with nothing but the sweat of bodies involved. Then grabbing dangly things is more than allowed – it is encouraged!”

She laughed at the image. “I don't think grabbing is a good thing to do! Not in that situation... Might hurt.”

“Ah, but it is a pain that is worth it,” he replied, and with that, Miolanai realized they were stopping at a door painted a vibrant cyan.

Before she could protest, he was opening the door and ushering her in. The light was bright, lamps reflecting off of small mirrors that intensified the illumination of a single lamp five-fold. Inside were a few small cushions, and large booklets that were open, displaying ink drawings of fantastical things, from women with fish tails in place of legs, to dragons and serpents. Even though she backed up a step, Miolanai was stopped by the solid wall that was Zevran behind her, who gave her a gentle push towards one of the cushions, and dragged a book near her.

He flipped through a few pages, before pointing to one. “Ah, there – that is something I drew for her. Zamitie has been doing this for longer than your span of years and mine combined. It is strange that she cannot draw upon paper, but upon flesh she is a magician that knows no bounds.”

“Did she do any of your work?” she asked, examining the page that was covered in flowers and flames, that twisted in what looked like some sort of runic text. She had to admit it was beautiful, and so found herself flipping through the booklet and spent a few minutes tracing the outlines of the ones that had no easily described shapes. “And how much did it hurt?”

Zevran stretched out, his legs crossing at the ankles. “Most of it, yes. Much of her business is for the Free Blades though. She rarely accepts Guild members - I know of only one other - not for all the gold they could offer, nor the threats. She is an artist, Zamitie is, and as tricky to work with as any. If she does not like your canvas, she will not deign to look at you, but her piercing, that is open to anyone with the coin.”

“Must make enough to eat.” A sultry and sardonic voice, heavily accented Common rolling from her tongue sounded from nearby. “Gato you are here. I had not expected you to return during business hours, after the last work.”

The woman was tall, and age had been kind, for she was handsome, red hair coiled atop her head in a topknot, with some twisted ropes fastened with charms and bells. That was not to say that she did not wear her age at all, for she did, it hung like a cloak of regal bearing, announcing to all and sundry that this was a woman who knew herself and the world. Lines were on her face at eyes and mouth and forehead, but it had not diminished her beauty. A strong jaw, voluptuous lips and large eyes of an indeterminate slate gazed out at the world, judging it. She was a part of the world, and apart from time.

He gestured dismissively. “It is not I who is here for your skill, but the Warden.”

“The Warden? As in a Grey Warden?” Those piercing eyes swept over Miolanai, who instinctively straightened under the scrutiny. “I thought I knew all the Wardens in Antiva. You are new.” A waved hand bid her to stand to be looked over. “And you are a woman. The Wardens know not to send female recruits here unless it is an Antivan native. Hmph.” A hand came out to grasp Miolanai's chin, tilting her head back to peer directly into her eyes. “Ah. I see. Come then.”

What does she see? Startled, but quiescent, Miolanai trailed after the shemlen.

She detected no hint of threat and, curiously, she felt safe in this parlor. It wasn't until she recognized some of the runes etched into the lintel of the door that led to the back room that she understood: magic. Was this Zamitie an apostate? From the looks of the back room, it was a possibility. There was a cot – more table than cot really – and a chair, as well as equipment of unknown usage, but it was the glyph inlaid with marble around the cot and chair that glowed, flaring up whitely as they stepped over the perimeter, that spoke volumes.

Zamitie set about washing her hands and gathering up vials, when Zevran interrupted, leaning at the doorway. “Her ears, they need to be pierced.”

“I can see that, gato, but her canvas is empty. It needs to be healed,” she said, brusque in the way someone who knew their work could be when an outsider was trying to tell them what to do. “There is much she needs. The ears can come later.”

Clearing her throat, Miolanai spoke up. “I... don't think I want any um... ink done.”

The woman stilled, then cast her a hard look. “What you want, my dear, is not what you need.” She heaved a sigh. “But perhaps the canvas is not ready. When you are, return. I shall work my arts upon you then. Until that time, come hija, sit,” she directed, snapping fingers, and a sharp gesture caused the glyph to flare into luminescence of rainbows before settling down.

“Just my ears, right?” she asked, not quite ready to sit down.

“Hija, I know my trade, now be seated, please,” she said, with a waved hand. “Since it is your first time, close your eyes, it shall make my job easier. Your Crow is there, and he is one of few who may cross my glyph,” she said, obviously noting her uneasy glance at Zevran, “as he is my finest apprentice, and he shall rescue you if anything untoward were to happen.”

Clenching her hands into fists, the Warden allowed the woman to lay her back with firm hands. The bitter sharp tang of some paste was swabbed over her ears, shockingly cool, and Miolanai twitched. Another set of hands came to rest on her - warm, almost hot - one curling around her wrist, the other laying on her shoulder. That spicy, honey musk that the Crow wore filled her senses, and for some reason that comforted her. There were no words, but there was something cold pinching her left ear. Breathing slow and deep, the elf focused on the smell of incense and whatever the oil was that Zevran wore, her mouth closed but not tightly. It was on her next exhale that something sharp slid through her lobe, cold at first then burning. Sucking in a harsh breath, she was about to yelp, but a low, soothing hum along with fingers brushing over her forehead and temples eased the pain away. By the time Miolanai had taken five breaths, and released them, there had been five more of those cold-to-hot slips in her ear.

“Shall I put the hoops in?” It was like his voice came from a distance, and Miolanai felt that if she had been sitting or standing she would have swayed. Nonetheless, it seemed as though she did, even laying down.

“Si, gato; I assume you have an idea of what she should wear?” There was some motion that almost tempted her to open her eyes, however she wasn't in pain, but some strange floating sensation.

With a soft grunt, the warm hands left her, and there was clinking. “An idea, yes. Do you think you could perhaps heal the wounds afterward?”

More of that bitter tang scented paste was smeared on her, this time on the opposite ear. “You know my thoughts on that practice, gato, but...” Cinnamon, clove and nutmeg flavored breath brushed over the Warden's face. “...This one would not understand such a thing yet.”

Under her lids, her eyes were twitching, almost rolling back. There was something freeing rushing through her blood, almost a release that came after another needle pierced her flesh. Wetness rolled down the her ear to be wiped away gently, the cloyingly sweet scent of coppery blood mixing with the oils Zevran wore, the herbal paste, and Zamitie's own hot perfume. It was pleasant in a strange way. Sighing as the world tilted this way and that, hands helped her sit back up once everything was finished.

“Ohh...” she mumbled, blinking slowly as more warmth seeped through her, the heat of palms being held near her ears. “What....?”

Zamitie's hands fell away. “It is done hija.”

Miolanai was still dazed by the time they got back to her apartment. Zevran had to guide her up the stairs and into the apartment, she was aware of that much. However, the trip back was a strange, dizzying, fascinating thing, where every flash of light off of metal or one particular show of fire-breathers, drew her attention. Nothing seemed quite real.

A firm grip on her shoulders made her sit down on one of the couches. “So, what did you think of our adventure, Warden?”

Turning her eyes on him, she had to make them focus. “Can we go again?”

This garnered a deep laugh. “Truly? You wish to return for more? Twelve holes were put into you this evening, and you are ready for more? Tchk, are you sure you are not Antivan?”

Shaking her head, Miolanai began tugging off her little boots, more like high-ankled slippers. Boots were supposed to be practical, not these thin little things. However, she did have to admit they were pretty, if just a little uncomfortable; their soles were too thin, and every step she had taken in them made her feet compensate by gripping the ground differently than she was used to.

“Umph, my feet hurt,” she complained, moaning and tossing the horrid little things as far from her as she could manage.

“Ah, then allow me.” The Crow plunked down beside her, grabbing her foot before she could stop him, and then she didn't want to stop him, as he dug his thumbs into her arch. The other elf hunched over the foot in his lap, the heat from his hands seeping through her skin as he worked at her. “Mmm, you know, feet – they are so often overlooked.”

Yawning a little, Miolanai stretched her toes and wiggled them at him. “Because feet are nasty.” She leaned down just enough so she could grab one of his thick ankles and poked at his arch. “See? Nasty. People walk around on their feet, in shoes and boots and those funky strappy sandals, or even barefoot, all over the place, in shoes that are too small or too big, or none at all, so dirt gets ground in, or sweat, or things that smell bad.” The Crow and she had changed positions enough so that he could continue rubbing her foot, and she could continue poking his. “Feet are disgusting. Even yours.”

Except his weren't 'disgusting' exactly. There were scars on the underside, thin little weals of skin, and she looked up from them to Zevran and back down again. Here was some of the proof of what it had taken for him to get where he was. Certainly there was some callus, and the second to the last toe of his right foot was bent the wrong way, as well as clipped short, the last joint of it having been clearly amputated. The long toes were strong, as demonstrated by him locking them around her fingers.

“Mmm, yes but feet – how would we get anywhere without them?” he asked as he tugged on one of her toes. “If they are not taken care of, what shall we do? Scoot along on knees and hands?”

Attempting to break the hold he had on her fingers – without breaking his toes in the process - she replied, “No. But I'm sure you have a suggestion, O Wise Man of the City!” Still fighting his grip, she muttered to herself, “More like wise-ass of the city.”

“Well, for starters, you could begin taking care of your skin, and your feet, and your hair.” Honey-gold eyes peered at her.

“You make me sound like I'm a stupid little kid, you know that right?” She growled at him, too tired to be properly aggravated, and too high off of the ear piercing to bother caring enough that she was too tired to be more than only passably irritable.

There was a soft sigh, and he was reaching for her other foot. “You are right. I apologize. You are not a stupid little child, but a foreigner who is seeking to live in another country, however briefly. It is my job to guide you, Miolanai, and you make it most difficult. Here we are; you have been in Antiva not more than two days, and already you have butted up against some of the issues you will have to tackle.” Zevran's touch was firm, forcing her to look at him. “Have a care – day to day life is a battle that cannot be won by simply bashing at things. You act as though you are a warrior who can pick locks and use stealth, not like a rogue. Rogues are survivors in the settings you will find yourself in. Attack from the sides, from behind, above – all directions are open to you. Your mind is the one weapon that can never be taken from you. So long as you have your mind, you are far from unarmed. Your looks, your body, your mannerisms, these too are weapons. Use them. Do not neglect them. Do not waste a single item in your arsenal. I cannot teach you those things; I can try, I can cajole and pester and show you: but ultimately you are the one who decides if you use them or not. Not I.”

She stared at him. “Why do you have to make sense?”

Pulling away from him, the Warden left him before he could speak. Her looks as a weapon, yes, she had used that before. She had been so often judged nonthreatening because of her breasts and ears. It had made her feel cheap to use her 'charms' that way, no matter that it had worked. Entering her room, Miolanai closed the door firmly – not slamming it, just firmly enough to give it a note of finality – and pressed her back to it. Being a woman, and worse, being an elven woman, had made her a target and given her tools to fight with, but at what cost? No, no she would much rather simply smash through obstacles than rely on things that were more curse than tool.

She never asked to have white hair that was startling against her peach colored skin, with these strange green eyes. No, she had never asked to have breasts and a narrow waist and full hips, nor pointed ears that made her less than dirt amongst the world at large. There was a reason she didn't take care of those things – her skin, her hair, her face. To be a pretty elf - to be a pretty female elf - in Ferelden earned nothing but pain. Even ones who weren't so pretty, like Shianni, with her ears that stuck out from her head comically and her fish-lipped mouth, were still targets. Nothing more than animals, in the eyes of the nobility. Being genderless was all that protected Miolanai through the Blight and after it.

What Zevran was asking of her was too much. She couldn't do it; and that was a bitter pill, because when she sat or stood next to him, she felt plain and ugly. For the first time, Miolanai didn't really want that, except, she knew no other way to be anymore.