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peopleofthedas2013-04-25 05:10 am
Fanfic: The Quest for the Golden Pickle
twist_shimmy and zute , I know it's neither a) long nor b) A tale of The Greatest Mage To Ever Live, but it was the best I had at the moment. I'm sorry. Please to have offering of thanks for kind words in my previous post.Title: The Quest for the Golden Pickle
Rating: Totally work safe (except for standard warnings for Commander Crankypants's elven pottymouth)
Pairings: Khorren Tabris/Alistair/Zevran (background), Khorren/pickles, Khorren's fist/pirate nuts
Summary: If you stand between pregnant!Khorren and a craving, woe betide you.
From Prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8033.html?thread=40538977#t40538977 (no clicky if at work!!!)
Fennec ran a sweaty hand through his short blonde hair, standing it up, then laying it flat again. He paced in short bursts around the basement hideout, eyes coming back at the end of each circuit to take in the gagged, panting woman giving him a glare that would melt steel.
Ferrel, his brother, (his short-sighted, shit-for-brains brother whom he was going to murder and dump in the bay) snorted miserably through his broken nose and hocked a wad of blood on the floor. “Settle down, Fennec. She’s just a pregnant elf bitch. Look at ‘er. She ain’t but tit-high an’ she can’t weigh more ‘an five stone without the whelps. She was easy pickin’s.”
He turned on Ferrel, shouting loud enough to make his other men wince. “’Easy pickin’s?’ Your nose, Stavard’s broken arm and Devlin’s bit-up hand are ‘easy pickin’s’? One of those bites goes to the bone, moron.”
The elf snickered menacingly and Ferrel kicked her chair hard enough to shift it across the stone floor. “Quiet, you sow,” he muttered irritably, “or next time, I give ya the whole fist to the face.”
She snorted again and resumed glaring.
Even bruised and gagged, with her belly straining against her dirtied dress, the Hero of Ferelden gave Fennec the creeps. She was unsettling enough that the men had forgone ropes in favor of fully chaining and shackling her to the wooden chair, just in case she did have any of the supernatural powers hinted at by the rumors.
“Yeah, easy pickin’s,” Ferrel continued. “You said we need money in a hurry an’ I just saw her walkin’ all alone, an’ I says to myself, ‘That’s the knife-ear that’s the Arlessa or somethin’ up at the Keep. She’s married to the King’s bastard and sure he’d pay at least somethin’ to get her back.’ Right?”
The older pirate gave a weak laugh that was actually very near tears. “Blackmailing Arl Theirin. The Grey Lord. The Iron Bastard. You’re going ransom that man’s tiny wife and unborn child and call that easy money?”
Finally (finally!!!), his brother looked doubtful. He chewed on a grimy thumbnail as he considered the prisoner. “Well… we could pawn her sword…”
“Good luck with that,” Stavard grumbled. “That’s the most recognizable sword in Thedas, you daft git.”
“Oi, you,” Ferrel countered, looking ludicrously hurt. He brightened after a moment. “We won’t have to keep her long, Fennec. An’ there’s lots of things an’ elf’s good for.” He grabbed a fist full of messy grey-black hair and hoisted her head up. “She ain’t knocked up in her mouth.”
In the back of the room, Devlin whimpered, “Don’t put nothin’ near ‘er mouth.”
“Naw, it’s alright. Beat ‘em enough and they behave.” She jerked her head away from his hand and Ferrel laughed. “She’s got a husband and a lover, the little slut. Don’t ya? Come on, honey, don’t ya want to show off what that Antivan Crow taught ya?”
The words were like a bucket of iced water down Fennec’s back. “A Crow? Maker’s breath, check her shackles!”
The woman’s fist shot up from behind the chair straight into Ferrel’s groin. He wheezed and staggered back as she yanked the gag from her mouth. “Yeah,” she snarled, “check her shackles.” And then said shackles were spinning over her head on a length of chain and sailing right toward Fennec’s face.
Dimly, he heard shouting, as if he were underwater. When the pirate tried to roll over, nausea hit him like a hammer and he groaned. Maybe it was a good idea just to lie here for a moment, then. Ferrel got himself into this mess, let him sort it on his own.
When the world began to come back, the first thing Fennec saw was the long, distorted length of (very distinctive) sword, the tip resting frighteningly on his nose. “Nah ah ah,” said the Hero of Ferelden, wagging the sword with each syllable. She was turned to the side to stare down at him over her belly. She finally stepped back when three guards clanked through the now-open door.
“Thank Andraste you’re here,” Devlin wept.
The guard lieutenant ignored him. “Are you injured, Your Grace? We’ve been combing the city for more than an hour. Your Wardens are beside themselves.”
“Nope. Not injured.” The elf straightened her dress and buckled her sword around her shoulders. Fennec managed to raise his head enough to see the other three men sprawled on the floor and moaning.
His former captive noticed and kicked him in the hip. “They’re alive, so you’re fucking welcome, you cockmuncher. Do you know how heavy these twins are? My back hurts, I need to pee, and I left that godsdamn meeting hall hours ago, and I still don’t have my fucking pickles! And I swear on the Maker’s gilded fucking monogrammed cockring, if I don’t get my pickles soon, I’m going to burn something down!”
At the mention of pickles, tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and she scrubbed at them angrily with the back of her wrist.
Two of the guards glanced at each other helplessly, but the third, an older woman, shoved them aside. “Uh-oh. I know this one. For me, it was garlic. First baby, the smell made me sick. Second babe, and I suddenly couldn’t get enough. Arlessa Khorren, would you like to accompany me? My second cousin’s father makes the best pickles in Amaranthine.”
The elf sniffled and waddled over to tuck her hand into the guardswoman’s arm. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Fennec let his head loll back on the floor and wondered if the magistrate would go easy on him if he pledged to dedicate his life to the Chantry, complete with an iron-clad vow of chastity.
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Also, this: “A Crow? Maker’s breath, check her shackles!” had me in stitches. :)
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I also love Alistair, the Iron Bastard.
And well, Khorren is always made of Awesome, with Win sauce.
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