- Before I start writing: This is a magnificent work of genius. I can see it sprawled open in my mind and it is perfect. All I need to do is write it down.
- After I open a blank document: I have two half-sentences and an emoticon. There is nothing else in my brain.
- Plays: 1,331
Alistair: So those, uh, designs you have all over your back…
Zevran: They’re called tattoos, and I have them in many more places than just on my back, my friend.
Alistair: Uh, right. I hear that someone gets those by having needles put the ink under your skin.
Zevran: A great many needles, amongst other things, yes, that would be true.
Alistair: Didn’t that hurt?
Zevran: Oh ho ho, yes, yes, but it is not so bad, in truth. If you’d like, I could give you one, I learned a bit of the art myself in Antiva.
Alistair: Oh, no, no. I don’t think so.
Zevran: Come, it would just be a small one. Perhaps, uh, the symbol of the Grey Wardens, something manly. Where are my needles?
Alistair: Uhm, maybe some other time, I’m… I’m going to go stand over here now.
(a-sketch-a-day) “Maybe I’ve been here before; I know this room, I’ve walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you” — Older!Zevran w/ Older!Warden (Laran). No context.
Pencils, touch-ups in Photoshop.
The cracks in the leather ease when Zevran rubs them with oils, until at last there is no room left for repair, more to mend than there is to mend it for.
He replaces his daggers and his boots, rewraps the pommels of the former and patches the soles of the latter.
But skin is not quite the same, even if there has been rubbing with oils enough to last lifetimes—just not their lifetimes, which could never last.
Zevran’s hands are stained with the usual; there is no need for any sign or color of blood grooved into the lines like stains in cracked leather for him to know it is there, or for the smell to linger as it always does, a handshake he will never truly shake off.
It has served him well enough, all these years.
Now there is an ache in the joint of his thumb. It matches, in its quiet way, the ache in his chest, but it lances through the ribs with a bitterness unmatched by any pigsticker he has ever defended himself against, any blood-letting he has refused to let drain him.
‘Tell me you loved me more than Antivan leather,’ Cousland says, voice as rough as his cheek.
The truth is of course that Zevran loved him more and loves him still, in the same cracked way, mending and mending until there is nothing left beneath to mend.
And even then, Zevran thinks. And even then.
- Plays: 1,959
Alistair: Do you mind you a… personal question?
Zevran: You may ask, but I may choose not to answer.
Alistair: Fair enough. Have you had many women in your time? I mean, you seem like the sort of man who would-
Zevran: I have indulged from time to time. Perhaps when my interest is not elsewhere.
Alistair: Right. Well, how do you… woo them? Is there a technique, or…?
Zevran: Woo them? Are you quite serious?
Alistair: Uhh… yes. I - I don’t know what else to call it.
Zevran: So let me get this straight. You have never woo-ed? Not once? You are woo-less, as it were?
Alistair: Alright. Bad idea. Never mind.