Ну что я могу сказать?
Заказ звучал как "глупая смерть, десфик" причём с отсутствием скорбящих.
Жёсткий стёб как-то не вдохновил, так что опять вышло то ли что-то забавное, то ли что-то долбанутое.

Три смерти Дзирта До’Урдена, или Немастерская игра

Три смерти Дзирта До’Урдена, или Немастерская игра

Всю осаду Нальфейн чувствовал тяжёлый, хищный взгляд в спину. Плох тот старший сын, что не опасается младшего. Потому чародей знал, что произойдёт, только никак не мог предугадать когда. И чем дольше тянулась битва, тем сложнее становилось ему концентрироваться на заклинаниях. После того, как он чуть не попал под удар палицы багбира, к волнению прибавилась ярость. На себя, за невнимательность и глупость, на Дайнина, за так неудачно выбранный момент, на Ллос, будь она трижды клята со своими порядками и развлечениями.
- Похоже, Дом До’Урден выиграл, - тихо проговорил за его спиной Дайнин спустя двадцать минут. Нальфейн был истощён, но сознание его было ясно и остро. Сейчас, когда победа за ними и любые жертвы окажутся оправданными, его братец вонзит клинок ему в спину, потому что всегда был слишком слаб, чтобы сражаться прямо. Чёрные пальцы крепче стиснули дерево посоха. Только бы точнее рассчитать момент!
- Всё во славу Дома До’Урден, - ответил маг и резко обернулся, отводя удар меча. Братья смотрели в глаза друг, ни один не желал вступать в открытую схватку, а в это время в Соборе Бриза кинжалом вырвала сердце новорожденного третьего брата во славу Ллос.

Всё быстрее мелькало оружие, бесконечный танец пары смертельно острых прямых мячей с парой элегантно изогнутых сабель. Белвар в изумлении наблюдал, как на тонком мостике, над пропастью кислотного озера, двое воинов, столь похожих, сражаются во имя свободы собственных душ.
Дзирт продолжал проводить своего наставника через годы их занятий, разговаривая, как в былые времена, подшучивая, частицу за частицей отбирая у матери Мэлис контроль над зин’карлой. Во взгляде оружейника мелькало узнавание, временами младший сын Дома Дo’Урден готов был поклясться, что его отец где-то совсем близко, и вдруг шальная, безумная идея пронзила его. Выйдя из очередного витка ударов, рейнджер отпрыгнул и бросил свои сабли в ножны. Закнафейн замер, его руки с заметным усилием опустились.
Дзирт радостно улыбнулся и шагнул вперёд. В тот же момент тонкие губы оружейника сложились в ехидную, зловещую ухмылку, правая рука описала высокую дугу и с тихим шипением голова отступника пропала в озере.

Дракон с интересом смотрел в лиловые глаза дроу. И неужели этот наглец надеялся обмануть его? Белый иней окутал тонкую фигуру, морозный треск сковал развивающийся зелёный плащ, и в следующий момент ледяная статуя разлетелась на осколки от мощного удара хвоста.

@темы: Drizzt

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Женщины!

Сегодня любимая женщина ходила на собеседование в образе "серой мышки": в белой рубашечке, сером костюмчике и серебристых мокасинах.
О грядущем 3,14здеце работодателя предупреждали только чуть растрёпанный, стервозно-рыжий хвост и накрашенные красным лаком ногти.
В прошлый раз за намёк сошла изумрудная тушь для ресниц...

@темы: реальная жизнь

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Это мне.

22.08.2011 в 10:25

Пишет  Файмор:

О том, как обдурили Ильнезару...)
Посвящается:  ЗелёныйАнгел

– Блестяще, – холодно проговорил Энтрери.
– Знаешь, друг мой, меня уже начинает пугать то, как часто в последнее ты одобряешь мои решения… пусть даже в исключительно ироническом тоне, – чуть наклонив голову набок, сообщил Джарлакс.
– Тебя всё время пугает не то, что следовало бы, – сухо отозвался ассасин. Дроу улыбнулся и подвинул ему лист бумаги с двуцветным, выполненным лёгкими, точными штрихами рисунком. – Эта штука тебе и в самом деле так нужна?
– Не мне, о мой саркастичный друг, – поправил его наёмник. – Прекрасная Ильнезара хочет заполучить эту милую безделушку… но мне отчего-то плохо верится, что её единственная ценность в изяществе исполнения и качественном заклятии очарования.
– Это было бы… очень по-женски, – скептически прокомментировал калимшит.
– Нашей дорогой нанимательнице подобные вещицы и впрямь не нужны, недаром даже ты в своё время был весьма впечатлён её красотой, – согласно кивнул тёмный эльф. – Леди утверждает, что желает эту чудесную вещь в подарок сестре… однако Тазмикелла предпочитает иной стиль работы и также их не использует.
– Дамский каприз, – пожал плечами Энтрери. И, ещё раз задумчиво взглянув на изображение сплетённого из тонких металлических нитей, усыпанных мелкими драгоценными камнями, медальона, с сардонической усмешкой добавил: – Должно быть, весьма перспективный.
– Ты зришь в корень, khal’abbil, – пару раз театрально хлопнул в ладоши Джарлакс. – Не находишь, что нам следует взглянуть на этот образчик ювелирного искусства своими глазами, прежде чем что-либо предпринимать?
– Не думаю, что этот «образчик» валяется в ближайшей канаве и ждёт, пока мы придём на него любоваться, – попытался поумерить его энтузиазм убийца.
– Разумеется, нет, – пренебрежительно дёрнул ухом дроу. – Не беспокойся, Артемис, его охрана достаточно надёжна, чтобы ты счёл это дело достойным своего внимания.
– Не пытайся брать меня на слабо, дроу, – хмуро покосился на него калимшит. – Я на это не куплюсь.
– Друг мой, меня печалит то, что ты полагаешь банальное корыстолюбие основной движущей силой моих поступков, – укоризненно поглядел на него наёмник. – Это… как минимум, не соответствует истине. И вдобавок на редкость несправедливо.
Энтрери раздражённо выдохнул и вперил в него мрачный взгляд.
– Давай не будем обсуждать вопрос о ваших со справедливостью взаимоотношениях. Лучше займись делом, поведай мне о той самой охране, которую ты счёл «достаточно надёжной».
Выслушав отчёт тёмного эльфа, калимшит был вынужден с ним согласиться. Из того возраста, когда он полагал себя всемогущим и непобедимым, он давно вышел – и теперь мог почти спокойно признать то, что ему на пути может встретиться нечто, с чем он окажется не в состоянии справиться. По крайней мере, справиться силой.
Владельцем амулета оказался некий Рианнон Ариан, Лорд Трясин, Хранитель Наследия, и так далее, и тому подобное. Заполучил оный господин сию вещицу от своего отца, тот – от деда, и, по-видимому, действительно её ценил, поскольку именно она была упомянутым в одном из его титулов Наследием. Охрану он по большей части тоже получил по наследству и по уже сложившейся традиции самолично её усовершенствовал – впрочем, не тратя на это излишних средств и попросту наняв ещё один отряд шнырявших по болотам вокруг его замка рейнджеров. Лорда можно было понять – и без того поколения его славных предков немало потрудились, практически лишив незваных гостей возможности добраться до амулета.
– То есть, – мрачно уточнил Энтрери, – ты хочешь сказать, что твоя ящерица хочет послать нас в отлично охраняемую глухую дыру, до которой нам придётся добираться не меньше месяца, якобы только для того, чтобы подарить сестрице очередную магическую цацку?
– Я, – выделив голосом первое слово, проговорил Джарлакс, – ничего подобного не утверждал. Если припомнишь.
– О да, дело ещё хуже, – ядовито согласился ассасин. – Ты хочешь, чтобы я тащился с тобой за тридевять земель ради того, чтобы ты смог удовлетворить своё любопытство.
– Ну не только любопытство… – задумчиво протянул дроу. Напарник смерил его ещё одним хмурым взором.
– Три адамантитовых голема, четыре гранитных и два мифриловых. Пять кабальных бесов. Полуторамильный лабиринт с ловушками через каждые два шага, по которому бродят три теневых мастиффа и заклятый на верность дисплейсер. Впаянная в дверь сокровищницы гексаграмма с заклятием уровня архимага, построенном на крови хозяина. Не говоря уже о десятке послушников из находящегося неподалёку монастыря Железный Кулак и многочисленной наёмной страже. Дроу, по-моему, твоя ящерица попросту задумала от нас избавиться.
– Не будь столь пессимистичен, друг мой, – укоризненно посмотрел на приятеля наёмник. – Я же говорил, что это дело более чем достойно твоего внимания… но с чего ты взял, что я предлагаю тебе прорубаться через всё это напрямик?..
– Ну да, мы просто вежливо попросим Лорда Трясин проводить нас к амулету, – ядовито согласился Энтрери – и напрягся под взглядом напарника, который вмиг стал угрожающе острым. Впрочем, через пару секунд дроу чуть расслабился и вновь засверкал жизнерадостной ухмылкой.
– Ну вообще-то именно это я и собирался сделать, – невинно проговорил он, заставив калимшита поперхнуться.
– Почему-то мне не кажется, что у отпрыска столь параноидальных людей не окажется амулетов, способных защитить его от влияния на разум, – наконец проговорил убийца.
– Наверняка они у него есть, и очень хорошие, – невозмутимо кивнул тёмный эльф. – Не разочаровывай меня, khal’abbil – не спрашивай, на что же я тогда рассчитываю… Это же совершенно очевидно!
– Несомненно, – язвительно прокомментировал ассасин, с усилием разжимая стиснутые на изумрудной рукояти пальцы.
– Ты ведь помнишь наш визит в Храм Парящего Духа, друг мой? – после недолгой паузы меланхолично осведомился Джарлакс.
– С удовольствием забыл бы, – раздражённо огрызнулся Энтрери. Воспоминание об истории с магическим кристаллом и впрямь не доставляло ему особой радости, и он полагал, что у его напарника оно вызывает примерно те же чувства.
– Это вряд ли можно было бы назвать мудрым, – заметил дроу и, прежде чем калимшит успел огрызнуться, продолжил: – Так случилось, что служители Денеира внушают уважение большинству жителей Фаэруна.
– Могу описать сотню-другую случаев, опровергающих это заявление, – хмуро буркнул ассасин, поняв, к чему клонит его напарник.
– Я тоже, – равнодушно пожал плечами тёмный эльф. – Однако если говорить о добропорядочных гражданах, не обременённых должной предприимчивостью для того, чтобы встать по другую сторону закона и не являющихся фанатичными приверженцами божеств, яро отвергающих поклонение их нейтральному коллеге, это утверждение всё же в немалой степени истинно.
– Никогда не слышал о том, чтобы Денеиру поклонялись дроу, – сдаваясь, проворчал убийца.
– О, представители моего народа вообще редко задерживаются на Поверхности достаточно долго, чтобы узнать о наличии иных богов кроме Ллос, – усмехнулся Джарлакс. – Да и вообще… к сожалению, пока ещё тёмный эльф привлекает слишком много внимания, особенно в глухомани вроде тех краёв, где стоит Болотный Дом.
– Только не пытайся убедить меня в том, что тебя это вдруг перестало устраивать, – насмешливо глянул на него Энтрери.
– Khal’abbil, ты преувеличиваешь, – укоризненно посмотрел в ответ дроу. – Кажется, я ещё никогда не давал тебе повода усомниться в моём здравомыслии.
– Давал, «друг мой», ещё как давал, – заверил его ассасин. И, помедлив, неохотно признал: – Однако каждый раз ты выкручивался с достойной уважения сноровкой.
– Твои слова согревают моё сердце, – патетически прижав руку к груди, наёмник ухмыльнулся и низко поклонился приятелю. – Но вернёмся к делу: в Трясинах появление тёмного эльфа вызовет слишком большой ажиотаж – независимо от личности этого самого тёмного эльфа – так что я озаботился тем, чтобы не слишком бросаться в глаза.
– Каким это образом? – скептически переспросил убийца.
– Положись на меня, друг мой… – лукаво ухмыльнулся Джарлакс.
Энтрери смерил его мрачным взглядом, но всё-таки сумел промолчать.

Тремя неделями спустя границу Аранских Трясин пересекла весьма примечательная пара. На самом деле, этих путников любой счёл бы вполне обычными… если бы дело происходило где-нибудь на окраине пустыни Калим. Однако в безлюдных, прохладных пустошах, граничащих с принадлежащими роду Ариан болотах, двое смуглых, чернобородых всадников, привычно заматывающих головы тонкими льняными платками, прикрывая их краями лица, выглядели довольно странно.
– У меня под маской начинает чесаться лицо, – негромко, невыразительно сообщил тот, что следовал за спутником, отстав на половину лошадиного корпуса.
– Терпи, – сухо отозвался Энтрери. – Инициатива наказуема.
– Эта странная одежда, платок… Я, без лишней скромности, весьма умён, ловок и быстро учусь, но почему-то до сих пор не могу завязать его правильно без твоей помощи.
– Дроу, заткнись и прекрати пытаться польстить моему самолюбию. Оно в твоих подачках не нуждается.
– К сожалению, друг мой, это не подачка, – вздохнул Джарлакс. – Это чистая правда. Почему я не мог одеться… м-м-м… поудобнее?
– Потому что ни один калимский шейх, как бы он ни был скромен, никогда не признает превосходства иноплеменника, – с чуть слышной ноткой злорадства в голосе отозвался убийца. И ядовито добавил: – Я думал, подобный покрой придётся тебе по вкусу. Столько всякой дряни можно упрятать в одни только рукава…
– Я не нуждаюсь в подобных послаблениях, – чопорно ответил дроу. И мстительно осведомился: – Ты, надеюсь, не забыл текст своей роли, о достославный Али-ар-Нуррах?
– Текст моей роли звучал как «Ну, сымпровизируй там что-нибудь, khal’abbil», – хмыкнул ассасин. Наклонился в седле, изучая наполовину ушедший в мох путевой камень, и после некоторого колебания повернул коня вправо, на еле заметную узкую тропку, уходящую вглубь болот. – А вот тебе, о почтенный Абу-Али ибн Дина, стоит морально подготовиться к молчанию, поскольку наёмный советник, сколь бы он ни был мудр, всегда почтительно ожидает, пока его хозяин заговорит первым.
– Это ужасно, – демонстративно вздохнул наёмник.
– Ты сам придумал эту историю, – равнодушно пожал плечами калимшит. – Если тебя это утешит, я тоже тяжело страдал, будучи вынужден «на всякий случай» заучивать гимны Денеиру.
– Я глубоко тронут тем, что ты позаботился о моём утешении, – язвительно проворчал тёмный эльф. – Однако вынужден тебя разочаровать – это не сработало.
Энтрери вновь пожал плечами и сосредоточился на том, чтобы не дать своему коню переломать ноги на демонстративно неухоженной гати, пересекавшей самые топкие участки.

Болотный Дом, замок рода Лордов Трясин, выглядел почти устрашающе. Возвышавшееся посреди тусклых, наполовину скрытых зеленоватой дымкой просторов вытянувшееся к небу сооружение из невесть откуда взявшегося здесь серого гранита, казалось, царапало низкие облака верхушками длинных, словно цепкие упыриные пальцы, башен. Джарлакс, задрав голову, восхищённо присвистнул, Энтрери хмуро покосился на напарника и пришпорил коня.
Ни рва, ни подвесного моста в замке попросту не было – болота защищали его от штурма лучше любых сооружений рук человеческих – так что калимшит подъехал верхом к самым воротам и, не рискнув спешиваться в топкую грязь, ногой пнул створку. Эту процедуру пришлось повторить ещё трижды, прежде чем обитое железом окошечко в едва видной на тёмном дереве калитке распахнулось и из него высунулся чей-то сизый, выдающий любовь к обильным возлияниям, нос.
– Шейх Али-ар-Нуррах со спутником, странствующие в поисках знания во славу Денеира, просят приюта у лорда Ариана и смиренно надеются на гостеприимство Владыки Трясин, – скучающим тоном проговорил калимшит.
– Чо? – потрясённо осведомился нос.
– Отворяй, шакалий сын! – рявкнул Энтрери.
– Так это ж, благородные господа, не положено без хозяйского разрешения-то… – во избежание травм скрывшись за калиткой, пробубнил обладатель носа.
– Так чего стоишь, отродье гиены, а ну бегом испрашивать разрешения! – чуть тише, но всё тем же не терпящим возражений тоном приказал ассасин. Джарлакс тихо фыркнул и, поймав взгляд напарника, изобразил аплодисменты. Тот мрачно сощурился.
О возможном прибытии гостей в замке явно не подозревали, и ожидание затянулось. Дроу с насмешливой усмешкой отсчитывал минуты: вот дежуривший у ворот солдат добежал до начальника караула; вот он убедил офицера, что пришельцы ему не привиделись в пьяном сне; вот офицер отправился к командиру стражи; вот командир, отвесив лорду полагающееся количество поклонов, доложил о людях, ожидающих его разрешения для того, чтобы войти…
Расчёты наёмника оказались безупречно точны. В тот же момент, как он театрально щёлкнул пальцами, тут же приняв отрепетированно-смиренный вид, калитка распахнулась, и из неё вышел седоусый худощавый мужчина в потёртом, но чистом мундире. Коротко поклонившись всадникам, он пригласил их проследовать внутрь.
Изнутри замок казался таким же негостеприимным, как и снаружи. Дворик был почти таким же топким, как и болота по ту сторону его стен, при каждом шаге Энтрери погружался в грязь едва ли не по щиколотку и всякий раз опасался оставить в этой трясине сапоги. В конюшне, впрочем, оказалось куда теплее и суше, и калимшит почти перестал опасаться, что их кони простудятся и издохнут, пока они с напарником занимаются своими делами.
Лорд Рианнон Ариан оказался моложавым мужчиной с тёмными, едва заметно тронутыми сединой волосами и узкими настороженными глазами. Калимшит невольно заподозрил, что так долго ждать разрешения войти им пришлось исключительно потому, что хозяин замка подбирал для встречи наряд повнушительнее. По правде говоря, старомодный, плотно расшитый золотом камзол с пышными рукавами смотрелся на сухощавом Лорде Трясин на редкость неуместно, особенно в сравнении с одеждой напарников – простыми белыми накидками из плотной ткани, под которыми виднелись лёгкие белые же рубашки, отделанные узкой чёрной тесьмой, и чёрно-белыми же большими платками, традиционными для жителей пустынь. Лорд Рианнон тоже отлично это осознавал, равно как и то, что эта кажущаяся почти дикарской простота тем не менее стоит не меньше, чем его пышный наряд.
Джарлакс украдкой поморщился: в стремлении создать образ людей, достойных общества благородного властителя, он, похоже, недооценил то, насколько же глухой дырой на самом деле являлся Болотный Дом… Однако спохватываться было уже поздно, он с некоторой долей тревоги посмотрел на напарника и невольно изумился: во всегдашней бесстрастности убийцы теперь отчётливо сквозили нотки аристократического высокомерия… которое всё же не пересекало ту черту, за стало бы оскорбительным.
– Приветствую вас в Болотном Доме, господа, – жестом указав гостям на кресла, Лорд Трясин сел напротив и вперил в них выжидательный взор.
– Мир тебе, досточтимый хозяин, – прежде чем последовать его примеру, Энтрери отвесил ему замысловатый поклон, принятый у калимшанских бедуинов. – Дозволь узнать, благополучно ли твоё хозяйство, здоровы ли родичи, обильны ли стада?
Лорд Рианнон ошарашенно моргнул и непонимающе посмотрел на степенно сложившего руки на коленях ассасина.
– Быть может, перейдём к делу? – наконец проговорил он. Джарлакс пнул напарника под столом, заметив, что хозяин Болотного Дома явно чувствует себя не в своей тарелке от его витиеватых любезностей.
– Как пожелаете, достославный господин, – церемонно склонил голову калимшит. – Я шейх Али-ар-Нуррах, младший брат владетеля оазиса Кенерат, послушник Храма Парящего Духа. До служителей Денеира дошла весть о том, что ваш род владеет древним талисманом, именуемым Наследием Лордов Трясин, и Храм обращается к Вам со смиреннейшей просьбой дозволить мне, недостойному служителю бога, и моему досточтимому спутнику взглянуть на сей артефакт и составить его описание во славу Денеира.
– Вы… послушник? – с сомнением поглядев на казавшегося скорее воином южанина, переспросил Лорд Трясин. Джарлакс, хоть и предполагал услышать нечто в этом духе, всё равно испытал чувство некоторой дезориентации.
– Совершенно верно, о благороднейший, – невозмутимо подтвердил Энтрери. – Удел мелкого пустынного шейха незавиден; с юности я чувствовал, что пески Калим тесны мне, но причину этого осознал далеко не сразу. Внимая служителям Денеира, я понял истоки моего беспокойства, и с тех пор сокровеннейшим моим желанием стало стать одним из них.
Рианнон коротко хмыкнул, потёр чисто выбритый подбородок, словно в задумчивости.
– Отчего же для этого дела прислали вас, не имеющего ещё сана служителя, господин Али-ар-Нуррах? – наконец сухо осведомился он.
– Это моё… испытание, – Энтрери, не меняясь в лице, чуть заметно пожал плечами, затылком чувствуя отчаянное желание Джарлакса принять в этом спектакле более активное участие. – Даже тёмным богам требуются доказательства искренности веры неофитов; Денеир снисходительней многих, но и для него это правило неизменно.
– Неужели брату владетельного шейха не удалось… найти более кратких путей? – в демонстративном изумлении выгнул бровь Лорд Трясин.
– В священство? Нашлись бы, хотя и не в правилах шейхов Калим юлить при исполнении заключённого договора, – в тон ему отозвался убийца. – Но на пути к богу это – самая короткая тропа.
– Что ж, понимаю, – коротко наклонил голову его собеседник. – И признаю ваше право на просьбу. Однако… присутствие вашего спутника всё ещё не кажется мне необходимым.
– К моему сожалению, я не столь мудр и осведомлён в тайнах мироздания, как мне того хотелось бы, – калимшит плавно развёл ладонями, словно – да почему словно? – исполняя освящённый веками ритуал. – Исполнение возложенного на меня долга требует просить помощи у более сведущего человека – и постараться воспринять его мудрость. Это моё испытание – но и начало моего учения. Я надеюсь, что только начало.
– И как, хороший ученик из достославного Али-ар-Нурраха, о мудрейший? – не без ехидства осведомился лорд Рианнон, обратив взор на сидевшего в полушаге за левым плечом ассасина Джарлакса.
– Не лучший из тех, что у меня бывали, о господин, – сдержанно отозвался тот. Энтрери был отчего-то уверен, что под волшебной маской тот насмешливо дёрнул ухом. – Но и отнюдь не худший.
– О, как вижу, помимо знания вы надеетесь взрастить в молодом шейхе подобающую жрецу скромность… – протянул Лорд Трясин. – Что ж, похвально, похвально… Я обдумаю вашу просьбу, господа, – Рианнон резко поднялся и, коротко дёрнув подбородком в ответ на плавный, отточенный поклон обоих «мудрецов», вышел прочь.
Ассасин сдержал порыв сорвать с головы надоевший до смерти бело-чёрный платок, прижатый к волосам кожаной лентой, и мрачно покосился на напарника. Прозрачно-карие глаза, опушённые густыми, чернильно-чёрными, как у настоящего бедуина, ресницами, были полны невинностью до краёв… только Энтрери знал, что под иллюзией они всё те же – алые, наглые, и искренней в них может быть разве что насмешка. Да и то не всегда.
– Лорд Трясин мудр и милостив. Полагаю, он не заставит нас долго ожидать своего решения, – спокойно, в полный голос проговорил калимшит, повернувшись к спутнику всем телом. Под прямым взглядом Джарлакс скромно, как подобало наёмному советнику, потупился и коротко, почти незаметно кивнул, якобы поправлявшие рукав верхнего одеяния пальцы сложились в давно известный ассасину знак «слушают». Энтрери презрительно дёрнул уголком губ и вновь устроился на прежнем месте, церемонно сложив ладони на коленях. Ожидание вполне могло затянуться – местный хозяин, словно уравновешивая незначительность своей власти, применял её по делу и без дела. Впрочем, терпения им обоим было не занимать – дроу за его спиной невозмутимо извлёк из-за пазухи богато изукрашенную, хотя и потрёпанную, книгу и полностью погрузился в чтение… или мастерски сделал вид.
Лорд Рианнон и впрямь оказался мелочен. К исходу третьего часа убийца мог уже не только назвать не слишком умелых соглядатаев по именам, но и определить, что одному из них даже не потребуется его помощь для того, чтобы вскоре окончательно переселиться в Фугу – доносившиеся из-за ростового портрета предыдущего Лорда Трясин сдавленные хрипы выдавали человека, насквозь прокурившего лёгкие охряной смолкой. Джарлакс по-прежнему увлечённо смотрел в свою книгу, заставив напарника заподозрить магическую природу оной.
Наконец Лорд Трясин счёл, что его гости достаточно прониклись его величием, и дверь гостиной распахнулась. Однако на пороге появился не сам Рианнон, а пожилая, строго одетая женщина.
– Добро пожаловать в Болотный Дом, благородные господа, – она присела в реверансе и продолжила: – Меня зовут Мэриэм, я управительница этого замка. Лорд Рианнон распорядился препроводить вас в ваши комнаты, дабы вы могли отдохнуть с дороги. Следуйте за мной.
Энтрери поднялся, смерив Мэриэм холодным взглядом, коротко поклонился ей и без лишних слов вышел из комнаты. Джарлакс, на миг закатив глаза, любезно улыбнулся женщине и галантно поцеловал ей руку. Управительница чопорно поджала губы и, вздёрнув подбородок, с суровым видом двинулась прочь по коридору. Под насмешливым взглядом напарника дроу только пожал плечами и коротким жестом предложил ему последовать за их проводницей.
Насколько бы нежеланными пришельцами они ни были, Лорд Трясин, тем не менее, свято блюл законы гостеприимства. Не сочтя их достаточно важными персонами для того, чтобы разделить с ним трапезу, он вовсе не намеревался морить их голодом – и в принесённом им не слишком изысканном, но обильном ужине лишь в двух блюдах обнаружилось слабенькое, безвредное снотворное.
– Вот это воистину добрый приём, – умилённо улыбнулся Джарлакс, сплюнув глоток вина со своеобразной приправой в кадку с мохнатым растением. – Даже отравить не пытаются.
– Можно подыграть, если ты уверен в человеке, который делал для нас верительные грамоты, – скептически глянув на кувшин в руках тёмного эльфа, пожал плечами Энтрери.
– Не стоит, – дроу невольно поморщился при мысли о столь безрассудном риске. – Сон… рискованное занятие.
– А я и не предлагал травиться нам обоим, – насмешливо хмыкнул ассасин.
– О-о, друг мой… В твоём присутствии это занятие ещё более рискованное! – тихо рассмеялся наёмник.
– Когда-нибудь я всё-таки перережу тебе глотку за такие комплименты, – обречённо вздохнул калимшит.
– Но ещё не сейчас, надеюсь? – лукаво подмигнул ему Джарлакс.
– Лорд Трясин примет вас завтра с утра, благородные господа, – почти в тот же момент, как раздался стук в дверь, распахнув створки, известила их Мэриэм. Мужчины склонили головы в благодарном поклоне, и управительница, смерив их ещё одним подозрительным взглядом, удалилась.
Уверенность лорда Рианнона в своей власти не простиралась настолько далеко, чтобы обыскивать имущество своих гостей в их присутствии. В середине ночи за дверью что-то зашебуршало, минут с пять посопело в замочную скважину и, убедившись, что всё ещё изучающий свою книгу «мудрый советник» и не думает отходить ко сну, с отчётливым разочарованным вздохом утопотало прочь. Энтрери чуть слышно фыркнул и, мельком глянув на лениво перелистывавшего страницы напарника, плотнее завернулся в одеяло.
Утро в Болотном Доме начиналось за полчаса до рассвета. Лорд Трясин, окинув наёмников ищущим взором, так и не дождался никакого выражения недовольства и, не имея уважительных причин для отказа, с явной неохотой дозволил им ознакомиться с главным сокровищем его замка. А также, после нескольких сказанных Джарлаксом фраз, и с прочими амулетами его хранилища.
Впрочем, коллекция артефактов семейства Ариан наёмника явно не впечатлила. Ассасин оказался вынужден ходить за ним по пятам, старательно выказывая почтительный интерес, и по десятку раз подряд выслушивать комментарии в духе: «О достославный Али-ар-Нуррах, взгляните на сей замечательный предмет…», после чего дроу понижал голос и разочарованно добавлял: «Бесполезное старьё». Возможно, во времена пращуров лорда Рианнона кольца и волшебные палочки, рассчитанные на один файербол в сутки, в здешних краях и впрямь казались могучим оружием, однако времена эти давно прошли. Хозяин замка, как видно, и сам это понимал, поскольку восторженные комментарии «калимшанского мудреца» заставляли его чуть заметно морщиться, а к исходу четвёртого часа он, недолго думая, с вымученно-любезной улыбкой поднёс в дар разошедшемуся «книжнику» первый попавшийся жезл и с явным облегчением вытолкал их прочь. У Энтрери не было никакой охоты разбираться, в самом ли деле Лорда Трясин ждали неотложные дела, или это был лишь предлог для того, чтобы сбежать.
Джарлакс с довольной ухмылкой засунул подарок в свой подпространственный мешок и, цепко ухватив напарника за локоть, степенно двинулся на прогулку по замку. Стоявшие практически на каждом углу стражники провожали их настороженными взглядами, и тёмный эльф при приближении к ним каждый раз начинал с демонстративной увлечённостью повествовать о разнообразных артефактах. Вынужденный изображать старательного ученика убийца к исходу часа обнаружил, что это занятие требует от него куда меньше усилий, чем он предполагал, а когда лысый наёмник проговорился – возможно, умышленно – о кое-каких особенностях одного из своих некогда любимых амулетов, это окончательно примирило калимшита с подобным методом ведения разведки.
Когда они, обойдя галереи второго этажа, пошли на второй круг, стражники при их приближении заранее начинали зевать. Заумные речи «мудреца», при всей их безусловной пользе, на Энтрери тоже навевали тоску… но ему, в отличие от солдат Лорда Трясин, было совершенно некуда деваться.
По всей вероятности, хозяину Болотного Дома всё же доложили о том, что просившие у него приюта чужестранцы беззастенчиво шляются по всему его жилищу, поскольку откладывать визит в святая святых замка Рианнон не стал.
Сокровищница и впрямь находилась в самом центре замка. Шагая по замысловатому лабиринту следом за Лордом Трясин, Энтрери старался словно не замечать якобы скрытых ловушек, подстерегающих нежеланных посетителей. Хотя не заметить дыры толщиной в палец, встречающиеся через каждые два камня на третий, было довольно трудно. Пару раз хозяин останавливался, ловко выстукивал на ничем не примечательных местах замысловатые мелодии и, выждав пару секунд, спокойно шёл дальше. С неуловимо хищным видом поводивший носом Джарлакс, поймав бесстрастный взгляд напарника, после каждой такой остановки коротко поводил пальцами, обозначая, какую именно опасность они миновали на этот раз. Ассасин с неохотой признал, что пройти здесь без сопровождения лорда Рианнона было бы до крайности трудно, а уж пройти, не переполошив весь замок – и вовсе невозможно.
Закончился лабиринт большой квадратной комнатой, в каждом углу которой стояла гранитное изваяние, теряющееся в полумраке – единственным, что освещало помещение, была небольшая, на полдюжины свечей, люстра в центре. Лорд Трясин, не обращая внимания на големов, отпер здоровым, в полруки, ключом массивную металлическую дверь и шагнул в следующий зал – на сей раз сделанный в форме треугольника. И вновь в углах виднелись статуи, на сей раз слабо мерцавшие характерным адамантитовым блеском. Дверь захлопнулась за спинами гостей сама, лорд Рианнон успокаивающе махнул рукой и приложил ладонь к стене. Отпечаток его пятерни слабо замерцал, и каменная плита перед ним бесшумно отъехала в сторону, открывая длинный извилистый коридор. У самого его начала стоял мифриловый голем, второго пока не было видно.
Дроу попытался было расспросить хозяина, в самом ли деле необходимы подобные сложности, однако в этот раз попытка сыграть на голодающем тщеславии захолустного аристократа успехом не увенчалась. Владелец замка ответил неожиданно резко, после чего, впрочем, через силу извинился и объяснил, что любопытство касательно защиты Наследия в его роду никогда не поощрялось.
Наконец перед посетителями распахнулась высокая узкая дверь с начертанной на ней гексаграммой, и они ступили в саму сокровищницу. Посреди маленькой, показавшейся троим мужчинам очень тесной, комнатки возвышался узкий каменный постамент, на котором лежал усыпанный мелкими драгоценными камнями медальон. Тонкая золотая цепочка, продетая в одну из образованных золотыми нитями петелек, небрежно свисала с края.
– Любуйтесь, мудрейшие, перед вами Амулет Бессмертия, – с каким-то горьким сарказмом проговорил Лорд Трясин, поднял артефакт и, небрежно повертев в пальцах, положил обратно. – Только руками не трогайте.
– Это и в самом деле он? – изумление Джарлакса казалось вполне искренним.
Хозяин замка пренебрежительно фыркнул.
– Вы же видите перед собой меня, а не моего прапрапра– и так далее дедушку, который присвоил себе эту штуку, – язвительно отозвался он. – Полагаю, ответ более чем очевиден.
Полный откровенного сожаления вздох наёмника стал причиной ещё одного ехидного смешка, после чего лорд Рианнон почти демонстративно отошёл в сторону и прислонился к стене, скрестив руки на груди и скептически наблюдая за кружившим вокруг постамента с медальоном «советником Абу-Али ибн Дина».
– Если этот амулет не имеет никакой ценности, – заговорил молчавший до сего момента Энтрери. Лорд Трясин рефлекторно повернулся к нему и тут же, спохватившись, вернулся к присмотру за вторым гостем. – То почему вы до сих пор его храните, причём подо столь… внушительной защитой?
– Традиция, – пожал плечами Рианнон, не заметивший, как напарники обменялись короткими взглядами и Джарлакс чуть опустил подбородок. – К тому же нельзя сказать, что он совсем уж не имеет ценности… хотя предписанной обычаем охраны он всё равно не окупает.
– Я подготовлю подобающее описание, достославный Али-ар-Нуррах, – подойдя к собеседникам, поклонился дроу. – Питаю надежду, что многомудрый хозяин поведает смиренным просителям об установленных свойствах сего предмета, а также о развенчанных либо всё ещё не опровергнутых мифах о нём. Полагаю однако, что будет удобнее вести беседу в более приспособленных для жизни покоях, если добродетельный господин не возражает?
Под полным пылкого обожания взглядом мастерски хлопавшего иллюзорными ресницами наёмника Лорд Трясин занервничал и возражать не решился, даже если у него и было подобное желание.
Оставшуюся часть спектакля Энтрери играл уже с откровенным трудом. Добыча была уже у них в руках, и переставшее казаться насущной необходимостью общество столь недалёкого человека, как лорд Рианнон, начало сильно его тяготить. Однако возбуждать лишних подозрений не следовало, и ассасин терпеливо слушал, как его напарник осыпает хозяина замка витиеватыми славословиями и с препочтительнейшим видом записывает его рассказы об амулете в богато украшенный пергаментный свиток. Под выражавшим чуть ли не благоговение типично мемнонским смуглым лицом убийце упрямо мерещилась знакомая язвительная улыбка.
На прощание «советник Абу-Али ибн Дина» наобещал владельцу Болотного Дома множество благ, начиная с милости Денеира и заканчивая плодовитостью его потомства. Услышав последнее пожелание, лорд Рианнон слегка сбледнул, едва дождавшись, пока гости торжественно раскланяются, подозвал к себе дежурного офицера и напряжённым голосом потребовал приволочь к нему сына.
– Похоже, я подложил кому-то немаленькую свинью, – по-прежнему сохраняя возвышенно-невозмутимое выражение лица, хихикнул Джарлакс. Энтрери презрительно фыркнул и пустил коня в галоп.

– Это было великолепно, khal’abbil, – почти сладострастно вздохнул Джарлакс, с откровенным наслаждением сдирая с лица маску Агатхи.
– Это было ужасно, дроу, – сухо отозвался Энтрери. Он с удовольствием последовал бы его примеру, швырнув осточертевший головной платок под копыта коня, однако выдавать, насколько ему на самом деле надоел этот маскарад, отчего-то не хотелось.
– Брось, друг мой, – грациозно махнул кистью тёмный эльф. – Неужели тебе совсем не понравилось? Это было бы воистину печально, я так надеялся привить тебе любовь к искусству…
– Искусство обмана не обязательно любить, – проворчал ассасин. – А при общении со столь недалёкими личностями, как этот хозяин болот, речь не идёт даже об искусстве. Так, простейшие навыки.
– В этом ты прав, – без особой охоты согласился наёмник. – Однако насколько бы ужасным ты ни считал это мероприятие, наш трофей должен несколько примирить тебя с тем, что потребовалось ради него совершить.
– Каким это образом? – саркастично осведомился убийца.
– Не думаю, что прекрасная Ильнезара оставит нас без достойной награды… – проговорил дроу. – А если мы сочтём оную недостаточной… Всегда существуют возможности добиться желаемого.
Энтрери закатил глаза и обречённо покачал головой.
– Надеяться на подачки не в твоём стиле, – наконец заметил он. – Может, всё-таки соизволишь сообщить, ради чего я столько времени изображал набожного полудурка?
– Как только узнаю… – загадочно улыбнулся Джарлакс. Но всё же, придержав коня, вытащил из-за пазухи кошель и вытянул наружу медальон.
– Ну как, друг мой? – лукаво осведомился наёмник, надев на шею тонкую золотую цепочку с артефактом.
– Нет, дроу, более очаровательным ты не выглядишь, – скептически посмотрев на теребившего драгоценность Джарлакса, сообщил Энтрери.
– Значит, гипотезу о том, что милая Ильнезара пыталась нас надуть, можно счесть подтверждённой, – пожал плечами тёмный эльф. – Осталось лишь выяснить, что именно она решила укрыть от нашего внимания столь… незамысловатым способом.
– Ты, похоже, счёл себя оскорблённым, – хмыкнул ассасин. – Можно подумать, тебя первый раз пытаются обдурить.
– Так примитивно – впервые за последние три сотни лет, – нахмурился Джарлакс. – И да, khal’abbil, ты в чём-то прав – это действительно граничит с оскорблением…
– Бедная ящерица, – ядовито посочувствовал калимшит.
– Ну что ты, друг мой, я вовсе не собираюсь быть чрезмерно жесток… – мечтательно улыбнулся дроу.
– Бедная ящерица, – внимательно посмотрев на него, уверенно кивнул убийца.
Всю дорогу до Гелиогабалуса Джарлакс был непривычно тих и задумчив. Впрочем, задумчивость эта была весьма знакомого свойства – алый глаз наёмника почти всё время был насмешливо прищурен, на губах то и дело мелькала коварная усмешка. То, что Ильнезара не получит добытый наёмниками медальон, было очевидно; Энтрери был убеждён, что одной только подменой тёмный эльф не ограничится.

– Прекрасно, мой милый дроу, прекрасно, – Ильнезара игриво провела аккуратно подстриженными ноготками по скуле наёмника и вновь внимательно посмотрела на добычу. – Надеюсь, ты был достаточно внимателен, и моя дорогая сестричка не подозревает о приготовленном для неё сюрпризе?
– Разумеется, нет, дражайшая госпожа, – улыбнулся Джарлакс. – Вы довольны?
– Вполне, – драконица хищным движением сжала пальцы вокруг медальона, искоса бросив на собеседника почти ревнивый взгляд. Тёмный эльф непонимающе моргнул и почти демонстративно опустил глаза на её грудь, едва прикрытую кружевной блузкой. Женщина пренебрежительно сморщила носик, повела бедрами и, явно успокоенная, удалилась в сторону сокровищницы, коротким жестом позволив ему удалиться.
Джарлакс ехидно сощурился, отвесил её спине куртуазный поклон, мазнув украшавшим шляпу пером по полу, и вышел, аккуратно закрыв дверь за собой.
– Ты жив, – констатировал вышедший из-за угла башни Энтрери.
– Ты разочарован, друг мой? – повернувшись к нему, насмешливо выгнул бровь тёмный эльф.
– Разве что умом твоей ящерицы, – пожал плечами убийца. – Прежде она казалась мне более… сообразительной.
– Глупо сетовать на то, что приносит тебе только выгоду, khal’abbil, – наставительно проговорил наёмник, приобнимая его за плечо, и лукаво ухмыльнулся.
– Уточни-ка, какую именно выгоду может принести мне то, что ты присвоил себе очередную магическую побрякушку? – язвительно осведомился калимшит.
– Новые возможности, новые места и новые дела! – патетически воскликнул Джарлакс. – Разве это не прекрасно?
– Всё это в комплекте с тобой? – уточнил Энтрери. – Сомнительное удовольствие.
– Артемис, ты ко мне несправедлив, – так и не удосужившись согнать с губ усмешку, скорбно вздохнул дроу. – Твоя суровость неподдельно меня огорчает… особенно когда я знаю, что ты настроен по отношению к предлагаемым мной предприятиям вовсе не так скептически, как стараешься показать.
– Ты так в этом уверен? – бесстрастно посмотрел на него ассасин.
– Надежда на это цветёт в моём сердце, – наёмник театральным жестом прижал руку к груди – словно невзначай, точно над пуговицей с подпространственным мешком, в котором как раз и пребывала их недавняя добыча.
– Дроу, у тебя нет сердца, – сухо заметил калимшит.
– Если говорить в смысле сугубо физиологическом, то ты неправ, khal’abbil, – чуть занудным тоном поправил его Джарлакс, продолжая смешливо щуриться.
– Ты напрашиваешься на то, чтобы его у тебя не стало и в физиологическом смысле тоже, – равнодушно сообщил убийца.
Дроу изобразил скорбную гримасу и коротко махнул рукой, предлагая напарнику направиться к дому. Энтрери насмешливо вздёрнул уголок губ и двинулся следом за наёмником, в глубине души полагая, что вскоре им в спину полетит какое-нибудь смертоубийственное заклинание от разъярённой обманом драконицы. Но, судя по тому, что до своего жилища они добрались, не встретив никаких препятствий, Джарлакс и впрямь преподнёс их нанимательнице крайне качественную подделку.
– На редкость милая вещица, не так ли? – положив медальон в центр стола, задумчиво проговорил тёмный эльф. – Действительно выдающийся пример магического предмета.
– И впрямь амулет бессмертия, что ли? – язвительно фыркнул Энтрери, привычным жестом всадив кинжал в изголовье кровати и сделав вид, что не заметил, как на мгновение настороженно замер Джарлакс, вперив ему в спину пронзительный взор.
– Ах, друг мой, это было бы замечательно, но – увы, – наконец развёл руками тёмный эльф, в безупречной естественности его жеста всё-таки откровенно чего-то не хватало. Ассасин подошёл к столу, со всегдашним скептическим выражением на лице взял медальон и, повертев его в пальцах, выпустил, оставив покачиваться на цепочке. Наёмник воззрился на него с неподдельным возмущением и торопливо подхватил драгоценность, укоризненно заметив:
– Khal’abbil, не заставляй меня заподозрить, что время, проведённое рядом со мной, так и не научило тебя простейшим правилам обращения с плохо изученными магическими предметами. Это, право, было бы весьма… печально.
– Я вполне достаточно насмотрелся на то, как с этой побрякушкой обращался её предыдущий хозяин, – пренебрежительно отозвался калимшит. – Не лучше, чем с любой обычной драгоценной безделушкой.
– Не могу не отметить, что лорд Рианнон, при всех своих достоинствах – кои, впрочем, отнюдь не бросаются в глаза – далеко не специалист в том, что касается магии. И в том, что касается его собственного имущества, тоже, – презрительно сощурясь, проговорил Джарлакс. – Ты только вспомни, какую замечательную вещь он отдал «в дар храму Денеира», явно считая её абсолютно бесполезной!
– Кто знает, может, он просто не хотел, чтобы его дети играли с жезлом пробуждения мёртвых, – насмешливо парировал ассасин. – А жрецов, если что, не жалко…
– О боги, друг мой, неужели ты выступаешь в защиту человека, которого успешно обчистил? – изумлённо выгнул бровь тёмный эльф. – Это… необычно.
– Я не собираюсь его защищать, – пожал плечами убийца. – Я всего лишь пытаюсь намекнуть тебе на то, что незачем читать мне очередную лекцию о том, что со всякой волшебной дрянью подобает обращаться осторожно.
– Как только ты начнёшь обращаться осторожно хотя бы с этой конкретной «волшебной дрянью», я сразу перестану, даю слово, – ухмыльнулся Джарлакс.
– Слово дроу? Ты надо мной смеешься, «khal’abbil», – хмуро глянул на него Энтрери.
– Ах, друг мой, как же мне иногда жаль, что ты не доживёшь до того момента, когда наша разница в возрасте начнёт казаться несущественной, – нарочито тяжко вздохнул дроу. – Это… вывело бы наше взаимопонимание на новый уровень.
– Да упасут меня от этого боги, хоть я в них и не верю, – пренебрежительно отмахнулся калимшит. И привычным жестом коснулся ножен кинжала, мельком дотронувшись до края спрятанного глубоко внутри медальона и подумав, что подобный вариант развития событий перестал быть таким уж невероятным – если, разумеется, его напарник не обнаружит подмену в ближайшие несколько часов.
– Khal’abbil, мне невыразимо печально видеть, как мало ты ценишь мои усилия, – укоризненно воззрился на него Джарлакс. – Ну скажи – хотя бы раз честно – чего ты хочешь?
– Я? – Энтрери выгнул бровь и насмешливо глянул на него. Вновь отвёл взгляд и, мечтательно и зло усмехнувшись, проговорил: – Я хочу наглядно доказать одному своему старому знакомому, что ни одно доброе дело не остаётся безнаказанным… Но над тем, чтобы мне однажды выпала такая возможность, я буду работать сам. – Он ехидно покосился на напарника и добавил: – Уже начал.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

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Однострочничек по концовке ДАА

В последнее время мне покоя не даёт концовка Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening.
Вот как-то надумалось.

- ...она постоянно торчала у книжных полок - высоченные, раза в четыре выше её, я всё боялся, как бы её не засыпало, когда она полезет за "Историей лириума" - так вот она там как-то наткнулась на антиванский роман, а к тому времени у неё уже выработалась привычка болтать с самой собой, знаешь, которая свойственна любителям подышать вековой пылью страниц. В общем, пролистывает она то без сомнений высокохудожественное твореньице, а под нос бормочет: "О, похоже, это любовный роман, судя по картинкам". Я подошёл поближе, и вдруг вижу, как сквозь татуировки на её лице проступает румянец. Это у гнома-то, из Легиона Мёртвых! И слышу: "А что такое антиванский белый сэндвич?.. Оу! Поставлю-ка я лучше её обратно". Я аж пополам со смеху согнулся, а Сигрун обернулась и на чём свет стоит меня обматерила по-гномски, даже Огрен впечатлился, приударивать за ней начал после этого, то ли влюбился, то ли ради пары уроков.
Зевран рассмеялся и захлопнул дверь в главный зал гильдии Воронов, где бушевала только что пущенная его другом огненная буря. Пара быстрых движений - и за воем заклинания послышался щелчок закрывшегося замка.

@темы: Zevran, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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Ассассины, да

Godlike

Ибо это прекрасно.

Это бесподобно.
Как же мне нравится музыка, обработка видео, подбор сцен!
Только Дезмонда уберите, он ни о чём!

@темы: Assassin's Creed

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Часть третья

Предупреждение в силе!!!

Switch by Brynneth

The vast throne room of the Denerim Palace had been transformed into a festive banquet hall. The pillars and balconies were adorned with gay, multi-colored banners, and golden tassels hung from the torches. Along the walls, heavy wooden tables offered food and delicacies from all over Thedas. Near the throne, a group of minstrels played lively folk music that echoed off the stone walls. Everywhere Nathaniel looked, nobles were gathered in groups, drinking wine and making pleasant conversation. He could feel their curious glances darting in his direction, but no one seemed inclined to approach him. Ah, the effects of the Howe curse, he thought. Don't get too close to a Howe! Becoming a traitor is contagious! He smiled to himself sardonically and drained his goblet of wine. When one particular, high-born lady openly stared at him, he raised the empty goblet in salute and gave her a sarcastic bow. She glared and whispered to her husband, and the couple moved away. Chuckling evilly to himself, Nathaniel beckoned to a servant and obtained a fresh glass of wine.
"Scaring off the nobility, Nate?" The Commander appeared at his elbow, watching the offended couple walk away. Nathaniel took in her appearance with open admiration. She wore a beautiful, royal blue, full-length dress, the bodice adorned with lace and ribbons. Her hair was piled high and secured with silver, glittering pins. It was unusual to see Elissa Cousland wearing anything except her beloved drakescale armor.
"I'm just keeping my poor, diseased soul away from their proper, virtuous ones." He grimaced. "On a more pleasant note, you look quite marvelous tonight, Commander."
She shuddered and laughed good-naturedly. "I feel like a child's dressed-up doll. Seriously, my skin is itching for my armor. The sooner we get back to Amaranthine, the happier I'll be."
"I'll second that idea," sighed Nate. "I hope Anora isn't planning on having a celebration every year in memory of the archdemon's fall."
"Eh, after a few years, the people of Ferelden will start to forget the Blight and what so many people sacrificed to defeat it." Elissa looked away, sadly. "Even in Amaranthine, they will forget how close the darkspawn came to destroying everything they held dear." She shook her head as if to shake off the bad memories and took a long gulp of wine. "I think it's long past time that they quit blaming you for your father's deeds."
"I doubt that time has arrived yet," said Nathaniel. "Please don't concern yourself with it, Commander." He stared down into his cup, the wine as red as the blood left in the wake of his father.
Elissa glared in the general direction of the crowd. "I do concern myself with it, Nate. You have proved yourself above and beyond my expectations. And these...idiotic... nughumpers... are too blind to see the truth!"
Nathaniel laughed. "I see you have been spending too much time with Oghren. Where is he anyway?"
"Knowing him, he's probably drunk and passed out under a table. At least, I hope he's under a table and not in sight of Anora." She giggled into her goblet. "Actually, hiding from Anora under a table doesn't sound like such a bad idea."
"What shall we do under a table?" They glanced around to see Anders standing behind them, cradling a mug of beer. "If it involves removing these itchy dress robes, I'm in. If it involves more drinking and some heavy petting, I'm definitely in!" Elissa laughed while Nathaniel winced.
"If you're going to remove your robes, you can do that somewhere else, Anders," grumbled Nate. "I attract enough negative attention here without you adding to it."
"I'll bet if I were Zevran, you wouldn't say that," grinned Anders. Nathaniel flushed and looked away. He was well aware that the Vigil's Keep Wardens knew about his closeness with Zevran, even though they were both careful to avoid any public displays of their affection. Secrets were hard to maintain in such close quarters. Not that Zevran cared about keeping their relationship private. It was only at Nathaniel's request that the elf restrained himself from making any flagrant gestures towards Nate when others were around.
"Where is Zev? I haven't seen him yet," mused Elissa.
Nathaniel shrugged. "I haven't seen him either, but he did say he would never miss a party, even if it's not an Antivan one." He rolled his eyes as Elissa chuckled.
Anders tugged at the Commander's sleeve. "Elissa, I have a Warden's appetite, and I'm going to faint from hunger if we don't go sample some of this delectable food. Come on!"
"Okay, Anders. Maker only knows, I don't want to have to drag your unconscious body out of the hall." She shook her head fondly at Anders and patted Nate's arm. "Don't hide in the corner all night, Nate. At least enjoy some food; it's coming out of Anora's pocket." Grinning, she followed Anders to the banquet area.
With a weary sigh, Nathaniel slowly made his way along the edge of the crowd, noting the faces of certain nobles he remembered from his youth. The Ferelden upper class was in high spirits tonight. Not only was it the first anniversary of the Blight's end, but Anora had also just announced her engagement to Bann Ceorlic. The upcoming wedding would be a huge event, and the nobles were buzzing with excitement. He sincerely hoped that he would not be required to attend. Spotting some chocolat on a nearby banquet table, he smiled to himself. The rare dessert was a favorite of Zevran's, and he wanted to secure some for the elf before it disappeared. As he started to turn away from the crowd, a flash of familiar golden hair caught his eye.
He felt his breath catch at the sight of the assassin. Zevran's flaxen hair was pulled back at the neck by a leather loop from which hung several feathers. His leather tunic was a deep, forest green with fringes of gold at the shoulders and bottom hem. His trousers were a rich, earthy brown, also trimmed down each side with golden fringe. Knee-high soft leather boots decorated with feathers completed the attractive ensemble. The dark tones brought out the molten gold of his eyes, which flashed as he laughed with the lovely woman with whom he was conversing. Nathaniel recognized her as the daughter of a northern bann, and she was quite attractive.
Chocolat forgotten, Nathaniel absently twirled the stem of his goblet between his fingers while he watched Zevran and the woman. Even though he wasn't close enough to hear their words, it was quite clear that the lady was flirting with the elf. Nate felt a surge of... something... deep in his gut. Maker, am I jealous? Zevran had not been sharing his bed for very long, and he certainly had no claim over the assassin. Although their time spent in private was quite intense, neither had expressed their feelings in words. In truth, he wasn't sure if there were any feelings involved, or if it was merely lust that drove them together. He watched the two of them closely, both of his hands clenching the cup as a darkness threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly, Zevran gave the woman a short bow and stepped away. The lady had a rather petulant look on her face, and glared at Zevran's back as the elf headed for the food-laden tables. Nathaniel relaxed and watched as Elissa approached Zevran, her back to Nathaniel. As Zevran turned to face her, a growing smile on his face, his eyes found Nate's. Immediately, both men went still, eyes locked in a burning gaze, as if a bolt of lightning had leaped between them. Nathaniel felt heat coiling between his legs, a slight tremor in his hands causing the goblet to shake slightly. A small part of him marveled that the sight of Zevran, of his lover, could so completely unravel his composure. His desire for the chocolat melted away to be replaced with an entirely different sort of hunger, and he could see a similar need mirrored in those amber eyes.
Elissa noticed Zevran's distraction and glanced behind her. When she saw Nate, she smiled gently and whispered something to Zevran. With a quick wink at Nathaniel, she walked away towards Anders, who was still filling his plate. The assassin walked slowly over to Nathaniel, his eyes quite deliberately moving down and then back up, leaving Nathaniel feeling as if he had been unknowingly undressed and left naked for Zevran's appraisal.
"My Warden, you look... simply ravishing if I may be allowed to say so." He moved quite close to Nathaniel, their size difference forcing the elf to tilt his head back to retain eye contact.
"Thank you. Your outfit... suits you." By Andraste, that sounded lame. Wanting to show Zevran that his appearance was definitely more than suitable, he reached out and lightly stroked the feathers in Zevran's hair. His fingers brushed against the tip of Zevran's ear quite deliberately, and he heard a distinctive intake of breath from the elf. It took a rather large amount of effort to pull his hand away from those tattoos, which were just begging to be touched.
"Mi amigo, you are sorely tempting me tonight, and you know how dangerous that is, given my lack of inhibitions." His voice was soft and smooth as silk. "Or are you feeling a need to mark your territory?" Zevran smirked knowingly, guessing that Nathaniel had witnessed his interaction with the woman earlier.
Nathaniel swallowed thickly. "Are you mine to mark, Zevran?" He held himself perfectly still, carefully watching Zevran's reaction to a question he hadn't even known he was going to ask.
The elf was silent, his face smooth and calm. Only his eyes betrayed a quick flicker of surprise in the brief raise of an eyebrow, followed by something very intense in those golden depths.
"If you wish to mark me, then I suppose that would make me yours, amigo." It was a challenge, Nathaniel realized. He had put Zevran on the spot, and the assassin was calling him on it. A rush of rarely felt emotion was fighting its way to the surface and suddenly, no one in the room even mattered except for Zevran. He reached out, cupped Zevran's tattooed cheek in his hand, and lowered his lips to the elf's. Immediately, the assassin's lips parted, and a hot tongue seared its way into his mouth. Nathaniel lost himself in the sensation of wet heat as Zevran's tongue explored his mouth thoroughly. He was barely even aware of his hand moving back to grip Zevran's ponytail, forcing the Antivan to bend back slightly as Nathaniel deepened the kiss, biting and sucking at Zevran's lower lip. Maker, but there is nothing else quite like this, he thought.
Awareness broke through the fog of desire, and he suddenly remembered where they were. He ended the kiss abruptly, releasing his hold on Zevran's hair with great reluctance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blatant stares of those nearby, who had formed quite a captive audience. Flushing, he ignored them, focusing his attention on the elf who of course, was grinning in sheer triumph. His nonchalance did not fool Nathaniel, however. He saw the naked desire burning in Zevran's eyes and felt the elf just barely thrust his hips against Nate. He kept his voice low enough that only Zevran would hear him.
"So now that I have marked you, you are most decidedly mine tonight, Zevran. I trust you know where my room is?"
The elf lifted one corner of his mouth. "Of course, my dear Warden. Shall I present myself there later?"
"See that you do." Allowing himself a small smile, Nathaniel turned and left the hall. There was much to prepare.

***

Zevran glided gracefully down the hall that housed the guest bedrooms in the Palace. His thoughts were fully occupied with the scene that had occurred earlier in the throne room. Nathaniel had proved to be most surprising. The Howe was unfailingly reserved outside the privacy of his room, and had never before bent from any pressure applied by Zevran. Tonight had definitely provided a new aspect to their relationship, one that Zevran found quite pleasant. A shiver of anticipation raced up his spine at the prospect of Nathaniel taking the initiative this evening, which he clearly intended to do.
Nathaniel's door opened swiftly at his knock, and Zevran entered, his eyes quickly scanning the room. Before he could identify much, Nathaniel stepped neatly in front of him, obscuring his view. He wore only a soft pair of leather trousers, having discarded his shirt and boots. The lines of his well-toned muscles were sharply defined in the flickering light of the hearth fire. In one hand, he held a black silk cloth. His eyes still burned with the same harsh intensity that Zevran had witnessed earlier.
"As much as I like how those clothes look on you, I want them off, Zevran. Undress please." His tone left no question as to exactly who was in charge tonight. Zevran complied swiftly, draping his clothes over a nearby chair. He stood calmly, content to allow Nathaniel to take the lead, a rare occurrence since the man was still adjusting to breaking down old barriers. Nathaniel stepped behind Zevran and gently tied the black silk over the assassin's eyes.
"There is more than one way to mark someone, as you well know, Zevran." Nathaniel's voice was slightly rough and commanding. "Over the past several weeks, you have released me from years of inhibition, and for that I am grateful. Are you ready to handle the fruit of your efforts?" Zevran could feel Nate's calloused fingers tracing the tattoos on his back, bringing goose bumps to his bare skin.
"Mi amigo, I have been waiting for nothing less." Zevran gasped slightly as Nate bit down hard on his shoulder. "Do as you wish." He felt hands in his hair, releasing the customary braids and removing the festive feathers. Fingernails scraped against his sensitive scalp as Nathaniel raked his fingers carelessly through the silky hair. The fingers withdrew, and small pass of air indicated that Nathaniel was moving to stand in front of him. The fingers returned, this time forming a heated path over the tattoos that twined intricately on his chest.
"These tattoos are most enticing, Zevran. Is that why you had them done?" The exploring fingers dipped lower, following one line that swirled down to his groin.
"Not entirely, my Warden." His breath hitched as one finger ran along his rapidly hardening length. "However, they have seemed to please my lovers and thus serve a most pleasurable purpose." Again the fingers withdrew, leaving his skin craving more attention.
"Indeed, they do please me. Your compliance will also please me, my beautiful assassin. Come." A hand gripped his elbow, and he was guided toward the fireplace, which he was able to discern from the feeling of its heat on his skin. He felt fur beneath his feet, likely some kind of animal skin rug. "Get on your hands and knees, Zevran." He obeyed, his arousal continuing to grow as he assumed the submissive position. He tilted his head, his ears tracking Nathaniel's movements as he moved away briefly and then returned.
"You will hold perfectly still unless I say you can move." Uncertain of what was coming, Zevran tensed slightly. He almost jumped when he felt drops of something wet strike the taut skin of his back. Warm hands then began to caress his back, spreading the drops of what he now realized were some kind of oil. A pleasant scent of mint reached his nose. The hands moved languorously, firmly rubbing the oil into his skin. Once his back was covered, the hands moved beneath him to his chest, applying more oil as they caressed each and every muscle. Against his better judgment, Zevran found himself relaxing into the massage, his member stiffening even more as Nathaniel moved his hands down to his groin and buttocks. A gasp escaped his lips as the hands moved to his sac, caressing his balls before moving forward to stroke oil along his length. By now, it was proving a struggle to hold still, his hips straining against the urge to buck against that glorious pressure. Calloused fingers circled the head of his length, teasing as they mixed oil with the liquid seeping from the swollen tip. A soft groan fought its way from deep within his chest.
As suddenly as they had come, the delightful caresses were gone. His ears strained for any clues as to what was coming next, but he heard nothing. With sight and sound gone, his mind began to notice the feel of the oil on his skin, and with surprise, he felt a strange tingling warmth spreading across his torso. The oil was obviously more than just plain oil; some kind of herbal essence in it was creating a flush of heat that followed the same path Nathaniel's hands had created. As it reached his sac and manhood, he gasped with pleasure.
"Does it feel good, Zevran?" Nate's low voice held a definite note of amusement.
"You are truly devious, my Warden." Zevran dug his fingers into the fur of the rug as the tingling intensified.
"More than you know." Tracking Nate's voice told him that the man was now standing behind him. "You see, the oil has quite a pleasant effect on unbroken skin, but when cuts are applied, it creates quite a different sensation." Before Zevran had a chance to really think about this, there a was a hiss of rent air followed by a flash of fire across his back. Unprepared, his body jerked with the sudden pain.
"Hmm... disobeying me already, Zevran? You should know that will only increase your punishment." Another lash and pain flared across his shoulders, but this time he was ready and willed his muscles to stillness. Within seconds, he began to understand Nathaniel's comment about the oil. Where the whip had fallen, his saturated skin had begun to burn, much more so than was normal with a whipping. The previously soothing warmth transformed into a raging fire that grew with each passing second as the oil settled into the welt. Beads of sweat laced Zevran's brow, but he remained immobile.
The whipping began in earnest then. Nathaniel was methodical and quite relentless. Each lash moved across his back in increments, never overlaying a previous welt. By the time the whip had reached his buttocks, Zevran was clenching his fists as the welts flared into flames across his slick skin. Not unsurprisingly, his erection grew with the pain, drops of precum falling to the rug below. The whipping ceased but the fire across his back actually increased as the lacerations continued to absorb the oil. There was no relief, no escape from the searing pain.
"Turn over onto your back, arms out to the side and legs spread." Trembling just a little from the strain, Zevran obeyed, flinching as the soft fur rubbed against his welts, irritating them further. This position left him completely vulnerable, and he was acutely aware of the untouched oil on his sac and member. Fingernails dragged over his engorged length and probed into the slit at the tip. His control slipped, and his hips bucked, seeking friction.
"Nathaniel... please." His whisper was hoarse with need.
The fingernails continued their slow torture. "Surely, you can't expect me to spare even this part of you? Or are you begging for me to give it equal attention? What do you wish, Zevran?"
The assassin licked his lips, his head tilting back in pleasure as Nathaniel again probed the sensitive slit. "Do not... spare me."
"Very well." The fingers withdrew. "You may move if you have to, but you will keep your legs and arms spread and you will not come." He felt Nate's hand fist into his loose hair, pulling his head back. Something soft and supple trailed across his throat to his lips. He felt a hot tongue flick against the tip of his ear. "I want to see you dance for me, Zevran," whispered Nate.
Then the sensual torture began again. This smaller whip was made of softer leather, but the stinging was every bit as intense as the oil seeped into the small cuts left on his cock. Zevran surrendered his control to the pain and writhed mindlessly beneath the assault, barely even aware of the hot tears that wet his blindfold. Pleasure and pain blended together in an endless, exquisite fire that burned to his very core. His back arched again and again with each lash, his moans becoming pants as the growing heat built in intensity, bringing him to the very edge.
"Nate, I can't... " His words were barely coherent as his restraint began to unravel. Immediately, the whipping stopped, and his blindfold was ripped away. The light from the nearby fire flickered across the shadows of his lover's face hovering above him. The burning need in Nathaniel's eyes was so intense, it actually caused Zevran to still for a moment. Surprisingly gentle fingers brushed at the wet tracks on his cheeks.
"Zev..." That one word carried so much feeling, it tore through to Zevran's soul. Dominance gave way to tenderness as Nate's lips met his and a probing tongue entered his mouth. Nate pressed his body against Zevran's, and the assassin realized that at some point Nathaniel had shed his pants. His hardness brushed against Zevran's tortured member, and they both gasped. Zevran returned the kiss fervently, his tongue caressing Nathaniel's lips, his hands burying themselves in Nate's dark hair. With a desperate groan, Nathaniel sat up quickly and reached for the same oil he had used earlier. After coating two fingers, he slid them inside Zevran and began to slowly stroke and stretch the assassin's entrance. The contrast between the fire encompassing his member and the soothing, penetrating warmth behind was almost too much to bear. Zevran tasted sharp copper as he bit into his lower lip, fighting his need to release. Finally, the probing fingers withdrew, leaving him devastatingly empty and wanting.
Nathaniel's hands shook as he swiftly slicked his cock, eyes closing in pleasure as the warmth caused his erection to swell even more. Pushing Zevran's knees to his chest, he ran his fingernails along the red stripes marking Zevran's buttocks, briefly admiring his work. The assassin groaned, his fists pulling at the bed sheets. Nathaniel drank in the sight of his lover, relishing the sight of Zevran driven to such submission, his every gasp and moan begging for the sweet release that only Nathaniel had the power to give. After being at Zevran's mercy for the past several weeks, it was gratifying to know that he could push the assassin to the same depths of desire that he had experienced at Zevran's hands.
A snippet of memory threaded through the haze of his desire: if you wish to mark me, then I suppose that makes me yours. With a growl of possessiveness, Nathaniel thrust roughly into his lover. Tight heat clenched around his member pulling him deeply inside, and Zevran's head fell back, mouth agape in silent ecstasy. Nathaniel gave him no mercy, but set a hard, almost violent pace. As they drew close to the edge, Nathaniel paused, leaning forward to whisper hoarsely in the elf's ear.
"You are mine, Zevran." He reached down and grasped Zevran's length firmly. The elf shuddered, his body struggling to hold back until he was given permission to release.
"Si, querido. Si!" Nathaniel closed his eyes at the Antivan endearment. He had learned some small amount of Antivan during his time in the Free Marches. Leaning forward, he tenderly kissed the hollow of Zevran's neck, then whispered quietly in the assassin's ear.
"Come for me, Zevran. Show me that you are mine." He gave Zevran's cock one long firm stroke.
Zevran convulsed, a hoarse cry wrenched from his throat as his length jerked in Nathaniel's hand and spurted. As his lover's muscles spasmed in pleasure around his member, Nathaniel moaned and thrust hard twice, coming so violently that it left him gasping for air. For several moments the two remained locked together, just breathing through the aftershocks of their orgasms. Nate withdrew gently and stood slowly, struggling to still his shaky legs. Zevran collapsed, gazing languidly up at his lover, eyes still glazed. Suddenly grinning, Nathaniel reached down and swiftly scooped a startled Zevran into his arms. The elf raised one eyebrow at him.
"So, is this where I bat my eyelashes and thank you for saving me from the dragon?" Nate laughed and moved to the corner of his room, where Zevran noticed for the first time that the tub was already filled with clean water.
"No, but I'll keep it in mind when we find a dragon to kill." Still smiling, he placed Zevran carefully in the water, which was surprisingly still warm. "I may be devious, but I don't intend to leave you suffering, Zev." Nate reached for a soft cloth and some scented soap, and gently began bathing the stinging oil from his lover. Zevran relaxed and allowed Nathaniel to wash and massage his skin, but his eyes watched Nate with an intensity that caused Nathaniel to skittishly avert his gaze from meeting those probing amber eyes. After he had finished, he gestured for Zevran to step out and proceeded to dry him off with a towel, accompanied by casual caresses. Then he reached for some poultices to place on Zevran's welts, but the assassin shook his head and grabbed Nate's arm. Pulling him close, the elf reached up and cupped Nathaniel's cheek, forcing Nate to meet Zevran's eyes.
"Leave it, Nathaniel. When my lover is passionate enough to leave marks on me, I prefer to keep them as a gift. And I rather hope there will be many more nights such as this. Am I wrong to think you agree?" His eyes were searching, and Nate's pulse quickened.
"Have you ever been wrong about me yet?" Hesitantly, Nathaniel stepped closer and wrapped an arm around Zevran's waist. "I would like you to stay at Vigil's Keep with the Wardens, Zev." He smiled somewhat shyly. "Actually, I mean that I want you to stay with me."
"Our dear Commander has seemed happy with my work with the recruits, and you have been a most welcome diversion." Smiling warmly, Zevran buried his fingers in Nate's hair and pulled him down for a kiss. "I don't plan on going anywhere without you, mi querido."

@темы: Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran, Nathaniel, в запас

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Пейринг редкий.

Предупреждение: там секс!

Heirloom, Honor by Brynneth

Nathaniel leaned casually against the wall of the courtyard with his arms crossed. The last rays of the summer sun burst between the towers of Vigil's Keep to light the practice field in the center. Two figures leaped and dodged through swirling dust motes, performing an intricate dance with leather and steel. One figure was tall and stocky, his short hair glowing a golden red in the late afternoon sun. He wielded a longsword and shield that rang with the shrieks of metal against metal. The second man was short, lean, and boasted pointed ears and long, radiant, amber hair that matched his eyes, which flashed as brightly as his whirling daggers. Both men were stripped to the waist, the taller one with a broad, pale, muscular chest covered with fine blond hair. The elf was deeply tanned, his chest hairless and covered with an amazing display of dark swirling tattoos that circled around to his back and below his waist. They made quite a magnificent sight, although only Nathaniel was nearby to appreciate it.
He had met Alistair shortly after the destruction of Amaranthine, when the Warden Second-in-Command had arrived to help the Warden Commander rebuild the city and Keep. Seemingly jovial and friendly, the warrior obviously still carried grudges from the time of the Blight. When Alistair had discovered that he was a Howe, his face had reddened in self-righteous anger, and Nathaniel had been prepared for a fight. The Warden Commander intervened, however, and assured Alistair that Nathaniel was not like his traitorous father. After a few weeks of tension, the two had warily started practicing together and eventually developed a bond of respect, if not friendship. Zevran was still newly arrived to the Keep, having appeared two weeks ago to offer his assistance to the Warden Commander. Nathaniel was shocked to learn that Zevran was not being required to undergo the Joining. Apparently, he had some sort of agreement with the Commander to assist with training new recruits, even though he was not officially a Warden.
Something about the elf interested Nathaniel, although he had yet to pinpoint exactly what. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to breeze through life as if he was unconcerned about anything. Always he was smiling, lacing his words with witty humor, regardless of the situation. On his first night at the Keep, he had wasted no time in commenting on the relationship between the Commander and Anders, which was known only to a select few within the Keep. He had leered and flirted with both of them, actually asking to join them for the night, and neither had seemed shocked by his behavior. Alistair had simply shook his head and remarked to Nathaniel in a whisper that he knew it wouldn't take Zevran long to begin propositioning people. Laughing, he had warned Nathaniel to check his bed every night before turning in.
Certainly, the elf was undeniably attractive. At one time, long ago, he might have allowed himself to think of Zevran in a sexual way. But Rendon Howe was notoriously intolerant of anything he considered to be against the natural order of things. This included same-sex relationships as well as the status of elves. Only once had the young Nathaniel allowed himself to indulge in his desires, and his father had caught him in the unfortunate arms of an elven servant friend. The servant was beheaded and Nathaniel had not been able to sit or lay down without pain for a week. Never again did he allow himself to be tempted. Rendon's disappointment in him had hurt worse than the whip. His father had been his god, which made the time after the Blight all the more painful when the elder Howe's traitorous deeds finally came to light. But with the Commander's help, he had established his own honor, that someday would hopefully overshadow the evil done by his father.
Alistair's hearty laugh rang through the courtyard as he bowed wearily to Zevran, signaling an end to their sparring.
"Well, at least I'm getting better! I can last longer against you than I used to." The large warrior shook his head ruefully as Zevran chuckled.
"Indeed, my friend. But you must realize that defeating me may always be beyond your reach." He smirked at Alistair. "However, my bed is most certainly not, and I would be happy to spar with you there as well."
Alistair blushed and shook his head. "You never give up, do you?"
"Giving up is not a skill I'm acquainted with, dear warrior." He turned his head and met Nathaniel's dark eyes with his own. "However, if you are ceding this day's fight to me, perhaps our rogue friend over here would like to take over your side of the fight?"
Nathaniel pushed himself off the wall and leisurely strode over to the two men. "I don't believe I've yet had the pleasure. I admit that my melee skills are somewhat lacking in comparison to my bowmanship, but I would certainly be willing to test myself against you."
Alistair laughed. "Good luck, Nate. He may appear small, but he's like lightning on his feet. You two enjoy yourselves. I'm heading for a nice, relaxing bath." Grinning, he moved off to the Keep. Zevran turned his attention to Nathaniel, smirking.
"So, my good Warden. Shall we? Perhaps you would remove your armor top so that we may be on equal footing?" He raked his eyes suggestively down Nathaniel's body. A faint heat pulsed low in Nathaniel's stomach. He kept his face carefully blank, however, as he removed his top to reveal a slim but muscular chest, dark hair trailing from his pectoral muscles down to his belly. Was that a gleam of appreciation in Zevran's eyes? Andraste's ass, but he would not lose control with this elf. Slightly baring his teeth, he drew his own daggers and assumed a ready stance.
Zevran grinned and without any warning, lashed out quickly with one dagger, forcing Nathaniel to take a step back in surprise. Maker, but he was fast. Alistair certainly hadn't been lying. Angry at his lapse of attention, he flew in a whirlwind of slicing cuts towards his opponent. But Zevran calmly, almost leisurely blocked his blades, sending him back with a ferocious counterattack. Back and forth, they lunged and parried, daggers occasionally drawing a minor slash of blood. Both were swiftly covered with slick sweat, and with a few flicks of his wrists, Zevran had disarmed Nathaniel, sending the taller man's daggers flying. Not to be easily bested, Nathaniel saw an opening and lunged for Zevran's ankles pulling the elf's legs out from under him. The two rolled in the dirt, grappling for control of Zevran's daggers. Nathaniel managed to grab Zevran's wrist and bent it back, forcing the elf to release one dagger. But he forgot to keep his attention on Zevran's legs, and the assassin quickly brought a knee up to Nathaniel's hip and shoved, using the momentum to roll over top of the other man. Nathaniel closed his eyes as he felt Zevran's dagger pressed against his ribs, the elf's other hand buried in his hair pulling his head back. Well, that was shamefully fast. Obviously I need to brush up on my melee skills, Nathaniel thought, disgusted with himself.
A deep chuckle sounded above him, and he opened his eyes to see amber ones very close to his own. Both were breathing heavily, and he could smell a faint scent of lemon and ginger on Zevran's breath. He was also acutely aware of the elf's body pressing against his own and grit his teeth against the heat that sought to claim him. Control, he thought, it's all about control.
"Hmm," Zevran's voice was like the chocolat he had sampled in the Free Marshes: dark, smooth, exotic. "Now this is interesting. I must confess that I've spent the last two weeks imagining you in exactly this position. Not surrounded by dirt, however." He chuckled softly and drew away the dagger but did not remove his hand from Nathaniel's hair, nor did he pull away.
Anger mixed with the heat inside Nathaniel. "If you have been so anxious to best me in battle, you could have simply asked me sooner. I assure you that next time, we will use bows, and then we shall see who concedes defeat," he growled at the elf.
Zevran raised his eyebrows. "Actually, I have been watching you on the archery field, and I already know I cannot hope to best your considerable skill with the bow. Which is why I invited you to trade blows with me today. It was the easiest way to get you in . . . ah . . . a more intimate position." His burning eyes and smirking lips left no doubt as to what he was suggesting. His fingers in Nathaniel's hair scratched lightly against the scalp, forcing a slight hitch in the larger man's breath. Another wave of heat emanated from low in Nathaniel's belly, and he could feel the elf's pelvis pressing harder against his own. No, he thought wildly, I am not like that, not anymore! I have conquered those desires! He felt panic in the back of his throat and looked away from the Antivan's smoldering eyes.
Zevran hesitated in sudden concern. What was going on here? For the last two weeks, he had noticed Nathaniel subtly staring at him whenever he thought Zevran wasn't looking. He had recognized the hidden hunger in those dark eyes, for how often had he seen that look from others who wished to bed him? For himself, he found the rogue with his sharp tongue and his dark moods quite intriguing. Anger usually transformed into intense passion in a more intimate setting, and Zevran greatly desired to feel that intensity directed toward himself. The other rogue was clearly trying to conceal his interest, but Zevran had thought it was from a simple reluctance to display his feelings publicly. For days, he had been seeking a way to initiate some kind of private, physical contact in the hope of drawing Nathaniel's desire to the surface. But now, as he closely watched the emotions in the other man, there was obviously some internal turmoil going on here. Nathaniel was clearly fighting against his emotions, and Zevran intended to discover why.
"My dear Warden, am I making you uncomfortable?" Zevran kept his voice low and soothing, hoping to calm the rogue below him.
"I do not desire this intimacy, elf," Nathaniel growled between clenched teeth. "You are sorely mistaken if you believe that this could possibly interest me." His voice dripped with venom.
"Hmm. . ." Zevran rubbed his pelvis just slightly against Nathaniel's growing hardness. "Your body seems to be telling me otherwise. Are you quite sure?" His fingers left the rogue's hair and tenderly stroked Nathaniel's cheek. The gesture was almost affectionate, and this was more than Nathaniel could bear. Using his anger for strength, he shoved the elf off, quickly coming to his feet and snatching up his daggers. Zevran merely remained sitting in the dirt, looking up at him, eyes filled with concern.
"Nathaniel," the Antivan slurred out the name with a thick, enticing accent. "Truly, I did not mean to offend. I simply wished to return an interest I was sure I felt from you. If I miscalculated, I offer a sincere apology."
"Just stay away from me, elf," Nathaniel hissed. "I assure you I do not feel any interest." With that, he turned sharply on his heel and left the yard. Zevran watched him leave, brow furrowed in thought. Hmmm, he denies it, but there was definitely something there. He stood and brushed himself off absently. This one will take some effort, but the result may be well worth it. Humming softly, he sauntered off to the Keep, plans unfolding in his head.

***

The next day, Nathaniel avoided Zevran, spending most of the day at the archery field, sinking arrow after arrow in the practice targets. He purposely focused his thoughts on the accuracy of his aim and the perfection of his stance. He tried to forget the encounter with Zevran, but anger kept pushing his feelings to the surface. Finally giving in to his frustration, he tried to picture Zevran's face as the target, but it was quickly replaced by the image of his father, squinting eyes glaring at him over a hooked nose. Damn you, he thought bitterly. Thanks to you, I can't even look at myself without being disgusted. Is that why you sent me away to the Free Marches, Father? Because you despised me and what I was? Again and again, he shot arrows straight and true into the judgmental eyes of Rendon Howe. Finally, as the sun was setting, he dragged his weary body to the Keep's baths to soak his exhausted muscles and wash away the bitterness.
Finally drained of his fury, he dried off and wrapped a towel around his hips. His wet hair left dark spots on the stone floor as he made his way down the hall to his room. He did not keep his room locked since there was nothing there of any consequence to be stolen. Nothing except his family heirlooms, but no one else would want to keep something with the sullied name of Howe inscribed on it. He sighed. Someday, he would redeem his family's honor. Joining the Wardens was the first step to achieving this goal. He would follow in his grandfather's footsteps and avoid the mistakes of his father.
As Nathaniel entered the cold room, his attention was caught by a brightly wrapped box on the table next to his bed. What was this? It hadn't been there earlier before he left for the baths. Obviously, someone had entered his room and left it here, but who? Carefully, he picked up the box and examined it for any sign of a trap or poison. It wasn't heavy and didn't seem threatening in any way. Slowly, he slid a finger through the wrapping paper and removed it, tossing the paper to the floor. He found himself staring at the back of a picture frame and curiously turned it over. Oh Maker, he gasped.
It was an old, faded portrait of a smiling, dark-haired woman dressed in a fancy gown befitting a noble. His mother. She had died when he was only ten, but he still remembered that face, that sweet smile. Rendon had kept no pictures of his wife after her death, so Nathaniel had only memories. His fingers slowly caressed the canvas reverently.
"She was a lovely woman." The quiet, velvet voice came from behind him, and he whirled around. Zevran was stepping out from behind the armoire, dressed simply in a dark green tunic overlaying soft brown leather pants, belted at the waist. "I can see the resemblance in your eyes and your cheekbones."
"Did you leave this?" questioned Nathaniel. He was acutely aware that he was wearing only a towel.
"Yes. I hope you don't mind me entering your room without permission, but you did leave your door unlocked. Really, you should be more careful." He smiled disarmingly, and the green of his shirt emphasized the golden sheen of his eyes.
"Where did you get it?" His voice sounded harsh and accusing to his own ears, and he found himself regretting that tone. Maybe he did need to learn to relax more, but the Antivan was exceptionally skilled at getting under his skin and into places best left forgotten.
"The Commander sent me to the estate of one of the Banns last week, and I noticed this portrait in his home. He informed me that it was the late Elaine Howe, wife to Rendon Howe. He said she was a most delightful woman, and that it was a pity that she died young. Today, I went back to the estate and asked if I could perhaps purchase the portrait. But the good gentleman was kind enough to give it to me for free when I informed him that it was a gift for you. Apparently, not all nobles despise the Howe name. He said to tell you that the sins of the father need not dictate the path of the son."
Nathaniel stared back down at the picture. He was finding it curiously hard to swallow at that moment. "Thank you, Zevran," he said haltingly. "Really. This means . . . a lot to me."
"Please, call me Zev. And it's the least I can do for offending you yesterday. Truly, that was not my intent." The elf stepped closer, lifting his eyes to Nathaniel's. Really, those amber orbs were quite mesmerizing. Dammit, he needed clothes. This towel was making him feel too vulnerable.
"It's . . . okay. Perhaps, I overreacted a little. I tend to have somewhat of a temper. And call me Nate. Please." He returned Zev's gaze levelly, trying not to notice how close the elf was standing now. He could almost feel the heat emanating from that lithe, tanned form.
"Of course, Nate." Zevran smiled brightly and touched his arm tentatively. "Again, I apologize for misreading you. I'm not usually wrong, but in your case . . ." he shrugged offhandedly. Nathaniel felt himself flushing. Maker, help me. He closed his eyes briefly, then took a deep breath.
"It's not that you were wrong. But . . . " He struggled to get the words out. He wanted Zevran to understand; he owed the elf that much. "You see . . . my father, he didn't approve of certain things. Once he discovered exactly what my . . . tendencies were, he made sure he put a stop to it." He looked up to see concern in Zevran's eyes and looked away. "I have taught myself to not feel those kind of desires. Do you understand?" There, I've said it. Maybe now he will keep his distance.
Zevran reached up and very lightly touched Nate's cheek. "Yes, I do. I have encountered this before, especially in Ferelden. Other countries are more tolerant. My dear Warden, you have been deprived of a pleasure that is perfectly normal. There is nothing evil or wrong with sharing yourself with someone, whether it be man or woman. You should not deny yourself of this desire. Life is short, and pleasures are meant to be shared."
Nathaniel swallowed against the pain in his chest. For so long he had felt that his wishes were wrong, had bedded women to satisfy his father, to win the elder Howe's approval. But Rendon Howe was dead, and the son was free to make his own choices. Would it truly be okay to just give in for a change, to allow himself to feel what he had buried in his past? He met Zevran's gaze with pleading eyes. Help me. I don't know what to do. His fists clenched in frustration.
Gently, Zev reached out and took Nate's hands in his own, smoothing the fists and relaxing Nate's fingers. Idly, he stroked the rogue's roughened palms with calloused thumbs. "So much fury is not good for the soul, mi amigo. Always I can see the tension in you. Do you not tire of all this . . . brooding?" He cocked his head thoughtfully at Nate. "Let me ask you a simple question. What do you feel when you look at me? Right now?"
Nate could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. No more lies. "I want . . ." He took a deep breath. "I want to touch you." He didn't look away as he said this and saw Zevran smile. Slowly, the elf raised Nate's hand and placed it against his tattooed cheek. Nate gasped slightly. So warm. Tentatively, he raised his other hand to touch Zev's silky blond hair. The elf closed his eyes and with a soft hum, turned his cheek into Nate's palm. The taller man shivered, and ran his thumb down the tattoo, following it to Zevran's jaw. The heat inside him was coiling tightly, and he slowly let himself give in to it. This is not wrong, and it never was. How could I have believed this? Leaning forward, he hesitantly brushed his lips against the elf's.
To his surprise, Zevran parted his lips and slipped a hot tongue into Nate's mouth. Holy Maker. Nathaniel reached his hand into that golden hair and wrapped his palm around the base of Zevran's skull. His tongue met Zev's, and he stroked the elf's scalp with just the edge of his nails. The Antivan rewarded him with a soft moan that vibrated against Nate's lips. He imitated Nate's move, lightly scratching the nape of Nathaniel's neck. With a groan, Nate's hips pressed forward involuntarily against the elf, and he felt Zev's hardness beneath the soft leather. He broke the kiss and lay his forehead against Zevran's, breathing hard.
"It has been a long time since . . . since I've been with another man. I'm really not experienced . . ."
Zevran quieted him with a finger to his lips. "You worry too much, my Warden. I think we should take this slowly. Inhibition can be a very . . . difficult . . . wall to breach. It's best to savor things like this a bit at a time, like candy. Too much at once and you get a bellyache. But a piece at a time allows you to appreciate the sweetness of candy, yes?" As he spoke, the assassin slowly slid the tip of his finger back and forth across Nate's lips teasingly. With a low growl, the rogue bit Zevran's finger and sucked it into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. The Antivan gently withdrew his finger and placed it inside his own mouth, sucking it exactly as if it were a piece of candy. "Hmm, definitely sweet." Amber eyes drifted down slowly to Nathaniel's towel, which was doing little to hide the rogue's erection. "I would like very much to remove this encumbrance if I may." He lifted his eyebrows at Nate questioningly.
Nathaniel eyed him appraisingly. "Don't you think you should remove some items so that we may be on equal footing?" He purposely allowed his eyes to rest first on Zevran's tunic, then his pants. The assassin threw back his head and laughed.
"So this is to be another sparring match is it? Very well, mi amigo." The Antivan gracefully removed his tunic and trousers and tossed them aside. "And may I ask what weapons we shall be using this time?" He moved slowly to stand behind Nate, close enough that the taller man could feel the elf's breath on his shoulder. One hand carelessly caressed Nate's hip, a finger sliding beneath the towel. The rogue closed his eyes. Every barrier inside him was crumbling.
"Only what we have at the moment." Nathaniel's voice was hoarse, but controlled. Without any further hesitation, he pulled at the towel and dropped it to the floor. He heard the elf's soft hiss of approval and felt movement behind him. Zevran's smallclothes fell on top of the towel. Nate held himself perfectly still as the assassin slowly drew fingers and nails over his bare skin, exploring every inch of his back, his chest, his stomach. By the time those probing fingers reached his groin he was on fire, every nerve ending raw with need. Warm lips brushed his neck, and then he felt the Antivan's tongue tracing the outline of his shoulder blade. Teeth closed on skin, and the pain shot a bolt of pleasure straight to his erection. Before he could recover, Zevran's tongue was sliding to the ridges of his spine. Hard fingers caressed his hips while wet heat forged a weaving trail down his vertebrae, ending in a gentle probing at the top of the slit between his buttocks. Gentle fingers separated the lean, toned curves of flesh and suddenly, the assassin was circling his tongue around the tight sphincter of his entrance. Nathaniel gasped, and kept himself upright only through sheer force of will.
Behind him, the elf rose to his feet and gently guided him to lay back on the bed. Nate took the momentary reprieve to fully take in the sight of Zevran, gloriously nude and obviously not the least bothered by Nate's scrutiny. Every line of his body was taut and firm, beautifully accentuated by the sinuous curves of his tattoos. With a feline grace, he crawled onto the bed, hovering over Nathaniel, eyes predatory. But the rogue was committed now, and he was not one to submit passively, especially in the midst of the passion Zevran had awakened in him. In a sudden show of strength, he grabbed Zevran's hips and rolled the elf to his back, holding both of the assassin's hands above his head in a tight grip. Zevran raised his eyebrows in amusement at the display of aggression.
"Ahh, is this your revenge for our match yesterday?" He seductively thrust his hips up, rubbing his length against Nathaniel's, eliciting a growl from the rogue.
"You haven't even begun to know my revenge," he hissed. He lowered himself till they were skin against skin, both swollen members trapped between them. Nate began to slowly flex his hips, creating an exquisite friction that drew ragged breaths from both men.
"Indeed? In that case, I am greatly looking forward to seeing what else . . . ah," the elf groaned as Nate lowered his head and nibbled at Zevran's ear. The rogue chuckled, continuing to torment that sensitive spot with teeth and tongue until the elf was gasping breathlessly, his back arching against Nathaniel.
"I see you are . . . ah . . . quite knowledgeable . . . of elven anatomy, mi amigo," Zevran murmured distractedly, tilting his head back in pleasure.
"Mmmm," replied Nate. "Perhaps somewhat." And then there were no more words, as both men began to move in earnest, skin sliding against skin, the musky scent of their sex mixing with incoherent cries. At the end, Nathaniel released Zevran's wrists, and the elf gripped his buttocks, nails clenching into sensitive flesh. With a sharp cry, the assassin released himself, and Nathaniel could feel the rhythmic pulsing against his own length. He answered with a groan and added his seed to Zevran's, shuddering with the force of his ecstasy. Only after heartbeats finally slowed did he finally move off the elf, leaving the bed to retrieve his towel which he used to clean both himself and his lover, who continued to sprawl lazily on the bed, watching with half-lidded eyes. Tossing the towel aside, Nate lay back down on his side facing Zevran, head resting on the crook of his elbow.
"I must say that wall was breached rather more easily than I anticipated, my Warden." Zevran grinned lasciviously at him. "And you are not as inexperienced as you claim to be."
"Good," said Nate, "but you still owe me an archery match. And don't think I'll go easy on you."
"I wouldn't dream of it, mi amigo. Your aggression is quite . . . arousing. I rather hope you will never go easy on me." Zevran smiled suggestively, and Nathaniel was surprised to find himself growing hard again at the thoughts that provoked. Finally liberated from years of restraint, he looked forward to Zevran's challenge.
"I'm so glad you approve," he growled pulling the Antivan into a heated kiss. "Because my revenge isn't quite finished yet."

2. Elissa Cousland absolutely hated the paperwork that came with being an Arlessa. She wanted to be out in the training yard working with the recruits or spending time with Anders doing really naughty things. Anything was preferable to sitting behind a desk, looking over reports from the Banns. She sighed and dropped her head to the desk, wondering if she could make herself fall asleep and use that as an excuse to avoid any more tedious reading. Fortunately, she was given a better excuse when her office door opened, admitting a lithe elf who promptly draped himself on the chair in front of her desk. He swung a well-tanned muscular leg over the arm of the chair and leisurely began twirling a throwing knife around his fingers.
"Ahh, here is my favorite Warden Commander, caught napping! Is it that boring, my dear?" He grinned devilishly at her grimace.
"You know it is, Zevran. When did I ever like dealing with paperwork? And am I not the only Warden Commander?" She glared at him with the same steely look that made most of the new recruits shiver in fear, but her blue eyes were filled with mirth. She and Zevran went way back, after all.
"So then, you must be my favorite one, hmm?" He made a show of looking around the small room. "And where is your handsome mage? Let him do some of the work, and then you both can go have some playtime, no?"
Elissa shook her head ruefully. "Anders... do paperwork? If I let him anywhere near this desk, the Keep would be out of food within three days, the wrong people would be thrown in jail, and the Banns would feel insulted about something that Anders would never even remember. Oh, and templars everywhere would be hanged in public."
"That might not be a bad thing." Zevran laughed and ducked as Elissa threw an empty bottle of ink at him.
"What are you doing here anyway, Zev? Aren't you supposed to be working with the recruits this afternoon instead of lounging in my office?"
"Our wonderful recruits are currently practicing how to do simple repairs on their armor, courtesy of our esteemed blacksmith, Wade." The Antivan chuckled. "They do not live up to his standards, of course."
Elissa burst out in gales of laughter at the thought of the touchy artisan criticizing the work of the amateurs. "How cruel of you to leave them alone with Wade. You know he will absolutely rip those poor men to shreds." She glanced down at her desk thoughtfully, then decided to take the chance of bringing up a different subject. "Now why are you here with me instead of with Nate?" She hoped her smile looked completely innocent.
Zevran grinned, completely unabashed. "I wondered when you would finally say something about that. Nothing escapes your notice, does it?"
"We're a pretty tight-knit family, Zev. I'm not the only one who notices the change in Nathaniel whenever you're around. To be honest, I'm relieved and happy to see him relax a little." She sighed and gazed out the window. "You can't imagine what he was like when we found him, Zev. He was a brittle shell covering a world of hurt, and he lashed out at anything that moved. I must admit, I really disliked him at first. But then we got to know each other during all the trials we went through over the next several months. He never seemed to get over his bitterness at his father, but becoming a Warden definitely suited him. It gives him the sense of honor and respect he craves and insulates him from his former world." She shook her head in frustration. "The nobles are horrible to him, Zev. All they see is Rendon's son, not Nathaniel himself. He avoids them now."
"Nobles are always blind to everything except their petty preconceived notions, my dear." Zevran ran his thumb absently along the edge of the knife. "Nathaniel carries many demons, but this is something a Crow is familiar with, no? I will do what I can, if he will allow it."
"I just want him whole, Zevran. He's next in-command after Alistair, and he's my friend. From what I've seen, you've already done him a world of good. And no, I don't need any descriptions of what you did." She rolled her eyes as Zevran laughed.
"As you wish, Commander." He stood and bowed deeply, flourishing the knife. "You truly don't know what you're missing, however." He winked slyly at Elissa and left, humming softly to himself. The Arlessa sighed and shook her head. Secretly, she hoped that whatever was happening between the assassin and Nathaniel was something that would continue to grow. If anyone could turn the moody rogue around, it was Zevran.

***

Nathaniel cursed under his breath as the bear fled the clearing, his arrow having flown wide of its mark. Maker, but his aim was terribly off this day. He rarely returned to the Keep with nothing, but tonight there would be no fresh meat. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and he needed to think about starting back. He would rest first, however. Days he was able to spend hunting were uncommon, and he relished the solitude of the forest. He placed his treasured Howe bow on the ground and shucked off the quiver of arrows. Sitting with his back to an oak, he raised his face to the flickers of sun drifting through the leaves above. Frustration at losing his quarry drained away, and he allowed his thoughts to wander. He knew why he was so distracted, of course. His mind was constantly circling around the image of a particular Antivan assassin, around the images of that assassin in his bed doing rather private things. He allowed himself a small smile; only two weeks with the elf and he was behaving like a besotted paramour.
The smile turned to a pained grimace as his thoughts moved down a darker path. Why was Zevran spending so much time with him anyway? He was nothing but a rogue with a sullied family name, despised by everyone outside of Vigil's Keep. If it weren't for the Commander's mercy, he would probably already be dead, thanks to his father's traitorous deeds. He had proved himself to the Wardens and earned their grudging respect, but to anyone else, he was only a Howe, the darkest name in Ferelden at the moment. He chuckled dryly, remembering the Queen's fury that he had been recruited to the Wardens instead of being beheaded. Even when they were young, he had always disliked Anora with her snobby attitude.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Zevran didn't care about his name, and he knew this. He was grateful for this. Unfortunately, there was still much about Nathaniel that Zevran didn't know, and Nathaniel was afraid to let the assassin see the darker side of himself. Eventually however, his control would slip, and he didn't think he could bear to see the Antivan's reaction when it did. He clenched his fists in agony, as a familiar wave of black rage swept over him. Why had his father left so many marks on his son? Could he ever be truly free from the damage done to him by a dead man?
Lost in tormenting thoughts, Nathaniel failed to notice the stealthy approach of an intruder. As he felt another body slam against his, he cursed himself and struggled to grab his dagger. The attacker was far too swift, however, barely a blur as strong arms locked around Nate's biceps, pulling his arms behind him. As the rogue tried to kick back, he was hauled to his knees with his chest arched back as the other man tightened his grip.
"Stand up, now." The command was whispered, harsh and cold. Thinking to throw the attacker off after he had more balance, Nathaniel obeyed. Before he could even think to move, he was shoved face first against the rough trunk of the oak. Immediately, a knife was pressed to his throat, the cold edge resting lightly against his skin.
"Wrap your arms around the tree, please." The whisper was a hot breath against the nape of his neck and actually sounded almost amused. The rogue fought the urge to turn against the knife and face this bastard. Keeping his breath even, he focused on looking for a chance to knock his opponent back while placing both arms around the trunk.
"Very good. I am going to tie your hands together. You will try to attack back, I'm sure, but be warned that this knife I hold is coated with a very rare, deadly poison. Only a scratch will cause your body to seize within seconds, and your throat will constrict, cutting off your breath. You will die in a mere few minutes as you slowly choke to death. If you hold still, you will not be harmed." Nate frowned slightly. The whisper held a familiar cadence, one he felt he should know.
A hand on the back of his skull turned his head and pressed his cheek flat against the tree. As the man began to move around the tree behind him, he felt the knife slowly drawn across the back of his neck and down his shoulder and arm, never losing contact with his skin. Nate slid his gaze as far to the side as he could, struggling for a glimpse of his attacker, but the intruder carefully stayed out of sight behind the trunk. He felt his hands pressed together, and within seconds, they were bound tightly. The cold metal of the knife was finally withdrawn, and the attacker stepped into view in front of him. Nathaniel's eyes widened in shock.
"Zevran? What in the name of the Maker are you doing?" Fury flooded every muscle in his body, and he strained backward against the ropes that bound his hands. It was useless, of course. The former Crow was far too adept at tying knots and binding his victims. Nathaniel glared at the elf, practically spitting in his rage. "Why are you attacking me? You could have killed me a hundred times by now if that was what you so dearly wanted!"
The assassin calmly approached his lover and stroked his cheek gently. "My dear Warden, I do apologize for taking this tactic. I am not here to kill you, nor even to wound you. I wish to talk, and as crude as this method is, it does keep you from running away from me." He trailed his fingers back into Nathaniel's hair, smoothing it back soothingly. "I promise you will have your chance to pay me back for this later, but for now, I only wish to talk." His amber eyes peered intently into Nate's.
"We can talk without you putting a knife to my throat and tying me up," Nathaniel hissed. "Not to mention threatening me with poison!"
"I assure you that this knife is perfectly clean, mi amigo. I had to be sure you would not fight back while I tied you. Again, my sincere apologies, but you will understand shortly why I'm doing this." He leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly against Nate's. Even as angry as he was, the rogue couldn't repress a shudder of desire. "You hide things from me, Nathaniel." His name sounded like a velvet caress when spoken in Zevran's heavy Antivan accent. "You repress certain... urges, yes?" Nate's eyes widened slightly. "You think I don't notice this, but I am... practiced in these things, my Warden. You feel these desires as a darkness inside of you, thinking they make you as evil as your father was, no?"
Nate turned his face into the tree, clenching his eyes shut. Maker, how did this elf know these things? Shame washed over him like a cold downpour of rain. He couldn't deny the accuracy of Zevran's statements. He totally blamed Rendon for instilling a predisposition for violence inside of him. These urges were carefully repressed, however. No lover he had taken had ever felt even a drop of the wildness that burned in his blood; he would not allow himself to cause harm. Images surfaced in his mind, memories of his father ordering servants to be whipped while his son reluctantly watched. He had never doubted that his past experiences under the direction of the elder Howe were the root cause of his aberrant wishes. Another outstanding Howe legacy, he thought bitterly. In the end, I am no better than he is.
He felt a soft breeze as the elf moved behind him. He heard the sound of tearing fabric, then felt the warm air of the late afternoon brush his back. He turned his head quickly to the side to see Zevran standing back slightly, holding the knife and admiring Nathaniel's bare back, his tunic cut apart. "Zevran, what in Andraste's... "
The elf put a finger to Nate's lips. "You fear that you harbor evil inside of you, Nathaniel. You let this fear shape your conception of yourself, and thus, you avoid others in your shame. You hold back what you truly feel, and you live in a cage of your own making. I intend to convince you that what you fee... is not wrong in any way." There was the sound of more movement behind him.
"Causing another person pain of any kind is wrong, Zevran," growled Nathaniel. "I will not become my father."
His lover sighed and touched his shoulder. "You are not Rendon Howe; you are Nathaniel. I think it's past time you learn the difference." The rogue felt something smooth, hard, and thin caress his back. "Do you believe I am evil, Nate?" The assassin's voice was both curious and detached.
"Of course not! You kill people, but that is your job. You know I don't hold that against you." Nathaniel's breath hitched slightly as the thin object moved up his spine to stroke the back of his neck. A knot of nervousness mixed with desire coiled low in his stomach. He had a sudden revelation of what was coming.
"I am glad to hear it, mi amigo, because I have truly enjoyed our time together." He felt Zevran's warm breath against his ear, and shivered involuntarily. "It can be more enjoyable if you will allow it. But first, I think we need to be rid of some misconceptions that are clearly troubling you." The elf's tongue darted out and licked the curve of Nathaniel's ear. "Choose a word, my Warden."
Nate's heart began to race. He had never participated in anything requiring a safeword, but he was familiar with the concept and the need for one. Strangely, he felt no fear, only a rising excitement mixed with intense desire. Disgust at this desire warred with anticipation. "Honor," he whispered.
"Ahh." The warmth of Zevran's body disappeared as the assassin moved away. "An interesting choice, that, and not surprising coming from you. Since you did not ask me, I assume you know the rules of this game and when to use the safeword." The rogue nodded slowly, swallowing hard. A piercing hiss rent the air, and Nathaniel felt a sharp puff of air against his back. "Do you know what I hold, Nathaniel?" So gentle, the voice that spoke his name like a caress.
"Yes," responded Nate. How could he not recognize a sound he had heard so many times as a boy? He turned his face against the rough bark of the tree but made no move to struggle against the bonds wrapped securely around his wrists. He didn't understand yet why Zevran was doing this, but he could not deny that it aroused him, as well as shamed him.
"I thought you might," murmured Zevran quietly. "If you need your word, use it mi amigo. I will desist immediately, I promise you." Another sharp hiss, and a stripe of pure fire flared across the middle of his back. Nathaniel gasped and arched back against the terrible burn of the cane. His fingers dug into the tree, gouging marks in the bark. At the same time, heat swelled between his legs, and he felt a familiar bulge beginning to form in his pants. No, Maker, no.
The thought was interrupted as another lash rained down on his back, a few inches lower than the first. He gritted his teeth and bowed his forehead against the tree as sweat began to bead on his brow. Almost unconsciously, he pressed his growing erection against the tree. His body shuddered, and he could hear his own breathing, ragged and uneven. He almost jumped as he felt calloused fingers tracing the quickly forming welts.
"I must say that these marks are quite... enticing." Wet heat licked over the sting, coaxing a soft moan from Nate. Hard fingers slipped into his waistband and shoved his trousers down. As the elf stepped closer, he could feel Zevran's hardness pressing against him. "Am I evil now, Nathaniel?"
The rogue was gasping with the intensity of too many conflicting emotions. "Devilish, yes. Evil... no." Zevran's tongue was continuing to trace the raised lines on his skin. "Zev... please."
The Antivan chuckled softly. "Please, what? More pain, mi amigo?" Again, he moved away, and Nate groaned at the loss of warmth. He braced himself for the next blow but was still unprepared as the next lash lanced across his bare buttocks. A sharp cry of pain and pleasure ripped from his mouth as his back bowed. The burn funneled its way forward, causing his member to ache with need. The bark scraped roughly against the length of him, creating even more exquisite pain. Dear Maker, he felt like he was cracking apart from every seam.
Two more swift blows came hard, one after the other. The first created another welt across the tight skin of his rear. The second fell directly on the softer skin of his thighs, just below the bottom crease of his ass, dangerously close to the vulnerable sac of flesh between his legs. Helpless with the onslaught of sensation, Nathaniel sank to his knees moaning in submission, not to the assassin, but to the realization that this was who he was. No amount of denial could erase the evidence that was so plain to see. And not only did it not turn Zevran away, it aroused him just as much as Nathaniel. Zevran wanted this, just as much as Nate.
He felt gentle fingers releasing his bonds, and he fell to his hands and knees, head bowed as the stinging pain continued to send delicious aches through his body. Warm hands caressed his back and buttocks, both soothing and stimulating the welts. He could hear Zevran's voice speaking softly in Antivan as the elf licked and caressed each stripe of pain. He groaned and pressed himself back against Zevran, pleased to find that the elf had shed his pants. His fingers curled into the dirt as the assassin brushed his erection against the slit between Nathaniel's buttocks.
"Zevran, please. I need you." The words tore from his throat, hoarse with desire. He shuddered as Zevran bit down on the welt across his right buttock, and leaned his head back, mouth agape with pleasure. The elf moved back momentarily to grasp a vial of oil he had laid nearby. Hands shaking with his own desire, Zevran swiftly slicked his length. Gripping Nathaniel's hips in a bruising vise, he drove hard into the rogue, guessing correctly that Nate was too far gone to care about any preparation. Both men groaned as Zevran held himself still, fully buried inside his lover. The assassin reached forward and gripped Nathaniel's hair firmly in his fist, pulling the rogue's head back. Using the grip as leverage, his other hand grasping Nate's hip, Zevran began to slowly thrust, withdrawing completely with each move before snapping his hips forward again roughly. Nathaniel grunted as each thrust shoved them both forward, and his arms shook with their combined weight. Then Zevran changed his angle, and each thrust brushed against that spot. Bolts of pleasure shot through his pelvis, and Nathaniel cried out as the Antivan brushed his thumb against a welt in rhythm with his thrusts.
"Zev... Maker, Zev!" He heard a rough groan behind him, and then the elf was pulsing deep inside him. The hand in his hair released its grip, and Zevran reached around his waist and grasped Nate's length, stroking hard. A wild cry erupted from deep within Nathaniel's throat, and spots of color danced against his eyelids as he spilled himself into the assassin's hand. He crumpled forward, his forehead resting against the dirt as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. Warm arms encircled his waist, and he felt the Antivan pulling him down to his side. They both lay quietly, Zevran pressed into his back, arms holding him close.
"You did not use your word." The assassin's tone was light and questioning.
"No." He understood now why Zevran had done this and what the elf was truly asking here. Zevran had taken the role of aggressor, the role that Nathaniel considered evil and had given Nathaniel the opportunity to stop it. But the rogue had not used his safeword, had not stopped what Zevran was doing, because he liked it. What the Antivan had done was done not out of malice, but done because he cared about the rogue. And that was the difference. It was all the difference, and Nathaniel finally realized that.
"Zev?"
"Hmm?" The assassin was running Nathaniel's thick dark locks through his fingers.
"Thank you." The words escaped in a rush of embarrassment. He could only hope the elf knew what he really meant.
"No thanks are necessary, my Warden. I think we need to get a bath, however. The forest does not exactly make a clean bed. And I think we should apply some poultices to your back." There was a clear note of amusement in Zevran's voice.
"No." Nate shook his head vehemently. "Let the marks... stay. Please." He turned his head to look Zevran in the eye.
The assassin raised the corner of his mouth. "As you wish, mi amigo. I assume there is a stream nearby?"
"Yes." Nate stood and extended a hand to the elf. When Zevran was next to him, he pulled the Antivan into a passionate kiss, biting at Zevran's lower lip as he pulled back. "You do realize that I'm going to pay you back for attacking me, don't you?"
The assassin grinned. "I most certainly hope so. In fact, I'm counting on it."

@темы: Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran, Nathaniel, в запас

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Проект 100

Боги, спасите и пощадите.
Я села за прочтение рассказов по Проекту 100.
Я, конечно, поделюсь находками, если попадётся что-то интересное, но пока мой мозг стонет от графоманского гнёта.

UPD1. Из пятнадцати рассказов пока всего один не вызывает серьёзных нареканий.
Повод ли для радости - конкурентов меньше - или печали - слишком много неграмотных?
Второй день на улов хуже, похоже, Сто Созерцающих сильно подпортил мнение о последующих произведениях.
UPD2. Девять из тридцати.
Хорошая идея, убитая исполнением, уже воспринимается мною как личное оскорбление.
UPD3. Вот и всё, одиннадцать из тридцати шести.
Топ составлен из шести позиций, но группа К порадовала только четырьмя и вправду захватывающими рассказами.

Итак, сложу то, что достойно прочтения.
ИМХО.
1. Сотая ступень
Фентези, почти классическая. На один раз великолепна.
2. Важная цель
Про суть компьютерных игр и важную цель.
3. Умные числа
Научная фантастика и слишком умные числа. Я, честно, не поняла, да и концовка смазана, но всё равно понравилось.
4. Без умысла
Это очаровательно *_*
5. Стольник и Хандред
Кто сколько уровней иронии заметит, ага.
6. Сто созерцающих
Это очень, очень сильно. Читать обязательно.
7. 100 этажей безмолвия
Странно. Не моё. Однако пусть будет, ибо атмосферно.
8. Всего сто метров по прямой
Это просто надо читать. И точка.
9. Сто шагов до изголовья
Первый триллер, по следам Кинга или Лавкрафта. Неплохо.
10. Сто часов для счастья
Тяжело, но стоит каждой секунды потраченного времени.
11. Сто ступеней мудрости
Китайская народная.
12. Частота 100,0 МГц FM
Кто сказал, что в физике нет места лирике?!
13. Последняя искра
Очень по-женски!

запись создана: 08.08.2011 в 11:18

@темы: Проект 100

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ПАЛЕВО >

Ай-яй-яй!!!

Нумерология по дате рождения, имени и другим данным

Идет по жизни как по сцене.
Привлекательность, общительность доброжелательность.

Цель для вас всегда оправдывает средства. Ставя пред собой безумные цели вы всегда ищите разумные подходы.
Терпеливый человек.
Мудрец.
Финансовый успех обеспечен благодаря правильному подходу к делам и интуиции.
Человек, сочетающий в себе качества идеального супруга (супруги). Но если вы отдает предпочтение карьере то и здесь у таких людей обычно все складывается весьма удачно так как они исполнительны и пунктуальны.
Ваше оружие это обаяние и симпатия людей к вам. Вам совершенно не нужно взламывать замки вам проще обаять сторожа. Вам гораздо проще найти подход к учителю и обаять ( или обмануть чего уж тут скрывать) его, чем учить экзамен. Талантливый организатор направить или научить других - вам гораздо проще, чем сделать самому.
Людям вашего типа, необходимо иметь рядом с собой человека Якорь» - который будет всегда рядом, ухаживать за вами, выслушивать ваши капризы, и проявлять заботу. Внешне стойкие вы постоянно нуждаетесь хотя бы в одном человеке, перед которым можно раскрыться.
Пройти тест - Нумерология по дате рождения, имени и другим данным

---

Based on ....

Live, and die, by the sword by ~holylink718

Pasha Khalili was moments away from death, and he didn't even know it. So arrogant was he, thinking himself invincible. Leader of one of the most influential thieves' guilds in Sharn, the City of Towers, he thought quite highly of himself. He had surrounded himself with hundreds of trained rogues and warriors, not to mention his personal entourage of elite hobgoblin bodyguards, trained by Daask.
Daask was a criminal syndicate specializing in supplying demi-human troops to the surrounding thieves' guilds, lesser mercenary companies, or other such organizations. Daask had a strict policy of neutrality concerning guild wars and the like, and most Daask mercenaries followed an unofficial code of conduct, refusing to kill their Daask brothers or sisters. For this reason, most inter-guild battles were fought with troops unaffiliated to Daask. However, they made perfect bodyguards, or in some cases, assassins. Yes, he had spent quite a lot on them, but not a copper was wasted, Khalili believed. These were the best bodyguards money could buy.
As elite as these mercenaries were, Tanith Valdis, master assassin, had no trouble at all slipping past their security. So deep inside their underground fortress, they simply didn't think anyone could possibly get that far without magic, and several magical wards prevented teleportation magic from functioning inside. Pasha Khalili just didn't understand. When Tanith is sent to kill someone, that someone is dead. If Khalili had realized just how badly he had fucked up, that Tanith would be sent to dispatch him, he may have thrown himself at the mercy of Large Luigi, the beholder he had crossed, and begged for forgiveness. But he thought he had gotten away with it. How wrong he was.
Khalili entered his personal chambers, the safest room in the entire complex, by all accounts, but Tanith was already there, waiting. As Khalili donned his nightclothes, Tanith slipped out from behind a large tapestry adorning a large portion of the wall. Even if Khalili had been facing the tapestry, all he would have seen was the torchlight as it flickered off the thin wire of the garrote. Suddenly he was choking. He couldn't breathe, couldn't yell for help. Only as his legs were kicked out from under him, and he fell to his knees, did he realize that he wasn't alone in the room. He struggled with all his might, but he didn't really stand a chance. Years of laziness had taken their toll on the once great thief. No longer as thin or dexterous as he used to be, he was helpless as he slowly passed from consciousness. He never saw the face of his assassin, but he knew why he was there. He knew he had gambled and lost. In his last moment of life, he thought it ironic that he would be assassinated in the same fashion, in the very room, that he had his predecessor removed in. Then he was dead.
No sign of forced entry was ever found, and the guards outside saw and heard nothing until their shift had ended the next morning. No one except his son and chief lieutenant knew about the secret door that lead to an escape tunnel to the sewers. As such, many suspected he played a part in his father's death, but none would openly speak of those suspicions. Nor did any truly care, for such was the way of things. After a few days, it was business as usual, albeit with a new Pasha.

*****

Business was very good that night at the Laughing Beholder, a seedy tavern in a pretty bad part of town. Despite the setting, however, the owner, Large Luigi, prided himself at his ability to keep his humble establishment relatively pleasant, considering the neighborhood it resided in. While he knew the occasional barroom brawl was inevitable, he tolerated no weapons to be drawn, and he made certain that anyone violating said rule was quickly and effectively removed from the bar. Though he usually let one of his many bouncers, most of which had orc or hobgoblin blood in them, handle such forced relocations, every once in a while he was forced to do so himself, and, to the delight of his patrons, usually in a spectacular fashion involving his incredible array of magical abilities. He rarely seriously injured these ruffians, but people loved such displays of power nonetheless.
The quiet evening was broken, however, when a commotion rose from the back of the room. He turned his eye to see what was going on, and chuckled to himself when he realized what it was about. Apparently three men, mercenaries, most likely, had attempted to make themselves at home in one of the back booths. Unfortunately, this booth was taken by a man who didn't want to be disturbed, and pointedly told them so. They obviously thought that, being outnumbered three to one, he had no say in the matter, and they promptly sat down anyway. Luigi, of course, recognized the lone man, and wondered if he was going to have to have the men dragged out once Tanith had beaten them senseless.
Normally, Luigi would have sent his bouncers, or perhaps he himself would go, and attempt to alleviate the building tension before it erupted into a fight. But he could sense that Tanith was in a foul mood tonight, and perhaps this is just the thing he needed to cheer up. Nothing cheered that one up quite like force feeding a bully his own lungs, and, Luigi had to admit, he enjoyed such things as well. Not to mention, the Laughing Beholder had not seen a fight in a few months now. Perhaps a demonstration was in order. He telepathically told his brutes to stand down, and let things play out. Besides, he figured, if they were too much for Tanith to handle, then what chance would his bouncers truly stand? Luigi cast a spell of clairvoyance, allowing him to more clearly hear the ongoing exchange.
"I believe I told you to be gone," Tanith was saying with a glare that had the men suddenly unsure of their bravado. "I won't tell you again. There are plenty of other tables. Go find one."
Such is the way with that one, Luigi mused. Rarely did he bother with threats, at least spoken ones. Luigi did hope, for their sake anyway, that they would heed Tanith's command, but he could see that they weren't going to.
"Maybe you aren't very good at math," The lead man said, suddenly regaining his confidence. "But we outnumber you three to one, so unless you want to use that ale to wash down your teeth, I suggest you scamper off and give the big boys room."
The man, Galen by name, then reached for Tanith's collar. In an explosion of motion that Galen's brain almost could not decipher, Tanith snatched his wrist and twisted it down as he stood, smashing Galen's face into the table. Before his stunned companions could even register that they were under attack, Tanith sent one flying with a swift kick to the sternum. Nearby patrons, and Luigi, thanks to his spell, could hear the bones crack under the force of the kick. The man crashed into a table, smashing it to pieces and sending its inhabitants scattering before coming to rest, quite unconscious, on the barroom floor.
To his credit, the third man kept his cool enough to try and take advantage of the situation and flank the assassin. Unfortunately for him, Tanith didn't have a flank. He turned into the assault and clothes-lined him into the ground, then turned to Galen, who was pulling himself up off the ground, holding a broken nose.
"I'll kill you, motherfucker!" Galen screamed as he snapped a knife out of a hidden sheath and lunged forward.
Tanith saw the blade coming and easily sidestepped it, grabbing Galen's wrist as he went. He could have simply snapped the man's arm, but instead he merely disarmed him. As he knocked the man to the ground, he caught the falling dagger and threw it in a brilliant flash of movement. No sooner had Galen smashed to the ground had the dagger thumped into the floor between his legs, imbedded halfway to the hilt. Sputtering curses, Galen was unceremoniously "escorted" out of the establishment by a rather large half-orc brute. Two others dragged his companions to the door and tossed them out into the gutter.
In the span of about 15 seconds, Tanith had incapacitated the three mercenaries with his bare hands, a detail not lost to any who witnessed the fight, if it could even be called that. Calmly, as if nothing had even happened, Tanith returned to his seat and took a long swig of his ale.
Yes, Luigi thought, business was very good this night.

*****

It was well after closing, long after he had sent his staff home for the night, before Luigi joined Tanith in the back booth.
"Ah, Tanith, I knew my faith in you was not misplaced," Luigi began with an approving grin. "Just as you promised, Khalili is dead, and his son, one who is much easier to manipulate, has taken his place. Do tell me, did he beg for mercy before you ended him?"
"He might have tried, but I hardly gave him an opportunity," Tanith responded dryly. "Though that might have been an amusing scene to watch, I have to say, I expected better from him. It was far too easy. If I hadn't known of his reputation, I would have taken that as an insult to my abilities."
"Well, my friend, while it may not have been entirely necessary to have sent one of your skill, I do enjoy the level of…efficiency I get from you. Besides, the man crossed me, and I cannot allow that to go unpunished. Already word on the street is that you were the one to do the deed. Who else in all the city could slip, undetected, into the heart of Khalili's very home and murder him in his own bedroom, all without anyone seeing or hearing anything?"
"They would be wise to keep such speculation to themselves, else they attract unwanted attention," Tanith returned slyly.
"My boy, you should take that as the sincerest of compliments," Luigi chuckled, knowing the game Tanith was playing, a game he himself enjoyed. "Besides, they won't move against you, you know. You're too valuable. No one would dare to invoke the wrath of nearly every criminal organization in the entire city."
And there it was again, a not-so-subtle reminder to whom he was dealing with. While Large Luigi was indeed a force to be reckoned with alone, his true strength came from his unrivaled influence, which reached from the highest government official's office to the most disgusting, disease ridden whorehouse in the depths of the city. Tanith may be one of the most dangerous men in the city, but Luigi was more than a single man, more than a single beholder even.
Not that Tanith believed that Luigi was threatening him. Tanith might have a hard time actually taking Luigi head-on, but likewise, Luigi would have a difficult time indeed if he wished to exterminate the greatest assassin the city had known in a century. And so, they worked together, for mutual benefit and profit. Tanith would take care of a few problematic individuals from time to time, and he was granted a nearly untouchable status among the other guilds. Everyone knew that no assassination contract was ever completed without the knowledge and consent of Large Luigi; people may suspect that Tanith was, in fact, the assassin who silenced Pasha Khalili, but he had obviously done so with Luigi's approval, if not request. And seeing as any who stood against Luigi soon perished, no one made a move against him.
As part of their arrangement, Tanith was also free to pursue side jobs with other guilds, as long as they did not interfere with Luigi's occasional contract. So, while to an outside eye, it may have seemed as though one or the other had the upper hand in the relationship, it was as close to a true partnership as most of Sharn's denizens had probably ever seen. Neither of them truly wanted to dominate the other, even if the opportunity presented itself, if for no other reason than just because it was doubtful it would be worth the effort necessary to do such a thing.
Tanith broke the moment of silence that had fallen upon them. "It's getting late, and I've got things that need my attention, so I'll not keep you any longer. Until next time."
Large Luigi nodded, watching him go. He was grateful that not all humanoids were so capable as that one. His job would be infinitely more difficult, he thought dryly.

*****

Tanith hadn't taken three steps out of the Laughing Beholder before he noticed his newly found shadow. The way the man moved suggested that he was very confident in his abilities, which was ironic considering how quickly Tanith spotted him. He considered turning and facing him right then and there, but quickly thought better of it. First he would look for any allies this man might have. As he walked, he did spot a second figure, this one on the rooftops, also following him. No doubt would-be assassins looking to make a quick stab at fame. After all, if they could bring Tanith himself down, they would, in effect, absorb everything he was. Every assassination he ever took part in would thenceforth be attributed to them. No novice to this line of thinking, he prepared for the inevitable fight. He could easily lose them, but it was doubtful they would give up so easily. Better to deal with it now, he decided.
He quickly found a suitable spot. For them, that is. He knew that if they intended to fight him head on they would have already done it, so he made his way toward an alleyway with easy access from the rooftops flanking it. He figured the one up top would make the first strike, dropping down at his back, probably hoping to end it before it really began, with the other coming up from behind as a sort of lookout. A good strategy, he thought. Too bad it's not gonna work.
Predictably, as he entered the alley, he saw the second stalker take position above the halfway point in the alley. Not wanting to disappoint, he continued on, slipping his hands down to the hilts of his blades. As the man dropped down on him, Tanith was already rolling past, causing the man to fall short of his intended target. As he came up from his roll, he drew his blades with lightning speed. Turning to face his would-be assassin, he sees not a man, but a warforged, a pseudo golem of sorts, imbued with the intelligence of its creators. Created in the Last War, they were intended to be an inexpensive machine, incapable of complex thought but highly durable and very obedient to its creator. As time when on, and the war reached its conclusion, however, they seemed to have developed a sense of self awareness, and have recently been deemed free citizens.
He then noticed that this was no ordinary warforged. This one had, in place of one of his normal sized arms, a huge monstrosity of an arm nearly as large as Tanith's chest. Tanith silently reminded himself not to let that connect with him as he glanced at the small crater that was the point of impact, where Tanith had just been standing. Evidently not one to relinquish his momentum, the warforged charged on with a right hook that would have taken Tanith's head from his shoulders had he not ducked at the last second. Instead it just took a piece of the building's foundation out. He rolled to the side as it came down again, impossibly fast. He leaped up and slashed with his sword, taking a chunk out of the constructs chest armor with it. Seeming not to notice, though, it came on again, failing to connect, but putting Tanith on the defensive.
Tanith suddenly wondered the wisdom of facing this one. Not having time to ponder it too extensively, however, he continued to fight defensively, avoiding the devastating blows while waiting for any sort of opening. His desperation grew, however, when he remembered the second assassin. He would have his hands full with this one alone, without any help from its ally. Realizing he needed to finish this quickly, he dared to dash up the wall and summersault over its head. He tucked his legs in not a second too soon, he saw, as it tried to intercept him midflight. As quick as it could swing it's arm, though, it couldn't turn fast enough to protect itself. His sword sliced into its back, blasting through its chest as his dagger stabbed into its underarm, stealing the strength from the rest of its arm, sending its club of a fist crashing to the ground. Not waiting to see if it was dead, he yanked his sword out and took its head off with one clean stroke.
As it collapsed to the ground, he turned to face its companion, just in time to see him casting a spell. He barely had enough time to consider his course before a bolt of lighting streamed down the alley towards him. He leaped to the side, the bolt barely missing him. He charged at the caster, knowing he had to stop him from casting again. As he approached, however, he realized with disgust that the caster was a mind-flayer, an illithid, not a mere spellcaster. Next came the traditional illithid blast of psionic energy, threatening to overwhelm his mind and paralyze his body. Tanith shrugged the brunt of the assault off and continued his staggered charge. Again his mind was assailed, and again it failed to defeat his formidable mental defenses, but this time, he fell to his knees, apparently stunned. Predictably, the mind flayer moved in for the kill, obviously wanting to feast on his brains while he was, apparently, unable to defend himself.
"Drop your sword," it said to his mind, trying to psionically force its will onto him while he was apparently vulnerable.
Continuing with the facade, Tanith let his sword fall with a clang to the cobblestone, but kept his dagger close to his side, out of sight. As the illithid reached for him with its tentacles, he leaped up. It barely had time to register that it had been tricked before the blade pierced its heart, or whatever the equivalent is for mind flayers. It gurgled the beginnings to a spell, no doubt to flee, but he drove the dagger again and again into its abdomen. Unable to hold its concentration long enough to cast its spell of teleportation, it fell to the ground in a bloody heap. It weakly reached out with its mind and tried to convince him to spare it, but it was too weak to truly be compelling, and to the mind of one such as Tanith, who managed to defeat its fully strengthened attempt to dominate his mind, was easily swatted aside. Tanith then drove his dagger into the creature's throat, ending its fast fading life.
After wiping his blades on the illithid's clothing, Tanith sheathed his weapons and searched the bodies for anything that would identify the two would-be assassins. Unable to find anything of value, monetary or otherwise, he left their bodies to be found by the watch and disappeared into the night.
It was doubtful that they were hired to kill him. They, or rather, the illithid, probably just wanted to make a name for itself by eliminating the greatest assassin in the city. He was unsure of the warforged's role in the whole thing, but he truly didn't much care. Could be it was mentally dominated into service or perhaps not, either way, it mattered little. He would continue to defeat such attempts on his life, but he knew that someone would eventually succeed. It was unlikely that someone such as him would die peacefully, of old age. When you live by the sword, you often die by the sword. Such is the way of things. And, truly, Tanith wouldn't have it any other way.

@темы: в запас

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...damn...

If Only by Kirakoff

"Ahem."
He had been dozing, sitting in the small corner where he kept his bed, when he heard the rough cough and the sound of boots scraping across a dirty, straw covered floor. The door to Anders' tiny clinic was usually left open at night, an open invitation for the sick, or the weary, but he had thought he had closed it upon returning home. He had needed some time to himself; some time to try and think, but that had proved impossible. It was always impossible, these days. Justice – Vengeance – tinted and tapped at his every thought, and it drove him to distraction.
"Anders? Are you in?"
He pushed himself up, brushing off the flecks of dried mud and grit that had been stuck to his coat. He needed to change, get it laundered, get the blood of Darkspawn and Templars and Bandits and Mages off it. Maker, he was covered in the blood of the very people he was going to give everything up to save, people who had turned to blood magic and demons, and if only he had tried harder, he could have saved them, given them hope, a chance, give them justice-
"Anders!"
He started. A headache was starting to form behind his eyes, and as he turned to look at his visitor he wondered if he could be bothered braving the dangers of Darktown at night to gather some elfroot. Their little stint into the Deep Roads to look for Nathanial had left him empty. He only had Deep Mushroom left and that wouldn't do anything for his headache.
"Maker, Anders, have you lost your mind in the years since I've seen you?"
"Huh?" He blinked. The smell of rot and manure and medicine was strong tonight, the light of the clinic weak and flickering, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Nathanial that stood in his doorway, eyebrow raised and his hands on his hips.
A vague remembrance of those months trekking across Amaranthine came to mind, and he thought of the various frowns and annoyed looks Nathaniel had shot him during that time. He could remember the man standing at the campfire, looking for the entire world like an angry fishwife. It was a joke that had always gone over Justice's head, while the Warden Commander had smiled into his hand and prodded the flames with the edge of an arrow. Maker, it felt like that had been a lifetime ago to Anders; something that had happened to someone else.
He wasn't the Anders he had been back then, but he found himself thinking that Nathaniel appeared to be the same Nathaniel at least, the lucky bastard.
"I didn't know you knew where my clinic was." Anders tried to smile, but he was too tired. Exhaustion niggled at him and he had a horrible feeling this encounter was going to make things worse.
"Carver told me. He… requested time to go and see a woman. We leave in the morning." Nathaniel explained, stepping into the hovel. He looked around, seeing the stretchers, the filth, the body of a little girl Anders hadn't been able to save a few hours earlier, much to the mother's dismay. He pursed his lips and scuffed his boots, and sat down on a crate.
"I didn't know Carver had a woman." It was a slightly disturbing thought.
"I didn't think to ask." Nathaniel shrugged, eying the painted walls. The pictures of the slaves wailing in horror are half shadowed and flickering, a silent reminder of what this place was. Is. Justice shifts in the back of Anders' mind. "I wanted to give him a chance to rest and see his brother. He's been in Amaranthine for quite a time, now. Being so far from family is… tiring, I find."
"Ah." Anders didn't really know what to say to that. He hadn't had a family for years, and, really, he had found that being in the Wardens, at least while the Commander was still in charge, had been soothing. He hadn't had to fear and run and worry, and the ever-present threat of those wretched Templars had faded with the days. He had been happy, for a time. If the Commander hadn't have left, he doesn't think he would have.
"Yes. Well." Nathaniel shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable. Anders wondered if he should invite him to sit on one of the stretchers, but they were covered in lice and dried blood and were not all appealing.
"Can I. Uh. Get you anything?" Anders really didn't understand what was happening here, but he figured he should try and be a gracious host. "I have water… and maybe some bread around here. Somewhere."
He smiled at Nathaniel, and shrugged. "I need to go shopping."
Nathaniel nodded. "No need, Anders, I'm fine. Delilah made sure to try and stuff me to the point of bursting upon my return." A smile flickered at the corners of Nathaniel's mouth at the memory, and Anders belly grew tight.
"I came because I've… got something for you. Someone." Nathaniel continued, digging into his pocket. Anders slumped in relief. He wasn't there to talk about what Anders thought he was going to talk about, as that was something he'd refused to think of since it happened.
Nathaniel drew a small leather pouch from his pocket, which had a tiny, intricate P stitched on it in silver thread. He handed it to Anders, who took it, a confused look on his face. He started when his fingers brushed against Nathaniel's, but he didn't think the other man had noticed.
"Um." Anders turned the little pouch over in his hand. The leather was strong and fine, the stitching on the lettering delicate. The pouch had been sewn shut, he noticed, almost forming a little pillow. There was something inside it, though. Dirt? He wondered if Amaranthine was known for having a magical sand of some sort.
"It's… I've been carrying him with me for a while, now." Nathaniel told him, scratching at his neck. "It's Ser Pounce-a-lot."
"It's… oh. Oh." Anders felt his shoulders slump as he stared at the little pouch. "His ashes?"
"Yes. The woman you gave him to contacted me when he passed. She didn't know what to do. I… took the body, had it cremated. I've never really known why. I didn't think I would see you again. He's been with me for over a year, now. I imagine he's what kept me alive while I was in the Deep Roads. He was an… extraordinary cat," Nathaniel babbled.
"You… I don't know if that's creepy or sort of… sweet." Anders replied. He rubbed a thumb over the leather, sadness creeping up on him. Oh, poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, but he blinked them away. "Thank you, Nathaniel. This is… this is a comfort. He is. I won't lie and say I haven't missed him."
"He missed you, too." Nathaniel murmured. Anders bit his lip. He didn't think Nathaniel was solely talking about the cat. But that was in the past, hidden away in the corner of his heart where he kept the happy memories of a better time locked up, hidden from Justice. Hidden from himself.
An awkward silence settled over the two, and Anders found himself gazing at the remains of his cat while Nathaniel stared at his shoes. Anders didn't really know what else to say, the silence making him uncomfortable.
"Anders."
He looked up. Nathaniel was still looking at his boots, his eyes focused and his neck stiff. "I. Admittedly. Uh. I came… for another reason. I was hoping to talk to you – about… what you said to me before you left. I-"
"Nathaniel." Anders stopped him. Stopped himself. He wanted so badly to say so many things, but he couldn't. Nathaniel wouldn't understand, no more than Hawke would. No more than he himself could.
"I know… I remember. What we did together, that night." Anders admitted. "I will always treasure the memory, but you know I can't return. You know how I've… changed."
Nathaniel frowned. "I know that Justice is inside you, Anders. I know that was something that I resented at first, but… Maker, Anders, I-"
"Nathaniel. Stop. Please. No matter what you say, or what you do, we can't talk of this. It's in the past. We allowed ourselves that single night because we knew what was going to happen, and that's all it is. Was. Will ever be. A single night." It hurt to say so.
"For Andraste's sake, Anders!" Suddenly Nathaniel stood, his face set in determination. "It doesn't have to be! I didn't stop you then because I was an idiot, but I know now. I've spent the last nine years thinking about it. I don't care if there is another being inside you! Not anymore. You don't have to stay here in this… sty. Come back to Amaranthine with me. The Maker has given me this chance by placing you on my path again."
Anders shook his head. Nathaniel didn't understand. And he never would, really. The Anders who had held him and teased him and annoyed him had faded into nothingness years ago. The one that stood before him wasn't who he wanted, or who he needed. If only he could explain, but he couldn't. He didn't really understand it himself.
"I'm sorry, Nathaniel. I can't. Please, leave it be. Thank you for returning Ser Pounce-a-lot to me." His heart ached. "But I need you to leave. Please."
Nathaniel stared at him for a moment, his eyes searching for something that wasn't there. And then they flickered shut, and when they opened it was though Nathaniel had washed it all away.
"I… understand. I'll go. It was wonderful to see you again, Anders. I'm glad you're well." The words sounded heavy - lost.
Anders nodded. "You too. Thank you, Nathaniel."
They gazed at each other, a million words and thoughts and feeling dancing between them, before Nathaniel suddenly stormed forward and kissed Anders, hard. It was brief and sweet and tantalizing and it made Anders shake, but then Nathaniel was walking out the door and disappearing into the shadows of Darktown.
Anders felt his knees give out and hit the ground. He felt ill, woozy, and he clenched his eyes shut as he thought of what he had given up.
What he was going to give up.
"Damn the Chantry. Damn Meredith, damn the Templars!" He hissed, doubling over, clutching the pouch to his forehead. If only… Maker, if only…
His throat burned and he swallowed hard, feeling Justice twitch and quake inside him. So many mistakes… if only.
"Damn me."

@темы: Dragon Age 2, в запас

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Тик-так

Так тикают часы США.

@темы: реальная жизнь

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Это неправильные пчёлы, и они делают неправильный мёд (цы)

Миооооод

Я, наверно, какой-то неправильный фанат, хотя какой вообще из меня фанат?!
Мне отчего-то несвойственно видеть в "кумирах" - литературных, реальных, киношных - пушистых кавайных няшек, способных перекроить самое себя ради чего бы то ни было, если этого каноном не предусмотрено.
Зевран - бабник, для меня балансирующий на тонкой грани между шлюхой и "сексофилией"; убийца, для которого перерезать горло тому, с кем он трахался на протяжении двух часов во всех мыслимых и немыслимых позах - это нормально, обыденно.
Джарлаксл - дроу, которому важна исключительно собственная выгода; наёмник, живущий только для себя, а помощь окружающим в его случае маскирует интересы именно меркантильного характера. У него точно нет совести и сожалений, и ни одно чувство никогда не завладеет им целиком.
Локи, Гарретт и многие другие.
Я отдаю себе отчёт в их действиях: они воруют, оставляя других ни с чем, по сути обрекая своих жертв на голодную смерть; они убивают без чувства вины, просто потому, что кто-то встал на их пути или на чужом; за их ложь кто-то платит жизнью или чем похуже.
Они мне именно такими и нравятся.
Dixi.
И только Энтрери - исключение из моего правила.

@темы: мыслю, значит, существую?

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Причиняю добро.

Предыстория такова.
На работе нашла кошелёк.
Полезла внутрь, обнаружила пропуск в поликлинику.
Нашла хозяйку и вернула потерянное.
Спустя 20 минут подумала: "И какого хрена я не оставила его себе?!"

Вот такая я хорошая.
Кое-кто назвал меня "доброй".
Добро добром, а кушать хочется.
Мне бы пригодилась та нескромная сумма, которая в этом кошельке была.
Иногда мне кажется, что я сильно отстала от нынешнего времени.
Сейчас принято быть нахрапистым, наглым, эгоистичным.
Хорошо, наверно, быть "в струе" современных тенденций, в том числе в области жизненных приоритетов и принципов.
А ведь ты, дражайший ассассин, на мои принципы как-то нафырчал зимой, я помню.

@темы: реальная жизнь

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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Кризис

Иногда в отношениях двух людей наступает кризис. Тип отношений в данном случае не имеет особого значения: любовь, дружба, страсть или ещё что. Даже в ненависти есть времена спада.
Точки таких вот кризисов вызывают у меня грусть. Не злобу, не отчаянье, не ажиотаж. Просто это очень грустно. И вдвойне грустно, если не в твоих силах сделать что-то. Никто не запрещает пытаться изменить положение вещей.
Но я не буду ничего делать.
Не потому, что это не касается меня, а потому, что моя помощь в данном случае явно не требуется.
И я могу от бездействия лезть на стену и стирать карандаш о бумагу, по тысячному разу проводя одну и ту же линию.
И с места не сдвинусь.

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Я в восторге!

Не очень люблю Андерса.
Искренне полагаю, что его слияние со Справедливостью не есть правильная концовка истории в ДАА.


The mage and his apprentice by *rooster82 on deviantART

Вот таким я бы хотела видеть Андерса через пять-семь лет после ДАА. Здесь он не мальчишка-бунтарь и не одержимый, не считающийся с жертвами своей революции. Андерс, для которого Справедливость остался другом и который никогда не впускал демона в своё тело. Тот Андерс, который обучает маленькую девочку искусству обращения с её огромной силой, помогает ребёнку не пасть жертвой этой силы, давая знания, а не полную свободу. Андерс, умеющий решать конфликты мирно и отстаивать свою точку зрения, не взрывая церковь *хотя кадры и правда красивые* и не уничтожая целый город *опять*. Это мой идеальный Андерс, которого никогда не случилось.
Спасибо за него rooster82, пусть и не на мой заказ, но она нарисовала его очень точно. Я бы не смогла выразить словами лучше то, что она выразила карандашом.

@темы: Dragon Age 2

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Когнитивный диссонанс!

Во-первых.

Уже два дня ловлю на работе человека, чтобы отдать ему ЕГО зарплату.
Он от меня бегает и скрывается.
Это что за фигня?!

Во-вторых.

Работа позволила мне узнать про себя интересные факты, ставящий меня в ступор.
Оказывается, я "умею удивляться, не шевеля лбом".

Это ещё половина дела.
Сегодня мне сказали, что я "йадовитая злайа ехидна" и "при моём характере сработаться со мной нереально".
А потом добавили: "Уж поверь мне, я с тобой вон сколько времени провела".

При том, что я по жизни приспособленец!
Банальные комплименты из серии "как тебе идут платья" и "почему ты не ходишь в юбках" я вообще опущу.

запись создана: 20.07.2011 в 10:00

@темы: у жизни тоже есть чувство юмора

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А как Вы про**ываете свою жизнь?

В последнее время потянуло на творячество.
Собственно, я всегда считала, что мои руки растут...не из нужного места.
Практика убеждает в обратном.
Молодец практика!
ИТАК! Снизу - мои сокровища и просто подарки.

Готовые коши для котоФая, завёрнутые, чтобы во время перевозки не случилось с ними чего.
Теперь страдаю, на работе стало нечего делать!

Бутылка Кляйна...или Клейна...не суть.
Выдувала её, конечно, не я, но вот заливала внутрь жидкость я.
Выглядит очень красиво!

Мои цвяточки.
На самом деле, это десерт.
Оно даже съестное.
Ну, кроме самих цвяточков.

Собственноручно сшитый мною мешочек.
Разумеется для денег!!!

Горстка золотых.

@темы: реальная жизнь