Future Tense
Jun. 23rd, 2010 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dalishstormOriginal prompt: Zevran and Grumpy Theron.
...What? That's kind of a kink, right?
At any post-original campaign, pre-Awakening. Either window-ratting post-Archdemon slaying celebratory boning if appropriate, or something hot and heavy to tide them both over before Theron heads out to Vigil's Keep.
-----------------------
Waiting was the worst part.
Not that Vanastin doubted Zevran's skill. Oh, not at all—the Antivan was more than capable. Zevran could take care of himself, and then some, even against these Crow Masters. But this plan? Royally foolish. He'd been unable to sway Zevran from it, though, even after coming to blows over it. Zevran had struck a pose and smirked, said something witty, after an hour and a half of circular logic, then stated that he didn't care. So Vanastin, unable to contain his frustration, had punched the assassin, growled, “I thought we were both over this death wish.”
So they sat the villa on fire to flush out the lesser Crows, while Zevran was somewhere inside having and epic duel with his fourth Crow Master. Now that flames were licking out of the windows Crows came boiling out of every window, door, crack and crevice in the building. Vanastion moved to the edge of his rooftop vantage across the street, and began loosing arrows into them one by one, until the ground outside was littered with Crow bodies and people began looking for his sniping position as a bucket brigade started forming.
Darting away from the roof's edge, Vanastin muttered under his breath again about how this was a stupid, stupid idea, mostly because even Zevran wouldn't last long in the choking smoke of the opulent villa ablaze. He nimbly hopped to the next roof over, this one tile and slightly pitched and poorer footing, but he found a place to brace himself around a chimney and began picking off Crows again. No one else was coming out of the building, but a few Crows were missing—looking for him, no doubt. Which meant Vanastin had to keep an eye out both for Zevran's escape from the building (to clear a path) and for anyone sneaking up.
A little clatter of clay tiles and a muffled Antivan curse, practically in his ear, startled Vanastin, so the next arrow never made it to his string, gripping the shaft right behind the arrow head and wheeling around to jab it into his assailant's eye—he stopped just short, Zevran staring at him in shock, perfectly still.
“Mi amore,” Zevran stammered, shaken by the close call but still able to set a finger to the side of Vanastin's arrow and push it away. He was soot and sweat streaked, skin flush with heat and perhaps singed, blood-spattered, and, “we are successful. Shall we make our escape?”
Vanastin quickly stuffed the arrow back into his quiver and worked his free hand under Zevran's baldric to pull the larger elf forward in a rough, desperate kiss, confirming with lips and tongue that yes, he returned, safely. Zevran tasted like smoke, and not a necessarily pleasant one, but it made Vanastin long, briefly, for a different path. He knew that he could never go home to his own clan or any other, but once they were done with the Crows he would insist on visiting the nearest clan, on teaching Zevran that the Dalish way of life had some merit, and perhaps they could find some middle ground, because this city thing was killing Vanastin.
After a dangerously long moment Vanastin let go, pushed Zevran gently away. “Let's go.”
...What? That's kind of a kink, right?
At any post-original campaign, pre-Awakening. Either window-ratting post-Archdemon slaying celebratory boning if appropriate, or something hot and heavy to tide them both over before Theron heads out to Vigil's Keep.
-----------------------
Waiting was the worst part.
Not that Vanastin doubted Zevran's skill. Oh, not at all—the Antivan was more than capable. Zevran could take care of himself, and then some, even against these Crow Masters. But this plan? Royally foolish. He'd been unable to sway Zevran from it, though, even after coming to blows over it. Zevran had struck a pose and smirked, said something witty, after an hour and a half of circular logic, then stated that he didn't care. So Vanastin, unable to contain his frustration, had punched the assassin, growled, “I thought we were both over this death wish.”
So they sat the villa on fire to flush out the lesser Crows, while Zevran was somewhere inside having and epic duel with his fourth Crow Master. Now that flames were licking out of the windows Crows came boiling out of every window, door, crack and crevice in the building. Vanastion moved to the edge of his rooftop vantage across the street, and began loosing arrows into them one by one, until the ground outside was littered with Crow bodies and people began looking for his sniping position as a bucket brigade started forming.
Darting away from the roof's edge, Vanastin muttered under his breath again about how this was a stupid, stupid idea, mostly because even Zevran wouldn't last long in the choking smoke of the opulent villa ablaze. He nimbly hopped to the next roof over, this one tile and slightly pitched and poorer footing, but he found a place to brace himself around a chimney and began picking off Crows again. No one else was coming out of the building, but a few Crows were missing—looking for him, no doubt. Which meant Vanastin had to keep an eye out both for Zevran's escape from the building (to clear a path) and for anyone sneaking up.
A little clatter of clay tiles and a muffled Antivan curse, practically in his ear, startled Vanastin, so the next arrow never made it to his string, gripping the shaft right behind the arrow head and wheeling around to jab it into his assailant's eye—he stopped just short, Zevran staring at him in shock, perfectly still.
“Mi amore,” Zevran stammered, shaken by the close call but still able to set a finger to the side of Vanastin's arrow and push it away. He was soot and sweat streaked, skin flush with heat and perhaps singed, blood-spattered, and, “we are successful. Shall we make our escape?”
Vanastin quickly stuffed the arrow back into his quiver and worked his free hand under Zevran's baldric to pull the larger elf forward in a rough, desperate kiss, confirming with lips and tongue that yes, he returned, safely. Zevran tasted like smoke, and not a necessarily pleasant one, but it made Vanastin long, briefly, for a different path. He knew that he could never go home to his own clan or any other, but once they were done with the Crows he would insist on visiting the nearest clan, on teaching Zevran that the Dalish way of life had some merit, and perhaps they could find some middle ground, because this city thing was killing Vanastin.
After a dangerously long moment Vanastin let go, pushed Zevran gently away. “Let's go.”
