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Zevran does not belong in an alienage. He is not one of them—there is no place for him within these cramped and dirty walls, no niche to carve out with blood and spite, like an open wound, as he had learned to do among the Crows. He is far removed from the life these elves have lived—they do not scan every shadow for hidden assailants or tally the most efficient ways to kill strangers on the street out of nothing more than boredom. But more than that, it is merely another inexpertly crafted cage—and one not nearly so prettily gilded, at that. Within mere months, Zevran estimates that he would already be eagerly rattling the bars. Nevertheless, he trails willingly behind his dear warden as they lead him deeper between the hovels, navigating the dilapidated streets with the ease of one born of them. It is a halting journey, with every step hampered by exuberant well-wishers, celebrating the end of the blight. The dead have been dragged out and burned, and though the air still carries an undeniably somber aftertaste, the flowing casks have made it easier for those who remain to forget their woes and be grateful that they, at least, have survived despite it all. Zevran stands apart from the crowd, for all that he weaves right through the heart of it like an extension of his warden’s shadow. Upon finally arriving at their destination, his warden knocks on the door and is greeted even more warmly by those within. “Cousin!” The woman they spoke to before about the Tevinter charlatans—Shianni, Zevran remembers—throws her arms around his warden’s shoulders and laughs loudly. “You came just in time! I’ve just finished cooking dinner.” “Oh no,” his warden laughs teasingly. Zevran must fight to keep the besotted look off his face. “Not your Denerim-rabbit stew? You shouldn’t have.” “Nuh uh, I won’t hear it!” Shianni crows. “Come, sit down and eat with us, before the food gets cold. We’ve all missed you so much.” His warden is dragged inside the house unceremoniously, but Zevran hesitates imperceptibly on the threshold, trying to swallow against the unknown pressure squeezing his chest like a vice. His warden turns back to catch his eye, imploring him to follow, and he is helpless but to obey. The door shuts behind him, closing off his only readily available exit. His eyes work unconsciously, picking out the most easily defensible positions inside the house and cataloguing all the shadows he could conceal himself within in case of an emergency. The house is bare enough that there aren’t many, but he has a plan of action should things go south, and he is forced to make a retreat. “My child, you have returned,” the old man’s voice comes from where he sits at the head of the table. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?” Though his eyes show no sign of malice as they rove over him curiously, Zevran must resist the instinct to stand at attention and await orders. This is his warden’s father, not his Guildmaster come to inspect him for any hints of weakness, he reminds himself. Still, it is just as nerve-racking, if not more so, despite lacking the promise of certain death as a reward for failing to measure up. Zevran seduces and assassinates his targets—current unforeseen circumstances notwithstanding—he’s not brought home to meet their parents. The situation he has found himself in is completely unpreceded, and should he disappoint now, it will have long-reaching consequences of a more personal nature than he can rightly afford. He will have to do his utmost to perform to their satisfaction, engaging in a seduction unlike any he has ever attempted before. He only hopes he isn’t at too much of a disadvantage; he knows from their last visit that he is not the man’s first choice of paramour. “Zevran Arainai, at your service, my good man,” he bows with a flourish. “I accompanied our dear warden here on their endeavor to vanquish the blight—something they accomplished very dashingly; I might add.” “Ah, yes, I remember now: you were with them when they saved us from those awful slavers, weren’t you?” His warden’s father recalls, scratching his chin in thought. “Well, I thank you for accompanying my child on their journey, despite the dangers. I’m relieved they had someone at their side throughout it all.” He smiles at Zevran warmly. “Come, join us at the table; any friend of theirs is a friend of ours.” “Gracias, señor,” Zevran acknowledges, sitting at the other end of the table, as close to the warden as he can get with the warden’s other cousin—Sorin? He can’t quite recall, but he’s sure it will come up again at some point—on their other side and Shianni returning quickly to set the table. “Alright! Get it while it’s hot!” Shianni instructs as she pours a serving of soup into each of their bowls. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing—Zevran is not entirely confident the meat within the stew is from a rabbit, despite its name—but he’s become more than used to scarfing down food of questionable origins and skill while on the road with his warden. This experience is the only thing that saves him from making a face as the first spoonful graces his tongue. He’d known that Ferelden food was bland compared to Antivan delicacies, but he had not expected his host to forgo even salt. Zevran feels that he may actually weep once he has laid himself down to bed next to his warden. This can be nothing less than a punishable crime. At least he can be sure that there are no poisons contained within the dish—they would have nowhere to hide. “Soooo, Cousin, how did you meet this… Zevran, of yours?” Shianni questions slyly, eyeing him appreciatively out of the corner of her eye. Zevran is no stranger to such flattery, but he pauses at the question, eyes darting over to his warden apprehensively. He is not sure revealing to his warden’s family that he met them under… less than optimal circumstances will do him many favours in the “seeking approval” department. “Oh, he was hired to assassinate me. It was a whole thing,” his warden waves their hand nonchalantly, sharing none of his worries. Sorin(?) does a spit-take, coughing violently before turning to his warden incredulously. “He what?” “Yeah, it didn’t really work out. Not the best recruitment pitch, honestly.” They turn to him conspiratorially, smirking. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” “Wait, but then you—you two are—?” Sorin—no one has corrected him yet, so Zevran has decided that that is his name until proven otherwise—can’t seem to finish his sentence, eyes darting between the two of them with dawning comprehension. “Hold on, you brought a boy home?” Shianni grins widely, looking rather like the crow that killed their quarry. “Why, I never thought I’d see the day. What happened to ‘but I don’t want to get married, Shianni?’” “Yes, ‘let’s run off and join the Dalish, Soris,’” his warden’s other cousin—ah, not Sorin, but remarkably close—joins in on the ribbing. His warden’s father steps in to admonish them, “Settle down, children, give them room to talk.” “Don’t make a big deal of it,” his warden groans, knocking their head back. “He grew on me is all—like mold.” “Oh, what a pleasant comparison, mi amor; shall I say that when you spared my life it was like merciful Andraste herself came down from the heavens to redeem me of my sins?” Zevran jests. His warden’s face flushes a lovely shade of red as they avert their eyes, mumbling, “You don’t have to lay it on that thick, you’re making me feel guilty.” “Of course, my apologies, dear warden. I am nothing but a humble lichen yearning to bask in your radiant glory.” They groan again, loudly, and knock their foot into his under the table. Ordinarily, he would take this as a delightful lead into a game of footsies, but perhaps not in present company. “Well, all that really matters to me is that you’re happy,” their father says. He pauses, looking at his warden intently. “You are happy, aren’t you?” An honest smile spreads across his warden’s face. “Yes, I am.” Their eyes seek out his across the table, a soft twinkle in their depths. “Very happy.” Zevran suddenly finds it very hard to breathe, but he would gladly suffocate under the weight of that look for the rest of his pitiably short life. “As am I,” he echoes quietly. “Right, now that that’s out of the way, how good is he in bed?” “Shianni!” his warden squawks indignantly. A round of guffaws go around the table as they fight playfully over her comment. The rest of the family dinner goes smoothly, without any further notable hiccups. His warden shares anecdotes about their adventure when prompted and listens soberly as their family fills them in on the progress of the alienage so far. Inevitably, the time eventually comes for them to leave. Evil never sleeps, so those who would oppose it don’t get any either—perhaps that is why the darkspawn are so hideous? A thought to consider. No tears are shed at their parting, but none can quite hide the wet sheen to their eyes. “You’re sure we can’t convince you to stay?” his warden’s father asks just before the door. “I’d love to, we just have so much to do. I’ll be back before you know it, promise,” his warden assures, giving each of them a last hug or kiss on the cheek before making their way outside. Zevran goes to follow but is briefly stopped by Soris. “You’ll take care of them, won’t you? They… haven’t had the easiest time when it comes to love.” “You need not ask, my friend. It hardly bears question,” Zevran replies. “Good. I just… good.” He breaths a sigh of relief, finally mustering the courage to look him dead in the eyes with intense purpose. “And know that if you hurt them, you’ll have the whole alienage at your back.” Ah, the infamous shovel talk. He was wondering when he’d have the chance to hear it. “I would never hope for anything less,” Zevran tells him truthfully. With a last nod and a final farewell, Zevran and his warden have finally left their warm hearth behind. The sun has slowly set over the horizon and the celebrations have died down as everyone goes home for the night. His warden has too much to do in the wake of Ferelden’s upheaval, or else they might have further imposed on their hospitality. “Phew, that went even better than I’d hoped it would,” his warden breaths out a relieved sigh, stretching their arms out behind their head as they gaze up at the two pale moons overhead. They glance over at him, eyes shimmering in the firelight. “Were you nervous?” Zevran goes to deny the accusation off-hand, then hesitates. It… wouldn’t hurt to speak from the heart, just this once. “I admit to being slightly perturbed. The premise was rather daunting.” “More daunting than battling an archdemon?” “Oh, undoubtedly so. After all, I wasn’t intimately engaged with the archdemon’s offspring—the worst I had to fear then was certain death. Parental disapproval? So much more crushing,” he jokes, earning a muffled snicker from his love. “Well, I’m glad it all worked out.” They swing their arms back down. “Come on, let’s go, it’s getting cold out.” “I shall follow wherever you lead, my dear warden. Always.” Zevran doubts he may ever truly belong in an alienage, but he knows there will always be a place for him at his warden’s side—to death, and beyond, such as it may be. It is a far better epilogue than any he’d ever had the audacity to hope for.
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Zevran is not used to being on the receiving end of this level of attention. In general, he is the one to lavish his partners with worshipful words and tantalizing touches, drawing out indulgence until the poison took effect or they were so distracted they had no mind to defend against the knife slitting their throat in the afterglow. Sometimes it was hard and fast, and that was also good, but even on the occasions where it could be taken slow, he was rarely the one under the knife of pleasure, so to speak. The brothel, the Crows… both had taught him how to give pleasure and make a show of his own without truly giving into it. Perhaps with Rinna and Taliesen… but no, that too was just another stolen reprieve, a pleasant diversion. Perhaps it could have been more once, but not with the lives they had lived—not with all the lives they’d taken between them. But that is neither here nor now, with his warden pressing soft kisses to every inch of visible skin under their tender ministrations. They lean closer, finger tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of his hip, and whisper in his ear: “If I were still in Orzammar, I could take you as my consort.” A paradoxical shiver runs down his spine at the caress of their hot breath. “You’d be spoiled… waited on hand and foot. A pretty, pampered thing, solely for my enjoyment.” Zevran isn’t sure if it is the words or the playful nip at his ear that causes his breath to hitch. It is deceptively easy to forget that his dear warden was once heir to the royal line of Orzammar, especially with the shortage of people stopping to bow or take a knee before their excellency—besides Zevran, of course. Then again, he is almost sure he would willingly prostrate himself at their feet if they but thought to ask. “I do, ah, love a good royal scandal.” Zevran struggles to regulate his breathing as they continue their ministrations, fisting his hand in the sheet to anchor himself as they drift down his body. “You are—mmh!—quite good at this, aren’t you, my dear?” Their answering chuckle causes him to bite off a curse as the vibrations travel through him. They draw back off him and begin pumping him with their hand instead, leaning closer to continue whispering filth and honey into the tangible heat between them. “Perhaps I’d have you on the throne, in front of the whole assembly. Any who gazed at you overlong would have their covetous eyes plucked from their wretched skulls.” A bit bloodthirsty, perhaps, but a little bloodplay has never been enough to turn him off before, and Zevran is no stranger to exhibitionism. He cannot think of a clever enough retort before his warden continues painting this imaginary scene on the back of his eyelids as they flutter closed, “I’d shower you with riches; gold, jewels… anything your heart desires.” They lavish his throat with attention, coaxing him closer to completion with skilled hands. “I bet you’d look gorgeous draped across silk sheets, in nothing but golden finery.” This final fantasy proves enough to send him over the edge, allowing the rolling waves of pleasure to wash over him and leave his mind comfortably muddled. His warden collapses next to him, wrapping sweaty arms around his torso and burying their nose in his tousled hair. Zevran reaches up and runs his fingers through their own, earning him a soft sigh for his efforts as they bask in the afterglow. He will return the favor once the strength returns to his limbs. Never let it be said that he is an ungenerous lover. Despite his exhaustion, his warden’s last words stick in his mind like a knife in a wooden target, refusing to dislodge of its own accord. The rest of the imagined scenario lies in the realm of the infeasible due to his warden’s regrettable exile, but that last idea… that last idea isn’t completely implausible. Still, Zevran doubts it will amount to anything while the Blight looms over their heads. A year later, in the Warden-Commander’s private chamber at Vigil’s Keep… Zevran sits atop the bed and awaits his beloved warden’s much-anticipated return. The door creeks on its hinges as it’s pushed open—a death sentence for any assassin should they endeavor to use it as an entrance—then again, Zevran would prefer this particular personage remain un-assassinated, so perhaps it is better to remain un-oiled—and his warden steps through incautiously, digging the palm of their hand into their tired eyes. He will have to have a word with them later about maintaining situational awareness, lest they fall prey to an attacker (of undoubtedly lesser skill and renown). Finally, they drop their hand from their face, weary eyes alighting on the figure sitting prettily atop their sheets… dressed in nothing but a dozen gold necklaces, armbands, rings, and anklets. A ruby-studded collar tops the ensemble off with a decidedly debaucherous air. The Warden-Commander’s breath catches in their chest and their eyes darken with lust as they slowly study their prize, licking their lips in an unconscious reflex. Wasting no words, they prowl closer, forcing him to recline further on the bed as they climb overtop him, bracketing his head between their arms. When they finally speak, their voice is low and husky: “And what have I done for such a pretty gift to await me in my own bedchamber? It can’t be I’ve forgotten my name-day, can it?” “A passing fancy, nothing more,” Zevran brushes the question aside. “But since this gift has been waiting rather impatiently for you to complete your duties, what say you unwrap it already? This country has a terrible chill.” His warden’s answering wolfish grin promises a very long and thorough unwrapping, much to Zevran’s very vocal pleasure.
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Zevran wasn’t sure what to expect when he followed the warden into the backroom at the Gnawed Noble Tavern—well, no, he knows exactly what he expected—for the Crows to ambush them the moment they stepped through the door. More accurately, Zevran wasn’t sure what to expect from the warden. They appeared to be one of the rare few truly striving to embody the “noble” aspect of their title, and this did not lend particularly well to accepting assassination contracts. Where the debate truly lied was in whether they would allow Ignacio to live once he’d made his offer; so far as Zevran has seen, they are not the type to kill in cold blood, though removing an affiliate of the organization out for their head hardly seems like what one would deem an unwise move. They had shown him unexpected—and arguably naïve—mercy after his failed assassination, but whether this same leniency would be extended to his fellow (former) associates was yet to be seen. To say he is surprised when they accept the contracts would be… perhaps a mild exaggeration, but it is not entirely expected. Perhaps it had been pragmatism rather than pity that stayed the warden’s hand the day he was recruited—merely another body between them and the blight? Not to mention that the contracts they are given have seemingly been hand-picked to steal into the warden’s good graces by undermining Loghain’s power base. It can’t be said that a little pragmatism is an unnecessary affectation in such trying times. When all is said and done, Zevran expects both parties to go their separate ways with nary a trouble—baring a sudden yet inevitable betrayal, of course. Zevran had notably not assumed the betrayal would be on their own end. “I have no more use for you, then,” they say coldly once the last contract has been completed. “Prepare yourself.” The ensuing melee is short, though not without struggle. The Crows and their associates are well-trained, after all. As they pick through the bodies for loot, Zevran’s mind is elsewhere, reconsidering his estimation of his warden’s character. They have a way of constantly surprising him, this strange, mercurial benefactor of his. This is not necessarily a good thing. On their way back to camp, Zevran remains quiet and withdrawn, occupied by his thoughts. Until the double-cross, the warden had done their best to conduct themself honorably—perhaps a foolish notion in times like these, but they had remained committed to it, sometimes even to their detriment, until that moment. No matter what angle he approaches from, it conflicts with what he has seen of the warden’s previous actions. Never before had they been so… cold-blooded. But no matter the motivation, it does not bode well for Zevran’s own continued security amongst the wardens. He and Ignacio are not so different, after all. What fate awaits him once he too outlives his usefulness to the warden? During a blight, every blade against the darkspawn is a welcome one, but what of after? Would the warden still have need of his service once the archdemon is slain and Loghain dethroned? They are noble no longer, having left that life behind when they joined the Wardens; surely, they would not have so many enemies that keeping an assassin on retainer would be deemed necessary? Unless they plan to continue meddling in politics… There are many who find it hard to relinquish power once they’ve acquired it—Zevran can only hope his warden will not be one of them. It is, after all, the same type of person that tends to inspire assassination contracts. Perhaps he has endeared himself enough to them that they would keep him around as a bedwarmer? They have already fallen into bed together a number of times, but Zevran is slowly coming to realize he finds it harder to anticipate his warden than he would’ve thought. Even a life spent letting his knives rust is better than meeting his end at one of the Crows’ own, which is the fate that surely awaits him should the warden turn him away. His unusual sobriety appears to have finally caught his warden’s attention, as they wander over to his side of the camp to inquire about it. “Something on your mind?” “Just a question, if I may?” Zevran works up the courage to ask. The warden raises a brow, encouraging him to continue. “Here is the thing: I swore to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you’re on is all very well and fine. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity.” His warden appears confused by the line of questioning, as though they had never thought about it. “Why would I do anything with you?” “Oh, I imply nothing specific, of course.” Zevran waves his hand as if to brush the question aside. “One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?” The light of the fire flickers across their face as they gaze into the flames ponderously. It makes them appear older, wearier, harsher. They breathe a deep sigh and respond, “Who knows? But I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to leave.” “Oh? And if I didn’t wish to leave?” They smirk humorously. “Well, there’s always a use or two for a handsome elf.” Zevran chuckles, worries slightly assuaged. “I’m sure I could come up with a few more, if pressed.” There is no telling what will happen when the moment comes in truth. Even the greatest heroes go back on their word when it proves inconvenient. “It is good to know what my options might be,” he finishes. His warden’s voice echoes coldly in his head, as it has ever since they left Denerim: ‘I have no more use for you, then.’ Zevran suppresses a shiver. That time will come, or it won’t—or maybe they’ll both be dead by then, eaten by darkspawn or crushed by a dragon, Alistair accidentally adding another poisonous mushroom to the stew. “What brought this on, anyway?” his warden asks, leaving him wrong-footed. “Oh, merely a strange fit of melancholy, brought on by facing an old associate. Nothing to worry about, I assure you,” Zevran dismisses. “You mean Ignacio?” Their face twists into a fierce scowl. “That old blighter had it coming.” “Indeed? We are not so different, he and I. I merely find it odd that you would not extend to him the same mercy you showed me.” “You’re nothing alike,” his warden asserts immediately, causing Zevran to blink in surprise. “No? We both work under the Crows—or worked, in my case—neither of our hands are clean. Why single out one and not the other?” “You had no choice in working for the Crows, and left at the earliest opportunity,” they contend. “Besides, I was only keeping him alive for access to the contracts. He was practically begging for a knife to the throat.” “So, you never intended to allow him to live?” Zevran clarifies. “He called you a whoreson,” the warden spits out the last word like it leaves a bad taste on their tongue. Zevran takes a quiet moment to try and comprehend what he is being told. Never let it be said that his warden is predictable. “I am a whoreson, if you’ll remember,” he points out delicately, trying to inject some humor into his voice. His warden had not reacted so violently when he had shared the story of his mother with them after meeting the Dalish, so he is unsure where the current vitriol stems from. If he had expected anything to cause a complication in their dalliances, it would not have been this—though noble-born, his warden had not seemed the type to care about others’ stations in life, though he could be mistaken. He has been mistaken about too many things recently. Perhaps he’s getting rusty… Now there’s a concerning thought. “That doesn’t mean he gets to insult you with it,” they huff, sails deflated now they are no longer alighted with righteous anger. “You mean to say you killed him… because he insulted me?” Zevran asks incredulously. Never before has he met someone so… concerned with upholding his honor. The honor of an assassin, at that. How novel. He laughs aloud at the thought, head knocked back and throat rippling with mirth. When he comes back to himself, he finds his warden watching him with eyes dark with desire, and smirks. “Let no one say chivalry is dead. It seems I am once again in your debt, my brave and noble champion.” He stands and bows with a flourish, earning himself an amused snort. “There must be some way I can repay you for your troubles… perhaps in the tent?” He doesn’t have to ask twice.
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“Move over!” “You move over!” “Your elbow is digging into my side!” “Well, maybe you should’ve bought a bigger couch!” “Both of you, shut up!” Anuriel yells over Jowan and Hadrian as they fight for dominance over the popcorn bowl while they wait for the movie to start. Maybe it was a bad idea to try and fit all three of them in a shitty apartment in downtown Denerim, but it was the best they could afford after aging out of their foster home together. They had been working for years to build a case against the templar caretakers—collecting signatures, compiling testaments, and petitioning the Seekers—and last week it had finally all paid off when Kinloch Hold got busted for countless cases of grievous abuse and negligence against their charges. The fall of one Circle generated a domino effect, with the branch in Kirkwall serving as the turning point in the fight against the institution itself. There were even allegations being leveled at the Chantry, their biggest charity donor. It was practically a minor revolution given how widespread the ripples were. Now that things have finally calmed down a little, they have time to celebrate their achievement by marathoning Star Wars—a time-honored tradition that served the dual purpose of drowning out the neighbors’ uncomfortably loud and healthy sex lives. The title card plays, and just when they’ve all finally managed to settle in nicely, Hadrian perks up and declares, “I want pizza.” “We had pizza last week,” Anuriel argues. They need to stay under budget so they can afford next month’s electricity bill, and bingeing on junk food isn’t the way to do that. If they can save up enough money, they might even be able to move into a better apartment. ‘One where the walls aren’t so thin,’ Anuriel grumbles internally. “Yeah, but that was last week. We haven’t had pizza this week yet,” Hadrian refutes, sticking his nose in the air and crossing his arms like a petulant child. “I’m ordering pizza.” “Are you getting House of Repose? I love their pineapple pizza,” Jowan garbles around a mouthful of popcorn. “First of all, chew with your mouth closed, for Maker’s sake, that’s gross.” Hadrian wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Secondly, only weirdos like pineapple on pizza. Like you. Or Orlesians. And thirdly; no, I’m ordering Antivan Crows. Everyone knows Antivan pizza is the best.” Anuriel frowns at Hadrian as he clambers ungracefully over the back of the ratty couch and into the kitchen, where the computer balances precariously on the edge of the table. “You can’t order Crows, it’s too expensive.” “No, no, it’s cool, Lily gave me a coupon for Wintersend,” Jowan announces. Hadrian stops dancing between the old coffee cups littering the floor to turn around and stare at him incredulously. “Your girlfriend got you a coupon for Wintersend? A pizza coupon?” Jowan blusters, face turning a splotchy red in embarrassment. “W-well don’t pretend like yours was any better! Your creepy goth girlfriend gave you a tracking chip—that’s a red flag!” “Your face is a red flag,” Hadrian snipes back, returning to his perilous journey towards the kitchen table. Anuriel rolls her eyes at their childish antics and refocuses on the tv, trying to tune them out so she can actually hear the actors over the tinny speakers. “Hey, what should I put in the ‘special instructions’ box?” Hadrian calls back once he’s finished placing their order. “Tell them to send their cutest delivery boy,” Jowan suggests. “Oh, I didn’t think you were into guys,” Hadrian ribs him. “Things not working out between you and Lily? Was it the coupon?” “Very funny,” Jowan sneers. “No, I just think ‘Nuriel could benefit from meeting some new people.” “I meet plenty of new people,” she scowls at him defensively. “I certainly don’t need you matchmaking for me.” “It was just a suggestion!” Jowan defends. “I’m only worried you’ll be lonely when Hadrian and I have Morrigan and Lily over and you’re all by yourself.” “I can entertain myself just fine, thank you,” Anuriel replies icily, turning back to the tv screen definitively. “Okay, I’m done ordering. It should be here in about twenty minutes,” Hadrian pipes back up a few minutes later. Anuriel hisses when he steps on her toes while inching his way back around the couch, sending him a deadly glare. Closer to thirty minutes later, the buzzer rings. “I’ll get it,” Anuriel declares, standing quickly so as not to be subjected to yet more shuffling and pinching. She walks briskly over to the door and opens it to be greeted by an elven man with golden blond hair and a roguish grin. “The Crows send their regards,” he greets her cheerily. “I am to assume that you are the one who requested the Crows ‘send their hottest delivery boy,’ no? I cannot say I am not pleased to be designated as such, or to be summoned by such a beautiful woman like yourself.” Anuriel experiences all five stages of grief in the span of three seconds. “Hadrian!” she shrieks, turning back to glare at his silhouette over the couch. The only response he rewards her with is a fiendish cackle. “Ah, so this was not of your doing then?” He sighs dejectedly. “What a pity. And here I was thrilled to be subject to the whims of a deadly sex goddess.” Anuriel makes a choking noise in the back of her throat, cheeks flushing red. She was not ready for this. She was really not ready for this. Damn Hadrian. She picks up a boot from next to the door and lobs it at his head when she hears his laughter renew. He cuts off with a swear as it makes contact. Anuriel reluctantly turns back to the admittedly handsome elf in front of her. “I—sorry, I just—pizza. Give me the pizza… please,” Anuriel finally says defeatedly. One would think she’d be more eloquent, given the number of lectures she’s given at the local college. “Your wish, my command, my lady,” he bends shortly at the waist as he hands her the pizza. “Thanks. Have a good day,” Anuriel hurriedly closes the door before she can embarrass herself further, scurrying back over to the couch with her prize. “A ‘deadly sex goddess,’ hmm?” Hadrian hums with laughter dancing in his eyes. “Not. A. Word,” Anuriel bites out, sitting down and tossing the lid open, allowing the heavenly aroma of pizza to spread throughout the room. In doing so, her eyes latch onto an incongruent piece of paper fluttering down from where it was stuffed in between the lid and the box. Bending down, she picks it up and unfolds it to see a string of numbers, a messily drawn heart, and the name “Zevran” written in flowing cursive. Anuriel makes another noise like a dying cat and shoves it into her pocket before either Hadrian or Jowan can see. She can’t stand any more teasing at the moment. Who knows, maybe she’ll work up the nerve to ask him out for coffee sometime.