UNBOUNDHere on Unbound, our plot follows four different timelines, set throughout the canonical history of the Dragon Age. The events following Trespasser, the time of the Inquisition, the rise of the Champion of Kirkwall and the quest of the Warden against the Fifth Blight.
And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
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duel blades - expert / uses posion as an aid
tattoos on side of face, hip, abdomen, and right thigh - faded, acquired as a teenager. various scars scattered, though more heavily featured on his back
in his youth, zevran ignored any stress or trauma he went through; after the events of rinna's death, he fell into a depression that drove him to attempt suicide. his mindset is in a much better place these days, keeping himself distracted and occasionally surrounded by those who he considers friends.
zevran is otherwise in perfect health - his occupation keeps him feet, though he is starting to feel the wear and tear of his age. zevran is light on his fit and eager for practically every encounter, though he is growing tired of constantly being pursued by the crows.
dragon 9:05 - 9:12he was born, he was trained, and then he fought.
he came into the world already bloody. in childhood, he was happy, in the way a child does not know any better. the whores cooed over his gold spun hair. his mother, three years in her grave, had hair as black as night, though it had lost its luster in the years she'd spent in the brothel. they braid it when they have the time when they are not turning their tricks or pushing him aside hard enough to wobble on unsteady legs. he learned when to expect their affection - it was all in the eyes. he even made it into a game.
at seven they pick him, dirty and small with scraped knees and newly braided hair, and he watches as they dropped coins - one, two, three flashes of gold - into the madam's hands and then take his bony arm, their grip a death trap.
the girls do not look at him as he's pulled from the building. nobody pays a second glance at the skinny elf child being dragged down the street, flanked by two humans. they already know his fate. they want him to kill. the things he killed in himself to get there do not matter.
he is decent at it, until the day he is good at it.
and the masters hate him for it.
dragon 9:20he falls out a window on his first assassination job, and he returns wet and cold but laughing as taliesen throws an arm over his shoulders, hand creeping lower with the intent to share a victory together. the smile he shares with the human is sly and accepting. it's comfortable, despite his failure, and he's high on adrenaline and the thrill of seven bodies fallen because of his blade.
taliesen buys him gear to replace those stolen by the street urchins that dragged him from the river after your fall, just one reward for surviving; informs him, "you can pay me back later."
gifts are always given with blood. the world does not give unless it takes, and he learns to not expect anything at all.
dragon 9:28taliesen's grins always had a way of stealing his attention, but rinna's eyes, mouth, hair - noselaughshandsmile - have a way of holding it. the thought should terrify him, but he's too caught up with the way she twirls her little daggers between her fingers while she's talking to a contract.
"you are devious, my dear," he tells her.
"that's your job," she counters.
wicked smart, she sees right past his drawled charm and loves him anyway.
maybe it was the way he watched her that made him miss the way taliesen's eyes grew dark. crows never learned to share well, after all. and he never had a reason to doubt taliesen before.
dragon 9:30 - 9:31he licks spilled wine off fingers, the taste crisp and dry and sweet, your favorite vintage, but he has no notion of wine being the only thing to have stained his hands red and terrible and red.
wine tastes better than the copper tang of blood any day, and his hands were three weeks clean of his latest contract.
the next one sits in front of him. the ghost of his last sits heavily on his shoulder. he rolls them as if to dislodge her, tips his chin and smiles. nausea rises and he fights it back with a chuckle.
(he supposes ferelden is as good a place to die than anywhere else.)
"i must remember to pack my good cloak."
he wakes up, alive.
there is a slow thrumming ache throughout his entire body, and a blinding headache building between his eyes. the hit that knocked him unconscious was a mercy blow, and when he wakes to find his former target staring down, he hopes - briefly - that perhaps they will finish the job.
he thought to wake to scorn if there was ever a chance of waking up at all. instead, it is the warden's face that peers down at him with cautious curiosity.
he isn't sure if he'd rather be dead.
and then a screaming desire to live.
"perhaps we can make a deal?"
he did not join them expecting to want to stay. he ends up staying anyway.
he closes himself off, but his smile is ever present and wicked and as sharp as his eyes. the group feels foreign to him, yet so familiar it leaves him straddling emotions: the want to make himself comfortable but wary of getting too close. history made it clear what happened if he did. they get under his skin anyway, and he's startled to find a joke tossed across camp makes him laugh harder than he had in years. he loosens his already loose tongue, but what drips is not white lies or words made of honey, but rather a delicate and beautiful truth. he killed the woman he loved.
it is a story he tells after several months of casually avoiding the issue. after he stops thinking about the things he left behind in antiva, stops telling them he always believed he'd return.
it's a story he tells even though he fumbles the words: "she was different. now she's dead." it's a story that isn't done yet: "i want to begin again."
once, when he was younger, he'd dreamed of running away from the crows to join the dalish in the forests of antiva, but he'd killed that dream just as quickly as he'd conceived it. from then on, it had been a thought in the back of his mind, like the pair of gloves he kept stashed under the mattress of his bed, threadbare and coming apart. eventually, the crows had taken even those from him.
he knows very little about the dalish, outside of his mother leaving her clan to foolishly follow a city elf into an early death in the back of a brothel.
zevran had made a small mention in passing of that fact, upon arriving at the clan's camp, before getting swept into werewolf politics and an ancient curse, and wrinkles his nose at oghren's comment about frolicking in the woods and it being "the home of his people".
his people had turned their tricks in a seedy building not yet large enough to house all of its occupants, and then it had been an organization carefully disguised to not resemble a cage.
it surprises him how quickly this ragtag group of apostates and hidden kings and lost warriors become his people.
dragon 9:32 his old comrades in arms have no idea what to expect when he comes sliding in from the shadows.
he can thrive within the coldest of climates, among the dirt and mud they claimed him to be but knew he was better than, if only allowed the chance to rise. he does rise, a snarl that sounds more like a laugh slipping between slightly parted lips, his breath a puff of air before him. it is cold most days in his new place he calls a second home, where he fears he will die of the chill. it is proof he is alive, that he exists.
how dare they think they can take that from him.
discord or pm
let! me! love! all! the! origin! peeps!
alright that's enough of that. but honestly, i absolutely adore the origin companions and zevran formed bonds with many of them - some complex, some simple! i also just want to explore zevran and what he's doing with the crows further.
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