Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]
[Action, locked to Isaac]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
Fondest regards,
Zevran
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
no subject
Stripped down and bare the new scars are clearly visible. Pink for how fresh they are- pockmarks against his shoulder, scrapes along his ribs. Injuries mended and not yet done over in black ink. He hasn't had the time. That lithe body twists away from Isaac's touch in a flinch. No attempt at seduction. No coy teasing. Fear. Fear in it's purest form. Mages are sadistic when given cause, and he has heard a great many things of those that worked with blood.
Who better to pluck up than an elf?
His pulse jumps in his throat at the touch. Light, teasing- taunting. He hates it. "If my head is for the sword, then swing it."
Easy to manage a twisted sort of bravado, a lock jaw intensity in his eyes that fazes into confusion. "My...what? I have no lovers."
None whatsoever. Flashes of a dream, but nothing more. No one has warmed his bed since Rinna. He hasn't been able to bear it.
"...who are you? I know your face- you are a nightmare that has haunted me for months but- I know you not."
TW a bit in this tag, and there should have been a TW for graphic images in my first tag, sorry
He adores the challenging, cutting edge to Zevran’s stare; the stiff set of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest; the way it all beckons him to tease and to test as he has so many prisoners before him. Because to a man with an abiding interest in pain, defiance is just another plaything, adding sweetness to a heady sense of triumph when it was crushed to dust. His thumb lingers on his skin, as if he has found the perfect point at which to sink in his teeth and drink as befitting his reputation in Valachia. Crunch through the windpipe and tear out meat and bury his face to his nose into wetness and warmth, the blood fresh and oozing like the juice from an orange.
Vampires have none of his respect and admiration. It’s the simple brutality of such an attack, the primal excitement of it that has the adrenaline racing in his blood. If he could not be loved, he would be feared. It’s the best alternative he has ever known.
“Alas, your head is not worth so much as a paperweight, for it would soon rot and fill my chamber with a foul stench.”
He cracks a faint, lopsided smirk at that, but it falters when a look of stunned surprise flashes across his face despite himself. He cocks his head as if he’s so sure he misheard Zevran, but as he’s taking in the elf’s blank-faced confusion his thoughts are already coming together in a moment of terrible clarity. He had forgotten the possibility of the man coming back as a blank slate. Everything gone, temporarily or permanently.
Swallowing past his heart lodged in his throat, he nods dimly in a sort of knowing, resigned way, the corners of his mouth hard-set in a smile.
“Forgotten them already?” He snorts absently, lifting his thumb away. “You are a terrible lover.” As evenly delivered the answer, sharp and crackling with roguishness, it’s strained too. Muted emotion flickers in his eyes and it’s all he’s willing to say on the matter, not caring to make it his business to reunite lovers. To have a hand in making them happy. It isn’t what Forgemasters do, he reminds himself. It’s of no benefit to him.
Sometimes, he still stirs awake from half-sleep expecting someone to be by his side, and lies there remembering the sound of his name – of Rosso – warm and tingling on the shell of his ear, the echoes still resonating through the fibres of his being. Remembering the foreign tenderness calloused hands had introduced him to. The salt of sweat on his skin, the feeling of his teeth in his flesh and lips stealing his like they meant it. Days best left behind.
He found some truth in the adage out of sight, out of mind. Zevran had already left his indelible little mark, but it hadn’t been until he was gone entirely and there were no unfiltered conversations left to stumble upon - and then to read with braced nerves and an aching, angry heart despite the protests of his better judgment – that he could truly breathe again. He was free. And day by day he found himself reminded that he was a fiercely independent and self-sufficient individual, a survivor time and time again. That devils needed neither friendship nor love, nor were meant for either, spending their lives at the edges of corners of society, looking in and taking what pity-fucks they could get. That he could live without Zevran’s company and thrive in solitude. It was not so bad, being alone, he’d tell himself. No one could touch him; no one could hurt him. No expectation, no dependency, no disappointment.
And as he holds Zevran’s gaze now with clearer eyes, it feels like so long ago, a lifetime ago, when he had laughed and meant it. When he had loved this man and lost him. It’s like some long dream he’s finally woken from, shaking off the last of the clinging illusions.
Perhaps it’s easiest this way, with Zevran’s lapse in memory. He could pretend every regretful decision could be unmade, or never made at all. Had could even press his advantage and weave a tale that they were lovers too, giving shape to a false life and trapping him in it.
“Indeed. You never did know me well, in the end.” Had you, perhaps it could have been different. We could have been different. He feels a dull pang in his throat and wills it away, smiling more gently. “But a few good fucks were had; that certainly must be of some merit.”
The flame goes out and he steps back into the shadows.
no subject
The rest- cold. Biting. Full of pain and blood and dismissal. Of ruthless intent and the fragments keep falling, so many shades and sides to this man that he seems to have known and bedded that he cannot form a complete whole. But he is still Zevran and he cannot let a good quip go unanswered.
"Clearly you have never attempted to embalm a skull in honey. Does wonders for the rot, and it should compliment my complexion quite well. You wouldn't even have to shave my head." Because that is the only way this might end, in death. If he pokes, if he infuriates, if he taunts and snorts and teases he will force it to be a quick one.
A kind one.
He has endured far too much to wish his death to be drawn out and degrading. He is under no illusions that he deserves a noble death. He simply wants the end to come swift and sure. But this man seems something of a sadist. He would rather not learn what would make those cold eyes go warm.
"Unchain me and learn for yourself, mm?" The smile is hollow, the promise empty. He's no tenderness in him left to give. No salacious bravado, no twist of his tongue. He is weary. This is all by route. "Or would you prefer to do this against the wall? Most magisters, I hear, prefer to have their victims facing away from them-"
And it's wrong, so wrong, he knows in some small part that this isn't what this man is. There's a name. Something. A glimmer of a fragment and he cuts himself off to truly stare at this man.
"...Isaac." Rosso. "...you were no fade dream."
And is that not just the worst of it? That something that grounded him so well in this strange place is lost to him simply because he cannot remember? There are holes but he can recall bits. A tattoo, a piercing, a massage. A question in a bath and apparently he never pressed the issue. He opens his mouth to ask after something- but the light fades and he's lost once more to the dark. It makes him think of the deep roads, of enclosed cells, of a horror of death he might have endured but cannot recall the details of. he loses his breath, his bravado, voice curling out soft and small.
"...This is a great deal less comfortable than awaking in your bed." That much he remembers. The beginning. That much has put itself into place.
TW for violent stuff and so forth; action done with permission
At the very back of his mind, he knows. He knows even as he closes the distance in a single sharp stride and his arm shoots out, his hand clamping around Zevran’s throat, that talk of magisters has little to do with him and everything to do with ideas conjured up by a mind strugglingly grasping for understanding and working to bridge mental gaps. He had done the same when he had woke bound to an unlit stake in the village square nearly two years ago. It’s why that when the world stops spinning and the dust settles, he’d forgive him for what an accidental few words have the power to dredge up.
But that Zevran could meet his eyes, and with the shadowed, haunted look of a man resigned to that fate – one that cuts too close to the bone–, say it like he expects him to force himself upon him and destroy more between them than he ever had makes his fingers tighten, tendons and muscles flexed and trembling with more than wiry strength. He brings his face close, cocked at a questioning angle, and it’s frozen into a stiff, implacable mask. Its lines sharper with the intensity that lights his eyes feverishly bright.
“Take you, will I?” It’s not easy to talk, to snarl through his teeth when his throat feels thick.
And between the rhythmic crashing of blood against his eardrums and his thoughts roiling in his mind, he can hear the whisperings of the devil growing louder, clamouring for vengeance, fueling the fire. And then comes the rebuttal, no less fierce. The little voice that begs to ask if Isaac had any right to feel indignation when he had dreamt more than once of taking Hector on a desperate whim, as if someone’s love could be forced and stolen.
His grip springs open, snapping back. Eyes shifting over the elf’s face, hurt and lost and furious and darkly inscrutable in turns as he finds himself stepping back again with the same caged-animal restlessness that has long shaken him to his bones. Then stares at his hand as if he had been burned. And then finally half-turns away.
no subject
This will be painful, but quick.
Despite his best efforts he can't keep himself from kicking out feebly, trying to push Isaac away, trying to suck air in through clenched teeth that is only blocked by a cruel, gloved hand. He misspoke. Misstepped. And he will pay for it as he should. Somehow, oh somehow he manages a grim smile. An assassin is familiar with death, but this won't be the first time Isaac has killed him, will it?
"Better-" He hisses, teases, taunts because he has no sense of self preservation. Swallows around the hand on his throat and forces out the words in a strained voice. "-your body than penetrated by your blade."
Oh yes, Zevran remembers that. A cold face and a quick end. A kindness?
The details are lost to him.
Air, however, is not and he can breathe and it hurts to do so. Great coughing gasps rattle his chest and the chains that bind him. Back to himself, somewhat. Less the Crow. more the Elf. "...what must I say to earn my freedom, Isaac? What is my penance?"
TW for.... the usual. The same as the other warnings in this thread.
“Penance?” He says into the darkness, throwing the word away like a meaningless joke, and a laugh joins it. Just as low and cynical and empty. He's being mocked. He must be.
A few humans had always managed to survive the raids, he remembers. Escaping the carnage by squeezing themselves into the darkest, smallest corners of their homes and praying fiercely for salvation, only for the demon troops to come first and drag them, screaming, to the castle looming against the night sky. They became the spoils of war, four or five enough to appease Dracula for a fortnight. Isaac had been pleased to do the honours. And while patiently wiping the flat of his dagger clean, swipe by swipe, and positioning jugs beneath the humans dangling from the dungeon ceiling, he had felt their eyes lock onto him, desperate and pleading as they’d follow every minute movement. He learned to let them search his face for as long as they felt they needed to and talk if they wanted to talk. And he’d stop and listen patiently and gently incline his head, sometimes brushing their cheek so tenderly with the backs of his fingers as they’d tremble. Letting them believe that maybe, just maybe, were they to say the right words, were they to hold his gaze long enough, or beg in the way he had asked, he’d set them free.
“Such great faith you place in words to absolve you,” He remarks bluntly, sliding back into calm. His lips turn up slightly. “How I wish it could.”
Things rustle and clink and clatter as Abel turns its attention to Zevran’s belongings. Clothes and armour are searched and shifted through, all weapons set aside to form a small heap – except for a single dagger the devil takes into its hand. Isaac slinks to his servant’s side, silent and still as he draws energy from deep within himself and charges his hands with it, pale light pulsing around them. And as he thrusts his palms forward, he directs the blast of energy to the blades. The light envelopes them, promptly expanding to form a shield around them. A perfect sphere, hovering and transparent, its outline faintly visible. The same technique that had kept others from tampering with the sculptures he had left Hector.
From Abel’s open hand he slips the dagger free. Hefting it. Studying it. Pacing with it and gauging its ability to inflict pain as he does. It’s an unhurried process ending with a sharp twist of his heel and whip-like snap of his arm that sends it flying towards Zevran.
Only that the tip buries itself into the bare, earthen wall, several feet from his head. It’s the only one of his weapons he will return.
“In one minute’s time, you shall be freed from your chains and that dagger alone you will leave with. But heed me well—“
His voice dips into a lower register, every step bringing him closer. It's the Crow he's addressing now, the part of Zevran who has looked him in the eye and seen him for a soulless animal. This is the Zevran that is most dangerous. The Zevran he imagines will twist around and bite the instant he has the chance.
“Should you but think to turn your body or blade against me, I promise you, I will come for you, and there is no corner of this miserable cage where I will not hunt you down, no poison you can concoct nor trap you can set nor man behind which you might think to hide that will save you. There are creatures more fearsome than your Crows and magisters and there is nothing they stand to lose should your allies happen upon your mangled body and hope to exact bloody vengeance. The Devil is with me, Crow - and he would have me hang you by your entrails for a slip of your tongue. Remember this well, if nothing more - and count your blessings that he and I are not of one mind... even as he lives in mine.”
These boys are walking trigger warnings
How that was and how he might make up for it he does not know. But asking for what he could do clearly had been the wrong way to go about it.
He remains silent on the wall. Watching Isaac weave his magic. Frowning at the sudden pile of his weapons being handled by the demon- no. The devil. By Abel? He knows that beast- knows him intimately and flashes of their bodies entwines race through his mind.
More pieces to the puzzle.
More clues.
This, the solitude, the misery, the muted anger. He'd said something just now in his fear to strike a nerve and that more than the knife being flung at his face has him flinching away. Any harm that came to him in this palce was justly deserved.
But.
He was not harmed.
He was to be given freedom. But for what? Out of disgust? Out of a favor owed? He cannot say, he could not know. All he could wonder was dashed away at Isaac's approach. Hard to focus with that intense gaze upon him, with that register of voice rumbling out the worst sort of threat. A warning that is richly deserved. That cows the Crow within him into something scrabbling with base fear for this is a being he could not best through combat or tricks or traps. He has never before been so terribly aware of the depth of Isaac's power and how little he could do in the face of it.
There are no words.
None.
The devil is with me, Crow. He lives in mine.
That more than anything else rings loud and clear in his mind. Isaac has the devil, a devil, in his mind. He is not alone in his own soul and that makes so much of what he'd seen fall into place. Ike is not in his right mind.
He is possessed.
An Abomination.
That makes the blood go cold in his veins and his eyes slam shut. He cannot face this. Will not face that he has lain with such a man and never known. Never thought to ask or consider.
Yup. TW: Another graphic image here.
It was bound to happen. There had to be a limit, he tells himself. A point beyond which even Zevran, whom has known and seen more than most, was sickened by him to where he could no longer bear to look into those demon-eyes and somehow convince himself that he saw flickers of goodness and the potential for redemption in them. Compassion, understanding, human sentiment. The beliefs so many of the sacrifices had clung to before he had dragged the knife across their trembling skin and opened their throats.
It's not Zevran's fault.
“Abel,” he calls lowly into the silence and his voice sounds strange and far-away to himself, like it belongs to someone else. He touches a hand to each shackle, careful to avoid skin as he does, his gaze falling absently on Zevran’s neck. Magic crackles through his fingertips. “…Kindly free our guest and show him the door.”
It gathers the elf's clothes into its arms and turns with them, carrying the bundle halfway to the him before dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor at his feet. Arms folding across his chest, Isaac steps back and aside, inviting Abel to work open the toothed jaws of each manacle with brute force. In the time it takes for both to come free, its master will have left the chamber and returned, the front door unbolted and the protective seal temporarily neutralized.
no subject
He would return, one day. When he remembered everything. When he had the right words. When the world made sense.
no subject
Zevran passes him and keeps going, Abel trailing like a shadow. And then, for just a short, blessed moment, all is silent.
You let him go, a voice murmurs in the darkness. You should have strangled him.
Isaac pulls in a slow breath. He lets his eyes fall shut.
He has made you weak, it continues. You grieved for him, and he mocks you. He wants you to unburden him of guilt so he no longer has to think about you and he can enjoy his life. Now he’ll go home to those he loves and they will hold him close in the way you used to. He’ll tell them what you did and you know what will happen.
The line of his jaw sharpens, nails sinking deep enough into his arm to draw a dotted line of blood.
But they’ve been waiting for a reason to turn on you. Let them fear you, Isaac. Let them curse your name.
"Let them hate," Isaac says into the emptiness, and no one answers.