Can I request DAI party banter with a zevran that romanced a warden who's still alive?
As you wish, my dear anon! I’m sorry this has taken me a while to get to! There are just – so many possibilities given the many Origin’s in DA:O and the many fate’s of the Warden, even if they live. I hope these satisfy.
If the Warden is King or Queen via any means.
Cassandra: You are the lover of a monarch?
Zevran: (laughs) Oh yes. Why? Does it bother you Seeker?
Cassandra: I – I don’t know. I can’t decide if it is romantic – or terrible.
If the Warden married Alistair to be Queen
Zevran: If it makes you feel better we are all quite friendly and close to one another.
Cassandra: Close? How do you mean, close exactly?
Zevran: My dear Cassandra! Tsk tsk tsk, and here I thought you were a woman of faith! Asking for all the sordid details!
Cassandra: You are a menace.
Cassandra: Does something trouble you, Zevran?
Zevran: Only that it has been six month’s since I have seen my warden. You know last time we were apart this long they hunted me down in an Antivan whorehouse and yelled at me for ten entire minutes?
Cassandra: Why do I have a feeling that I’m going to regret asking?
Cassandra: Why were you in a brothel?
Zevran: Why I was visiting family of course!
Varric: So, tweety. What’s this I heard about you and the Hero of Ferelden? *laughing* How did you two even meet?
Zevran: Ah, now that is a good story in fact! A rather taciturn sallow-faced fellow named Loghain –
Varric: – Trust me tweety, I’ve known enough Ferelden’s to know who you’re talking about.
Zevran: Oh, good! Well, he hired me to kill the Warden. And Alistair, of course.
Varric: I’m sorry, you met by trying to kill them?
Zevran: (laughs) Ah, yes. It was a wonderful battle! Well what I saw of it anyway. Knocked me unconscious two minutes in. Lucky for me I was too charming to kill.
Varric: And now the two of you are lovers? *under his breath* and I thought Hawke’s love affairs were strange…
Zevran: I hear you’re writing a romance serial my clever friend.
Varric: Don’t try to butter me up, Tweety. And especially not over that pile of nug shit. Who even told you about it, Cassandra?
Zevran: Ah, sadly no. Well, unless you count how I stole the copy from her pack, but that’s our secret, hm? I was merely wondering if you might like a few – pointers, so to speak.
Varric: I’m not sure I want to go airing the sexual escapades of the Hero of Ferelden in my books – I like being alive.
Zevran: *sighs* too bad for you then. My warden and I are very interesting people you know.
iv been asked forever to make a color tutorial but i never knew how to explain it so i just kept working on colors until i could describe my technique >_< thank you guys for being so patient and wonderful to me,,,,!! i hope i can help at all,,and i hope this isnt confusing…it took longer to make than i thought it would
im rlly sorry at all the people who asked me and i never replied to you : ( i didn’t know wht to say until now
HELLO MY LOVELY READERS! And that one patient anon! I can’t believe it took me weeks to finish this fic, but I still hope you enjoy it! :-D This is seriously a very underrated relationship, and I’m happy to have had the opportunity to throw my stick into the fire. :-D Thank you for waiting!
Paul Blofis, with his salt and pepper hair, his easy smile and nicely pressed collared shirts, was a terrible househusband. Or at least that was what Sally often said. With his inability to cook, clean, repair and do all those parental things, he most definitely agreed.
On the weekdays, Paul’s teaching job was usually normal enough for him to get home at exactly 6 o’clock sharp. If everything was going well with her publisher, Sally would also be home by that time, and the smell of nice homely dinners would get Paul’s stomach grumbling and happy. Unfortunately for him, this particular day wasn’t going to fit in with the rest.
As soon as Paul hung his coat soundlessly at the door, it was not Sally’s cooking that greeted him by the hallway, but rather a harsh but soft moan. His heart thumped in his chest. Could that be a robber? No, it couldn’t be. All the windows in the apartment were shut tighter than the safe in the upstairs bedroom, and the lock of the front door didn’t seem tampered with. Blinking as his eyebrows soared to his receding hairline and his pulse gnawed at his hyper-tension prone veins, he swiftly turned around as another moan made him jump. He needed to be quiet. If this was some dangerous criminal… surprise was his only weapon. At least, that’s what he always heard on those night time survival shows on Discovery Channel.
He grabbed the house keys and stuck one of the jagged edges out of his fist (like how all those self-defense lessons had taught him) and made sure his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Paul tried to survey the area but came up with little blobs of black. His eyes were already terrible even with glasses, but in the dim darkness, they were impossible! Instead, he opted to flick the light switch open at lightning speed. Once the living room was illuminated–
“Percy?” He choked, dropping his bags in horror. Not even the audible crack of his laptop brought him out of the panicked frenzy he was slowly falling into. “PERCY?“
“Hey Paul,” Percy said nonchalantly. To Paul’s horror, it was a horrible mash of words because HIS SIDE WAS BLEEDING AND THERE WAS BLOOD EVERYWHERE AND THE COUCH IS STAINED AND IS MY STEP SON DYING? Paul liked to believe that he thought that instead of shouting it out loud.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he mumbled. What was he supposed to do? Being a teacher, he was well trained in first-aid, but he wasn’t sure if his experience covered gaping wounds and monster venom. His eyes glanced over Percy’s supine form on the sofa before he felt his throat close up. “Oh dear, ohdearohdear.“
“Paul?” Percy called out, wincing as he tried to reach out to his panicked stepfather. “Paul? Earth to Paul?“
“Oh dear—What do I do?” Immediately, Paul ran to the kitchen to grab an armful of paper towels to mop up Percy’s blood— “Oh dear, this is blood. Oh dear. This is bad. Do I call your mother? Should I do that? Will Sally think this is my fault? How about 911? Aren’t you supposed to be in college? DO I TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL? WHERE IS ANNABETH?"
On his hands and knees, Paul’s attention was focused on trying to keep his step son from dying and trying to wipe up the brown stains from the rug.
Paul, still in his terrible haze, remembered something about stopping the bleeding with a tourniquet. With this knowledge, he undid his belt and began to wag it around Percy’s body, which was draped over the couch. With his lunch coming up and his palms sweating, he realised that in order to tie a tourniquet, he would have to haul Percy up and remove his shirt to catch a glimpse of the wound. He didn’t think he was ready for that.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he repeated again. His voice was becoming an octave higher after each dear, and it would’ve been hilarious if “PERCY WHAT DO I DO? Do I remove your shirt? Do I cut something? OH DEAR I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO STITCH–“
Paul grabbed his phone and began dialing 911 but dropped it when he saw bloody fingerprints grace the screen.
“OH MY GOD, SALLY WILL KILL US BECAUSE YOU’RE BLEEDING AND HER COUCH IS RUINED AND—”