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mopping up
Aug. 27th, 2014 01:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bloodmouthAs night crept up on the palace, Zevran shoved his mop bucket down a corridor and tried to recall a slower kidnapping than this. Duchesses, barons, and princes – so many, many princes – had fallen beneath his tender hand. And they’d been quick about it, too. Never weeks, bleeding into months, of playing games before sacking the prize. If all went according to plan (and it would, the maestro assured him, on Zevran’s life) there’d be minimal wetwork involved here. Their client offered an astronomical price for the boy, but even the greediest Talon wouldn’t risk war with Ferelden. The little prince would live. Stolen, stricken, and debauched, surely -- but truly alive.
A dry job meant a light tread, no brandishing Alistair Theirin at sword’s point or swinging out a window with him hogtied. A long con, the Talon made Zevran promise. Slow and close as a kiss. Slow and close he’d gotten, yes, but no kisses.
Zevran walked to Alistair’s chambers well past sunset, the sky darkening like a young bruise beyond the palace windows. Far past proper time for a servant’s visit, but Zevran felt his closeness won him a little impropriety. Maker forbid it, the daft thing was keen on him. Royalty was lonely business, all the tales said so. A charming, older elf weathered by the world to lend the prince’s troubles an ear, well… that was positively classic.
He kicked the mop bucket and it rolled a few clattering meters down the hall. Six years scrubbing the barracks with his fellow Crow recruits finally paid off, at least. Denerim Castle had never seen a more industrious little knife-ear. Snappy, clean, and tow-headed, the simple orphan of parents who’d fled Antiva’s bosom for the hairy embrace of Ferelden. A crock of piss, but the kitchen matron fancied his ink and couldn’t tell his pretty eyes no.
Posing as the help gouged a wound in his pride, but Zevran had long since learned how to hide away shame in his belly. The outfit almost made up for it, he consoled himself. Palace drudges dressed finer than most Antivan merchants: snug breeches, shiny leather shoes, a loose shirt of the palest, softest cotton. He'd forgotten the waistcoat tonight and messily bound his thick blonde hair back with a kercheif.
Outside Alistair’s door, Zevran rearranged his stormy expression into something more inviting. Jaunty and sweet, as if he wanted nothing more than to tidy up after human boys. He tapped his knuckles on the door, a quick formality, before ushering himself in – treasured servants didn’t really need to knock, you know.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Zevran called out kindly, dipping into a bow. “My apologies for coming so late. The whole kitchen was daft tonight.” He hid the Antivan purr under his tongue like a sweet.
A dry job meant a light tread, no brandishing Alistair Theirin at sword’s point or swinging out a window with him hogtied. A long con, the Talon made Zevran promise. Slow and close as a kiss. Slow and close he’d gotten, yes, but no kisses.
Zevran walked to Alistair’s chambers well past sunset, the sky darkening like a young bruise beyond the palace windows. Far past proper time for a servant’s visit, but Zevran felt his closeness won him a little impropriety. Maker forbid it, the daft thing was keen on him. Royalty was lonely business, all the tales said so. A charming, older elf weathered by the world to lend the prince’s troubles an ear, well… that was positively classic.
He kicked the mop bucket and it rolled a few clattering meters down the hall. Six years scrubbing the barracks with his fellow Crow recruits finally paid off, at least. Denerim Castle had never seen a more industrious little knife-ear. Snappy, clean, and tow-headed, the simple orphan of parents who’d fled Antiva’s bosom for the hairy embrace of Ferelden. A crock of piss, but the kitchen matron fancied his ink and couldn’t tell his pretty eyes no.
Posing as the help gouged a wound in his pride, but Zevran had long since learned how to hide away shame in his belly. The outfit almost made up for it, he consoled himself. Palace drudges dressed finer than most Antivan merchants: snug breeches, shiny leather shoes, a loose shirt of the palest, softest cotton. He'd forgotten the waistcoat tonight and messily bound his thick blonde hair back with a kercheif.
Outside Alistair’s door, Zevran rearranged his stormy expression into something more inviting. Jaunty and sweet, as if he wanted nothing more than to tidy up after human boys. He tapped his knuckles on the door, a quick formality, before ushering himself in – treasured servants didn’t really need to knock, you know.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Zevran called out kindly, dipping into a bow. “My apologies for coming so late. The whole kitchen was daft tonight.” He hid the Antivan purr under his tongue like a sweet.