#ducnde

Taliesen: Throwing Zevran

Rinna: Do not throw Zevran oh my god

Zevran: Ok but there's a point system

Impossible. His mind is playing tricks on him again, making him see things that aren’t there. He’s sick. He knows he’s sick. Taliesen blinks many times and she isn’t going away - 

Rinna. Former lover. Former partner. Former dead. He remembers that night more clear that his other kills - the feeling of her hair tight in his fingers as he ripped her head up to face Zevran. The screams she pleaded - how she begged to Zevran she loved him - oh, never-mind Taliesen. He never could peg if she was finally admitting he was nothing to either of them and only Zevran mattered, or if she knew Zevran was a safer bet to beg for mercy to.

She got no mercy. Tailesen waited for that look before he slit her throat like a pig - tearing straight through her jugular. 

To see her before him was impossible. But he had to know if he remembered that night wrong. So Taliesen stalks her, waiting for that opportune moment when she is alone - until he can snatch her by the hair once more and a dagger pressed to her back.

“I don’t know how you’re still walking, love.”

Maker. He hates her.  His tone is venom, and the dagger presses in. He was going to question, but what’s the point? “But I’ll be quick to fix that.”

it weighs heavy on her tongue, she could so easily tell him about her plans, about rosso noche. it could be their escape from the crows, one where they wouldn’t have to worry about retribution because they would finally have the power to  keep them at bay. she almost does – until she doesn’t, and with a soft sigh, rinna shakes her head.  ❝ mi dispiace, amore. ❞ - @ducnde

Zevran’s glare didn’t falter when she snaps and snarls at him. He stands like a still statue - a very haunting expression on one who was usually beaming as bright as the sun. He gives advice and she doesn’t take it? Fine. Not his problem. He’s had enough of today. He turns his heel with his hands in the air in display of his frustration. Tonight, he’s not going to humor this. Tonight he’s going out among Antiva City, getting so drunk he can’t remember his name and ending in an orgy he’ll likely regret.

st op you'll set zevran off again about how he didn't have a mother and then he'll want to cry on your bosom

“I’ve heard that you’re very good at what you do.”

Staring at the woman in front of him, he didn’t doubt it. She was a very pretty thing-- delicate and feminine and just the sort of creature that was easy to UNDERESTIMATE. Kazivir had made that mistake once before-- he had misjudged his younger brother-- and he had paid dearly for it. It wouldn’t happen again.

He was sure she could get the job done. The real question was-- could she be trusted?

“And that you’re RELIABLE,” he added. He’d heard no such thing, but the implication carried a weight behind it. You’d better be.

He didn’t mention that it was Zevran who had told Kazivir about her. For now, he thought it best to keep that association to himself-- if she didn’t already know-- until he got a better measure for her character. Knowledge of his identity and allegiances could prove to be an effective tool against him, and he wanted to be certain that she wouldn’t abuse it.

kirkwall – number one shithole in the free marches. but, free of crows, so rinna had found herself able to settle for a while. it figures that something from her past would smack her square in the face – both figuratively and literally.

naishe. at least, that’s what rinna remembers her as, the men calling out as they fight off the bandits call her isabela. one hand grips the pirate’s wrist, leg hiked to kick her away when cold steel is pressed against her throat – and the world spins. no, no this will not happen again !! fuelled by pure adrenaline, rinna manages to shove isabela back and scramble backwards, heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing in her ears. hands in her hair, steel pressed against her neck, please you know i would never. sweet fucking maker, she can’t breathe.

ripping back her hood so her face can be seen in the sparse light of the dock warehouse, rinna holds up her hand, trying to stop the other from advancing. her scar burns and her chest aches but there’s pure desperation in doe eyes, eyes that once gazed upon the other with affection. maker, let naishe remember her.

There was a familiar rush of adrenaline as Isabela danced through the battlefield, dispatching of whatever scum decided to plague the docks this particular evening. They weren’t any match for the pirate’s skills, honing her blades over a decade at sea and even landlocked now, she hadn’t gotten rusty.

There are few things that can break one from this mindset of battle, but a ghost, a memory long pushed out of mind, that is certainly something. She catches the curve of the other woman’s jaw in the shadow of the cloak, hesitating long enough to be shoved back. The hood is lowered and Isabela feels herself gasp, quietly, staring. The sound of the battle fades as she opens her mouth slowly.

“Rinna?”

There’s a whistling sound and the tell-tale ka-thunk of Varric’s crossbow being primed. The last of the bandits behind her falls, dispatched by the rest of her group. He walks closer, crossbow still at the ready in case the danger hasn’t passed. “What’s gotten into you, Rivaini?” 

She breaks her stare, turning to her dwarf companion. “I’m fine. You boys go ahead, she’s not with them, I’m going to make sure she gets back to town safe, alright?” The pirate waves a hand dismissively, which receives a shrug in return, the dwarf hustling over to the other two, leaving the women by themselves. Finally, turning back slowly, their eyes meet again.