crowbane

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gonna just…slowly draw the Dragon Age Polycule and then die happy…there’s like 7-9 of them total, help me-

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✨Manifesting Zevran into DA4✨

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i’m here! in spirit! but can be much more easily reached via discord for any chatting, plotting, or rping ~ :o)

vae#8398

just lmk who ya are!

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disaster bi solidarity

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Yves Olade, from Slaughterhouse; “Sugar Apple”

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Not to be a bastard, but, I am 

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sometimes it just really hits me that zev is 5’5”.

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Crow

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The Meeting

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continued from here, @dalishflame​

zevran is not sure what he expected. from leliana’s correspondences, he supposes that he anticipated someone taller, bigger, more oafish—(someone like alistair, a voice in the back of his mind offers, much to his amusement). yet this is not the case at all. no, his current quarry appears to be not only dalish and but a mage.  laughter curls deep in his chest, even as they play, and zevran taunts (no wonder he is giving the chantry anxiety!).  he does not dare laugh aloud, even as he pounces at last, managing to thrust the inquisitor back against the cold, stone wall.

“ah, i do love a bit of begging,” the sound of his voice nearly mimics a purr, as he boasts a show of teeth. “but no, my lovely inquisitor.  not today.” zevran gives atreion’s right shoulder a few, solid pats, disengages, and deftly jumps back.  though not the type of person the assassin had expected, he is a beautiful man, nevertheless, certainly easy to look at.

“your spymaster worried you would not be prepared to face those who would see you dead,” zevran goes on, head cocking to the side, “i cannot say i disagree.” despite the gravity of his words, he chuckles and tosses the staff to atreion.

“first bit of advice—free of charge!” he says almost jovially, rounding a table they had knocked over to curiously fiddle with an object he does not recognize. “you are never truly safe, especially within your own bedchambers.”

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the wicked king starters // accepting

@traavelers​ asked: “I’m willing to make a deal with you.” from delight!

a deal?  color zevran intrigued.  had he still been with the crows, such a tactic would either be hand-waved or sorely ridiculed.  as it happens, however, he has not been with the organization for quite some time.  

“you have my attention, my dear captain,” he assures delight with a grin. for the time being, his daggers remain at his sides (and among other places on his person).   he remains thoroughly invested in whatever it is this curious seafarer has up their sleeve.

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nature of the beast…

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i changed up my rules just slightly, because zevran can have some nsfw… sometimes… as a treat. 😌

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like for a short or one-liner starter!

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i am going to be trying she/they pronouns to see how i like them. friends are welcome to use she exclusively (or alternate), but for everyone else, please alternate. 🤗 thank you 💜

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I need more fanfics of these two, anyways- a sketch of fenris and zevran that i started a month ago B]

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dracaeons​:

@crowbane  |  “i am your echo. i would rather break the world than lose you.” 

but you will lose me, she doesn’t say. swallows it and grinds her teeth together to keep it down; ellas flexes her fingers and curls them into a loose fist. it hurts; everything hurts. she’s woken up gasping in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, more times than she’d like to consider. 

at least there aren’t any whispers in her head anymore, but even that— makes her feel half-empty. like an emptied out vase. 

maybe we should part ways awhile, she’d said, a breathless terrified impulse; a while feels longer and longer nowadays, like stretching out to eternity. every time she catches a glimpse of the sickly green glow in the dark, it’s like looking into the void. “zevran— ”  ellas pushes her hair back out of her eyes, ‘til the short ends of it go all askew. her shoulders drop, and she leans back against him. closes her eyes. tries not to think about it.  “the world just got put back together, so— we’ll… work this out. it’ll be all right.”

there is so much she does not tell him.  he is no fool.  try as he may to play the part, he has always been far from it.  ellas takes every burden she can bear, stacked like stones atop her chest, and for what?  a lethal concoction of outrage and defiance sink their claws into his aching chest and rake down, reigniting old, weeping wounds.  what does the world deserve of her?  have they not so greedily drank their fill?  zevran’s ire is emboldened, highlighting a slumbering scourge of heresy.  he would lie andraste herself on the pyre, if it meant his warden were free of her chains.

they ask too much of you! he yearns to say, to accuse, but does not.  how many nights must they have this perpetual discussion?  ellas has always been better than he—choked in the ceremonial garb befitting the regalia of thedas’ savior.  this wretched world would see her die again and again for their own chance at redemption.

“when is it enough?” he poses instead, arms entangling her, face pressed into her dark hair. “mi amor, you give, and you give—leaving nothing for yourself.  it is...” killing you! ( words he is too much of a coward to speak aloud, for fear of manifesting the thought ).