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The best thing about being an elf was that if you knew how to keep your steps quiet and your eyes downcast, no one looked at you twice. Even if you were supposedly one of the most famous elves in Ferelden.
Zevran slipped silently across the marbled floor, smiling to himself. Breaking into the palace had been easy, and getting access to the royal wing was proving to be easier still. He moved right past the entire queensguard without raising the alarm. Even the tin suit standing guard right outside her door barely flicked him a glance.
Deliberately tempting fate, unable to help himself, Zevran paused. "New linens for her Majesty," he said, barely bothering to disguise the round purr of his Antivan accent.
"Go on then and be quick about it," the guard muttered, waving him on. "Her Majesty's like to want to find her rest soon."
"Of course." He slipped through the door, easing it shut silently behind him, and cast a quick look around the antechamber. The room was dim, only light cast from the flickering fire, but he could see dancing shadows creeping from beneath a door further in.
Carefully setting aside the folded linens--no sense making more work for the real servants--Zevran slipped his blade free and moved toward that light. His bare feet crossed the cold stone silent, silent, silent, and it was almost too easy to press the door open by inches and creep into Queen Anora's room without so much as a breath.
She sat at her writing desk, already dressed for bed. Her golden hair flowed freely down her back, catching the crackling firelight. There were candles sitting on nearly every available surface, filling the room with a gorgeous glow--catching on her beautiful face, on the way her lips silently formed words as she read her letter back to herself.
It was almost a shame for the world to lose so beautiful a woman, but ah, such were the way of things. Zevran moved behind her and slowly straightened, knife slipping into place. The dancing light caught on its naked blade, casting a bright dazzle--and that was finally enough to have her lift her head. She looked up, straight into their reflection in the windowpanes (Anora beautiful and golden, eyes wide, Zevran the angel of death at her heels) and sucked in a shocked breath.
He jerked his arm once, neatly, and listened to the patter of blood--like rain. He waited until he was certain she was dead.
"For my friend," he said simply, leaning close to kiss her temple. Then he wiped his blade clean on the sleeve of her pretty nightrail, snagged her (bloody) seal for proof, and walked unprotested out of Denerim's palace.
That had nearly been as easy as killing her father. The Warden may prove more difficult a foe.
He found he was looking forward to it.
Zevran slipped silently across the marbled floor, smiling to himself. Breaking into the palace had been easy, and getting access to the royal wing was proving to be easier still. He moved right past the entire queensguard without raising the alarm. Even the tin suit standing guard right outside her door barely flicked him a glance.
Deliberately tempting fate, unable to help himself, Zevran paused. "New linens for her Majesty," he said, barely bothering to disguise the round purr of his Antivan accent.
"Go on then and be quick about it," the guard muttered, waving him on. "Her Majesty's like to want to find her rest soon."
"Of course." He slipped through the door, easing it shut silently behind him, and cast a quick look around the antechamber. The room was dim, only light cast from the flickering fire, but he could see dancing shadows creeping from beneath a door further in.
Carefully setting aside the folded linens--no sense making more work for the real servants--Zevran slipped his blade free and moved toward that light. His bare feet crossed the cold stone silent, silent, silent, and it was almost too easy to press the door open by inches and creep into Queen Anora's room without so much as a breath.
She sat at her writing desk, already dressed for bed. Her golden hair flowed freely down her back, catching the crackling firelight. There were candles sitting on nearly every available surface, filling the room with a gorgeous glow--catching on her beautiful face, on the way her lips silently formed words as she read her letter back to herself.
It was almost a shame for the world to lose so beautiful a woman, but ah, such were the way of things. Zevran moved behind her and slowly straightened, knife slipping into place. The dancing light caught on its naked blade, casting a bright dazzle--and that was finally enough to have her lift her head. She looked up, straight into their reflection in the windowpanes (Anora beautiful and golden, eyes wide, Zevran the angel of death at her heels) and sucked in a shocked breath.
He jerked his arm once, neatly, and listened to the patter of blood--like rain. He waited until he was certain she was dead.
"For my friend," he said simply, leaning close to kiss her temple. Then he wiped his blade clean on the sleeve of her pretty nightrail, snagged her (bloody) seal for proof, and walked unprotested out of Denerim's palace.
That had nearly been as easy as killing her father. The Warden may prove more difficult a foe.
He found he was looking forward to it.
