Stay classy, zev.
Also, I imagine my warden (mahariel) looking at this letter again and again. a small light in dark times, especially when he has to deal with things he’s never bothered with before being a warden (all the human politics!)
then of course runs off to antiva after the events of awakening
OTHER LETTERS FROM ZEVRAN
Greetings from Antiva!
Do you believe it possible to grow nostalgic for something so profoundly simple, so terribly drab, as the stink of wet mabari fur in a shared bedroll? I do not speak of your fearsome hound, of course, but of you—as all Fereldans have that musky smell about them. Here there is leather, blood, and sunlight, all three of which are like mother’s milk to a humble crow such as myself, but I find that I am missing that which Antiva City cannot provide. Mud, shall we say? Oh, how dirty it can be. And so difficult to remove the traces after! A sweaty, sticky sort of dirtiness… I find myself wondering if you have been very dirty without me? If yes, describe that experience in your reply. In detail!
But now there is a little of this and a little of that and naturally more bloodletting to embark upon. So I shall leave your blood where it is, rushing to nether regions and so on, and write to you again with the tip of the quill tickling my pursed lips, my fingers running all over freshly dried ink… Etc etc etc.
Greetings from Antiva!
I cannot believe that I am beginning to miss the cold weather of your native shores. I cannot believe that I miss the dwarf! I miss lying in your arms, somehow always atop a partially eaten wheel of cheese, and informing Alistair of its whereabouts only after he had polished the rest of it off. At times, I begin to suspect I even miss the Darkspawn! But most of all, I miss your tainted wardenhood. Your witch of the wilds. Sipping deeply from your…joining cup. Our dark rituals.
…And snuggling together for warmth to avoid losing our extremities to frostbite while our teeth chatter like Orlesian spinsters and neither of us can feel our erogenous zones.
Ah, romance in a colder climate!
Groettings fram Altivo!!!!!!!
Greetings from Antiva,
I begin to suspect I may have sent a drunk-epistle. Burn before reading and so on. You are charmed and on your wicked way to Antiva to sweep me off my boots at this very moment, yes?
You are willing, at least, to overlook embarrassment for the sake of a rough and rowdy rump-roast?
Now I am starting to sound like the dwarf. Help me, Warden-Commander! You are my only hope!
PS: Bring a half-finished cheese wheel. For old time’s sake.