[ There's a tavern on the northeastern edge of the Frostbacks, between Redcliffe and Skyhold, that--by Dorian's measure--is marginally less of a shithole than other Fereldan taverns. It's a rare reprieve when Lavellan suggests they stay here rather than camp, and Dorian has grown fond of it for the simple fact that it has four very solid walls, a well-tended hearth, and the beds don't touch the cold, wet ground.
That, and the matron who runs it doesn't care that Dorian's Tevinter so long as he tips well and brings her a little of Skyhold's best gossip. It's busy tonight, on account of a nasty storm, and Dorian has secured himself a table close to the hearth, a book in hand as he keeps half an eye on the door.
When Alistair does arrive, Dorian doesn't get up; just gives him an appraising look and closes his book one-handed, leaning back in his chair. ]
I was beginning to think I'd have to drink all four bottles by myself. Not an impossibility, but I start to lose feeling in my fingers by the end of the second. [ He wiggles his free hand, rings glinting in the firelight. ]
Try not to drip on the bearskin, will you? Ludwina hates that. [ With a tip of his chin in the direction of the freckled woman behind the bar, who brings a bottle to the table and uncorks it. ]
(now, while some taverns in the south of thedas might be considered shitholes, the majority of them are not! they're cozy. homey. a warm bright spot in an otherwise bleak landscape. well, at least the the frostbacks. it's shitawful out here, not as bad as the anderfels, but. nothing's really that bad.
anyway. the point is, is that it's offensive to call taverns shitholes just because it's not the poncey north. that's just rude!! so alistair would say, anyway.
it isn't long before alistair comes loping through the door; while his posture remains disciplined, there's a small rounding to his shoulders, a tightness to his jaw, that has nothing to do with the frigid air outside. the moment he spots dorian, he kind of feels as if this might be a bad idea or something of the sort. having a fun little chat at a distance is one thing, usually alistair can keep his bumbling to a minimum and not completely embarrass himself (usually), but sitting together is quite another. dorian is so skilled at disarming a person. he's well-bred and intelligent, a mage of high standing. what he's doing slumming around with some warden is a bit odd.
but, it's not like he can just turn around and walk out now.
nearing dorian, he parts his lips to offer a greeting but gets beaten to it (kind of?) and he makes a very intelligent) Uhhh... (before glancing down at his boots. that are a bit wet. and muddy. and have definitely made friendly with the pelt beneath his feet. maker, this is going well already, isn't it?) Bugger. Well, that'll be our little secret.
(he sits in the other chair, setting his pack beside. after a moment, he realizes he's been just staring at dorian, so he clears his throat and glances around as if that never happened.)
I'm not that late. But, I wouldn't fault you for starting without me.
[ For all that Dorian fusses about the climate, and the food, and all the barbaric practices and people of the south... Well, perhaps Bull has his over-large finger on the pulse, even if Dorian refuses to admit it in so many words: there is something alluring about all the muck and mire.
Not the muck on Alistair's boots, mind you. But after years of Dorian's parents attempting to marry him off to the most well-bred women of Tevinter, slumming around with a Warden is refreshing. Perfectly in line with his notorious rebellious streak, even if he's not having as many brothel orgies these days.
And, in case Alistair hadn't noticed--which Dorian would put money on--he's not at all bad to look at.
Dorian's nose crinkles momentarily at the muddy boots, but there are more pressing matters to attend to, like pouring them both a generous glass of whatever watered-down red they've been given. ]
I wouldn't dream of starting without knowing the occasion for the--what was it?--quarter wheel of cheese and seven glasses of wine. [ Eating one's feelings, as Alistair has said. Something Dorian has never done in his life, obviously.
He pushes Alistair's glass across the table to him, curling his fingers around the stem of his own. ] Has some pretty girl run off with the Warden's heart?
(that someone would even think of him slightly in the way of slumming around and aiding to a rebellious streak, he might laugh. and feel a little proud, or something like it, anyway. but, no, he'd never admit to being someone to look at. get real. maybe when he was younger, but certainly not now, not after living through what he's lived through.
dorian, though. well, everyone including the man himself knows he's good looking. so much so that alistair wonders what he's doing with someone like him. but, he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
he takes the glass, his fingers curling around the stem of the glass and nearly knocking it over in the process at dorian's question. an awkward, almost hysterical sounding laugh bubbles up and he shakes his head. as if that would ever be a worry.)
There isn't— no— I don't— (how charming to stutter like a blushing child. a breath through his nose and he downs what's in the glass instantly.) Nothing like that. No one wants a man on a time limit.
(he leans down to root around in his pack and drops the cheese on the table, breaking off a piece after unwrapping and stuffing that in his mouth.)
You really weren't kidding about the cheese. [ It's an impressive wedge. Thankfully not smelly. Dorian beckons the barkeep over again, for some bread and a knife, because he needs to eat his share with some degree of civility.
The barkeep refills Alistair's empty glass while she's there, and Dorian takes the cue to take more generous sips of his own. It's not terrible, and it's less-watered down than the last bottle he bought here - someone's been appreciating his tips. ]
Oh, you'd be surprised by how many people want nothing more than a man on a time limit. [ Dorian folds his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair to look Alistair over properly. ] Something about the urgency of it all. Gets the blood pumping.
[ Though they may be flinging letters at each other across Skyhold via some poor courier rather than holding this conversation face to face, hopefully the change in tone comes through. ]
No magic. You have my word.
Though a number of people here would say that's not worth much - I assure you, it is.
[ Titillating as their correspondence has been, Ashur isn't the only one with far too much on his plate as the world hurtles toward yet another end. Dorian splits his time between the Magisterium, the Dragons, and maintaining correspondence with Lavellan and other Inquisition allies as the south falls to shit just as quickly as the north.
He is, frankly, exhausted, and desperate for a reprieve. Dorian and Ashur cross paths at the hideout more than once, Dorian cordial and Ashur reserved, but it's weeks before either of them find proper time - and Dorian is half-prepared to be left hanging.
He gives Ashur a location not far from Dock Town: a small, private residence only Maevaris knows of, where Dorian keeps his own secrets. The estate's a more glamorous place for a tryst, but this seaside apartment is the one corner of the city where Dorian can wholly guarantee they won't be seen.
There are two lanterns on a narrow balcony overlooking the water, and Dorian lights just one in blue, a signpost for Ashur; then leaves the glass door open and the dark velvet curtains drawn, rippling in the sea breeze.
He's nursing a glass of rich plum wine, back turned to the balcony when he hears quiet feet drop onto it. A small frisson of anticipation accompanies the warmth of the wine in his belly, but Dorian is outwardly cool as he resumes his perusal of a bookshelf, not yet turning around as he calls back, ]
Wipe your feet before coming in, will you? I just had this rug cleaned.
[ The room is both library and sitting room in one, dark wood bookshelves overflowing on every wall, a sunken seating area in the middle with plush pillows around an elegant silver hookah. Dorian stands by an oversized armchair and writing desk that holds the decanter of plum wine, several thick texts, and a pen and ream of paper for correspondence.
Dorian's dressed down, tonight - or seems to be, though a careful eye would notice the effort put into his grooming, the dark flick of kohl at the corners of his eyes and the heady embrium perfume at his pulse points. He's in a green velvet dressing gown, gold and white embroidered into the collar, deliberate in his choice to wear considerably less than The Viper's endless layers for this particular rendezvous.
Breezily, as he finally turns to look at his midnight guest, ]
I was beginning to think I'd never lay eyes on those rare tomes you promised.
[He's used to moving quickly, quietly, but Ashur doesn't want to startle Dorian or act like he's breaking into his home, so he allows himself to be heard outside, his fingers curled in a defensive spell, as if this is all some sort of elaborate trap. Of course, it's Dorian and he trusts Dorian, insomuch as he can trust anyone else, but someone in his position can never be too careful.
But Dorian's voice echoes from inside and so Ashur wipes his feet as requested and steps in through the balcony. His shoulders don't ease their tension until he sees the man himself, sipping wine by the fire, and he allows the magic to fall away from his grasp.]
Dorian.
[Ashur isn't exactly dressed for a tryst himself, but he has taken some of Dorian's fashion advice to heart - he's abandoned the overlarge coat in favor of something a bit more form fitting: a light black jacket with a bit of fancy golden threaded embroidery. The hat is gone too and like this, he almost seems a bit more human, a bit more like every other man one might see on the street, were it not for the heavy black veil that still covers most of his face, obscuring him from the bridge of his nose downward.
He isn't here to be The Viper and wouldn't want to be seen near this place as the masked vigilante - but that doesn't exactly mean he can be here as any of his other identities either. For now, he can just be the person whom Dorian knows in the Dragons, and that will have to be enough.
Slowly, Ashur removes the bag from his shoulder and allows it to rest on the chair across from Dorian rather than sitting himself. He tugs out a small wooden box from it, setting it carefully on the desk. Inside is one of the many books he had teased Dorian with, inexplicably old and fragile inside of its velvet case.]
This is what I have on wild magic, [he explains, not exactly easing into the mood quite yet - though his eyes flit over Dorian's dressing gown, his face, with no shortage of appreciation. Instead, this feels a little transactional, but... well, he did offer.]
[ The inn at the crossroads, a smudge on the map of Velen's backwater swamps, wouldn't be anybody's choice refuge: it's a well, a muddy road, a stable, and a tavern; and the miasma of war has worsened its usual crowd. Playing cards at coarse tables, bandits openly laugh with each other about their hauls, and armed men shoot furtive glances at the door, whispering about who they'll hang first the moment they get the chance.
It's the last place anyone would expect to find a very high-blooded Tevinter scion — in part because it's not far from the newly fuzzy Redanian border, well within reach of witch-hunters and the zealous believers who might tell them about a strange wanderer with an air of magic about him, imagined or not.
The drunken bandits seated across from Dorian's table suspect something, either way. They cast him curious looks, leaning over and murmuring to each other about how foreign he clearly is; where he might be from — what he might have on him, whether he might be worth something to someone.
One of them finally pushes himself up, swaying a little, and says loudly, "Let's ask 'im, hey?" and swaggers boldly toward Dorian—
—only to be interrupted by the shadow of a much taller man with two swords over his shoulder, well-armored. Geralt shoots him a cool feline-yellow glance, but says nothing, and leans over Dorian's table to set down two cups of vodka: one for Dorian, one for himself. He sits down at the bench without a word, as though he's been invited.
Sullenly watching them both, weighing his options, the bandit mutters an insult — something with mutant in it — and sits back down.
Geralt takes his cup and leans an elbow on the table, voice low: ]
Tevinter, right? Pretty impressive you made it all the way here without a guide.
[ He lifts his cup toward Dorian in something like a toast, and downs the contents. It's shit vodka, but that's Velen. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for abilities
[ There's a tavern on the northeastern edge of the Frostbacks, between Redcliffe and Skyhold, that--by Dorian's measure--is marginally less of a shithole than other Fereldan taverns. It's a rare reprieve when Lavellan suggests they stay here rather than camp, and Dorian has grown fond of it for the simple fact that it has four very solid walls, a well-tended hearth, and the beds don't touch the cold, wet ground.
That, and the matron who runs it doesn't care that Dorian's Tevinter so long as he tips well and brings her a little of Skyhold's best gossip. It's busy tonight, on account of a nasty storm, and Dorian has secured himself a table close to the hearth, a book in hand as he keeps half an eye on the door.
When Alistair does arrive, Dorian doesn't get up; just gives him an appraising look and closes his book one-handed, leaning back in his chair. ]
I was beginning to think I'd have to drink all four bottles by myself. Not an impossibility, but I start to lose feeling in my fingers by the end of the second. [ He wiggles his free hand, rings glinting in the firelight. ]
Try not to drip on the bearskin, will you? Ludwina hates that. [ With a tip of his chin in the direction of the freckled woman behind the bar, who brings a bottle to the table and uncorks it. ]
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anyway. the point is, is that it's offensive to call taverns shitholes just because it's not the poncey north. that's just rude!! so alistair would say, anyway.
it isn't long before alistair comes loping through the door; while his posture remains disciplined, there's a small rounding to his shoulders, a tightness to his jaw, that has nothing to do with the frigid air outside. the moment he spots dorian, he kind of feels as if this might be a bad idea or something of the sort. having a fun little chat at a distance is one thing, usually alistair can keep his bumbling to a minimum and not completely embarrass himself (usually), but sitting together is quite another. dorian is so skilled at disarming a person. he's well-bred and intelligent, a mage of high standing. what he's doing slumming around with some warden is a bit odd.
but, it's not like he can just turn around and walk out now.
nearing dorian, he parts his lips to offer a greeting but gets beaten to it (kind of?) and he makes a very intelligent) Uhhh... (before glancing down at his boots. that are a bit wet. and muddy. and have definitely made friendly with the pelt beneath his feet. maker, this is going well already, isn't it?) Bugger. Well, that'll be our little secret.
(he sits in the other chair, setting his pack beside. after a moment, he realizes he's been just staring at dorian, so he clears his throat and glances around as if that never happened.)
I'm not that late. But, I wouldn't fault you for starting without me.
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Not the muck on Alistair's boots, mind you. But after years of Dorian's parents attempting to marry him off to the most well-bred women of Tevinter, slumming around with a Warden is refreshing. Perfectly in line with his notorious rebellious streak, even if he's not having as many brothel orgies these days.
And, in case Alistair hadn't noticed--which Dorian would put money on--he's not at all bad to look at.
Dorian's nose crinkles momentarily at the muddy boots, but there are more pressing matters to attend to, like pouring them both a generous glass of whatever watered-down red they've been given. ]
I wouldn't dream of starting without knowing the occasion for the--what was it?--quarter wheel of cheese and seven glasses of wine. [ Eating one's feelings, as Alistair has said. Something Dorian has never done in his life, obviously.
He pushes Alistair's glass across the table to him, curling his fingers around the stem of his own. ] Has some pretty girl run off with the Warden's heart?
slides in late; holidays 🤷♀️
dorian, though. well, everyone including the man himself knows he's good looking. so much so that alistair wonders what he's doing with someone like him. but, he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
he takes the glass, his fingers curling around the stem of the glass and nearly knocking it over in the process at dorian's question. an awkward, almost hysterical sounding laugh bubbles up and he shakes his head. as if that would ever be a worry.)
There isn't— no— I don't— (how charming to stutter like a blushing child. a breath through his nose and he downs what's in the glass instantly.) Nothing like that. No one wants a man on a time limit.
(he leans down to root around in his pack and drops the cheese on the table, breaking off a piece after unwrapping and stuffing that in his mouth.)
No, it's dreadfully boring Warden business.
no worries, same here!
The barkeep refills Alistair's empty glass while she's there, and Dorian takes the cue to take more generous sips of his own. It's not terrible, and it's less-watered down than the last bottle he bought here - someone's been appreciating his tips. ]
Oh, you'd be surprised by how many people want nothing more than a man on a time limit. [ Dorian folds his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair to look Alistair over properly. ] Something about the urgency of it all. Gets the blood pumping.
Bore me, if you want to offload. I'm all ears.
for troops
I think we both know the answer to that.
Since you're primarily a man of action, I do hope you won't be all talk about this.
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Everyone here is always talking in circles. I'd rather be direct, you know.
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Talking in circles is half the fun of flirting, where I'm from. You'll have to teach me your southern ways. Perhaps by directing me.
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[Wasn't he just saying that he wants to be more direct? Maker.]
As long as I know I'm not unwelcome.
I know you're not from the south, but mages can be... jumpy around people like me.
1/2
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Just so long as you aren't afraid of the terrible Tevinter Altus bewitching you.
1/2
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For now, anyway.
It's awkward to ask beforehand, but I don't want to - er, spook.
[As if he's a horse that could buck off and break a leg.]
1/2
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No magic. You have my word.
Though a number of people here would say that's not worth much - I assure you, it is.
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And with it out of the way, Cullen changes the subject.]
I don't think I've actually told you what I want to do to you after pinning you to that bookshelf you love to drape yourself across.
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Please, go on. I'm dying to know what happens next.
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Is this some sort of story I'm telling? Hm.
Well, I thought I'd kiss you. Deeply. And - pull your hands over your head so I could press against you.
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You must know I'm not a quiet man - the whole library will know I'm at your mercy, before too long.
What would people say if they knew the Commander of the Inquisition was so easily distracted by our resident Tevinter mage?
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Just a kiss then, and then I'll drag you away so your noises aren't heard by anyone else.
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May I confess something, Commander?
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I - didn't know that I've been the object of your fantasies.
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I've been making eyes at you for months. Surely you've noticed before now.
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lmao rip dorian
But I don't fantasize about everyone ripping my clothes off on top of the war table.
I'm so sorry bro
...you do know that there's people near the war table almost constantly, right?
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Surely you could request the war room to yourself for a few hours in the evening. For strategizing.
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If anyone asks, you simply need my hands-on expertise on what moves to make next.
for feae
He is, frankly, exhausted, and desperate for a reprieve. Dorian and Ashur cross paths at the hideout more than once, Dorian cordial and Ashur reserved, but it's weeks before either of them find proper time - and Dorian is half-prepared to be left hanging.
He gives Ashur a location not far from Dock Town: a small, private residence only Maevaris knows of, where Dorian keeps his own secrets. The estate's a more glamorous place for a tryst, but this seaside apartment is the one corner of the city where Dorian can wholly guarantee they won't be seen.
There are two lanterns on a narrow balcony overlooking the water, and Dorian lights just one in blue, a signpost for Ashur; then leaves the glass door open and the dark velvet curtains drawn, rippling in the sea breeze.
He's nursing a glass of rich plum wine, back turned to the balcony when he hears quiet feet drop onto it. A small frisson of anticipation accompanies the warmth of the wine in his belly, but Dorian is outwardly cool as he resumes his perusal of a bookshelf, not yet turning around as he calls back, ]
Wipe your feet before coming in, will you? I just had this rug cleaned.
[ The room is both library and sitting room in one, dark wood bookshelves overflowing on every wall, a sunken seating area in the middle with plush pillows around an elegant silver hookah. Dorian stands by an oversized armchair and writing desk that holds the decanter of plum wine, several thick texts, and a pen and ream of paper for correspondence.
Dorian's dressed down, tonight - or seems to be, though a careful eye would notice the effort put into his grooming, the dark flick of kohl at the corners of his eyes and the heady embrium perfume at his pulse points. He's in a green velvet dressing gown, gold and white embroidered into the collar, deliberate in his choice to wear considerably less than The Viper's endless layers for this particular rendezvous.
Breezily, as he finally turns to look at his midnight guest, ]
I was beginning to think I'd never lay eyes on those rare tomes you promised.
no subject
But Dorian's voice echoes from inside and so Ashur wipes his feet as requested and steps in through the balcony. His shoulders don't ease their tension until he sees the man himself, sipping wine by the fire, and he allows the magic to fall away from his grasp.]
Dorian.
[Ashur isn't exactly dressed for a tryst himself, but he has taken some of Dorian's fashion advice to heart - he's abandoned the overlarge coat in favor of something a bit more form fitting: a light black jacket with a bit of fancy golden threaded embroidery. The hat is gone too and like this, he almost seems a bit more human, a bit more like every other man one might see on the street, were it not for the heavy black veil that still covers most of his face, obscuring him from the bridge of his nose downward.
He isn't here to be The Viper and wouldn't want to be seen near this place as the masked vigilante - but that doesn't exactly mean he can be here as any of his other identities either. For now, he can just be the person whom Dorian knows in the Dragons, and that will have to be enough.
Slowly, Ashur removes the bag from his shoulder and allows it to rest on the chair across from Dorian rather than sitting himself. He tugs out a small wooden box from it, setting it carefully on the desk. Inside is one of the many books he had teased Dorian with, inexplicably old and fragile inside of its velvet case.]
This is what I have on wild magic, [he explains, not exactly easing into the mood quite yet - though his eyes flit over Dorian's dressing gown, his face, with no shortage of appreciation. Instead, this feels a little transactional, but... well, he did offer.]
Am I late?
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It's the last place anyone would expect to find a very high-blooded Tevinter scion — in part because it's not far from the newly fuzzy Redanian border, well within reach of witch-hunters and the zealous believers who might tell them about a strange wanderer with an air of magic about him, imagined or not.
The drunken bandits seated across from Dorian's table suspect something, either way. They cast him curious looks, leaning over and murmuring to each other about how foreign he clearly is; where he might be from — what he might have on him, whether he might be worth something to someone.
One of them finally pushes himself up, swaying a little, and says loudly, "Let's ask 'im, hey?" and swaggers boldly toward Dorian—
—only to be interrupted by the shadow of a much taller man with two swords over his shoulder, well-armored. Geralt shoots him a cool feline-yellow glance, but says nothing, and leans over Dorian's table to set down two cups of vodka: one for Dorian, one for himself. He sits down at the bench without a word, as though he's been invited.
Sullenly watching them both, weighing his options, the bandit mutters an insult — something with mutant in it — and sits back down.
Geralt takes his cup and leans an elbow on the table, voice low: ]
Tevinter, right? Pretty impressive you made it all the way here without a guide.
[ He lifts his cup toward Dorian in something like a toast, and downs the contents. It's shit vodka, but that's Velen. ]