[ 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.
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.