[ 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.]
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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?