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[wines]

( texts, prompts, starters, etc )

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for abilities

[wines]

( from here )

[ 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. ]

for troops

[wines]

[ from here ]

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.

for feae

[wines]

[ 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.

[aerondight]

[ 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. ]