inbox. fade rift.

[liberalum]

Comments

During the Fallow Mire quest | Sending Stone

[mythalenaste]

[No preamble, just Pel popping onto the sending stone.]

Dorian? Dorian? Do you know if Tevinter wrote anything about veilfire runes?

[liberalum]

Tevinter has. It's classed as a specifically elven magic and thus-- [ he hesitates, audibly, and there is a huff of what could constitute apologetic laughter ] --only dimly worthy of a magister's time.

What have you found?

sending stone.

[apostasia]

Dorian Pavus - Martel. We've spoken once or twice before. I've a mage related proposal.

[liberalum]

I do recall. If one's bitten you, I'm absolutely deferring to the Council.

[ Not unfriendly. He expects maybe Martel has not been bitten. ]

First Day; Library [ action ]

[aintwejust]

[ You know what's hard to do? Lean aggressively in a doorframe when there ain't no foutu doorway to lean in. But here's Mal on the dusty edge of the Library, peer'n at one Altus Pavus and try'n to sort out how to approach him. He ain't a subtle man, Mal. He's tall, he's broad, he's got that big ole long coat and normally he's got a dog.

Jayne's wander'n about somewhere or another, just as well. He don't need to try to wrangle two of 'em at the same time.

He pushes off the shelves and ambles over with his usual swagger, leaning against more shelves in lieu of a proper doorframe. Not so close as to seem intimate, but most certainly in Dorian's space. For intimidation purposes. As he has been told he's got an intimidating manner- which is decidedly offset by the almost friendly smile he's wear'n. ]

I was hop'n to have a word with you, Altus.

[liberalum]

[ Tall, strapping soporati and their tendency to shove their shadows over Dorian in some ill-conceived attempt to intimidate him. The little thrill of amusement it brings out in him is very Tevinter, and can be only subtly read on his face as Dorian peers up from the book in his lap, raising an eyebrow at broad shoulders and friendly smile.

He lifts a hand, and a small flame dances across his knuckles, travels down the length of his finger to touch on an unlit candle to throw about some light in the slowly dimming shadows of the library. ]

Have two, if you like. So so long as they're nice ones.

tent shenanigans

[qunari]

[ continuing from here

Well that effectively takes care of anything anyone might see. And the light from outside still allows for some ambient glow, enough to see Dorian by, even if mostly in shadows. It's not like they plan on straying far just now. ]

Fewer lights next time? Or afraid of putting on a show...

[ This time his teeth scrape against Dorian's jaw, a low huff of breath sending warmth skating along his skin before his hips grind low, and yeah. Dorian could stand to be wearing a little less. But damned if he can figure out half of those fastenings he's got going on.

Easier to concentrate on the moment, nuzzling under his chin for purchase for another slow nip. Nothing to leave a mark, not this time around. ]

[liberalum]

[ Absolutely, but Dorian's chuckle is not insincere, just quiet, husky, taking on a note of strain as his chin tips up and he can feel Iron Bull's mouth at his throat, the graze of less precise stubble grown in at Bull's jaw. ]

Just letting the rest of the camp know that you're currently indisposed.

[ The hand still loosely hooked on horn squeezes approval, while his other wanders down Iron Bull's arm, feeling along the curves and definition of muscle. Lower down, the push of Iron Bull's thigh up against him finally stops going ignored, bending a knee to push his own hips up, pressing back into friction, seeking it. ]

a gift.

[fightingale]

( When next he enters his quarters, Dorian will find a new host of friends ready to welcome him. Fresh arrivals to Skyhold, these ladies are eager make his acquaintance and learn how best they can serve him and the Inquisition. So long as he likes eggs, he should be okay. In fact, he may find a couple of eggs already laid amongst his clothes or his books, or whatever he might have in his room, really. It’s not like Leliana snoops into such things...

Introducing:




The last one is still a baby, please be kind to her.
Each is a different breed from around Thedas, selected from a breeder to proudly boasts the affable nature of his hens. They will likely try to go wherever Dorian goes, especially the youngest little thing.

There is no letter, because none is required. Never mock her Rookery again.

xoxo )

In EDL, after Anders outs himself to her.

[fleurdesel]

[ First Martel, whom she managed to forgive after a fashion. It's easier when the world ruined isn't her own- but this?

How is she ever to cope with this?

Frustrated, roiling, composure held only by the barest of threads she stalks to Dorian's tent with a bottle of wine in one fist and a bottle of brandy in the other. She will have answers (which she's certain she knows the answer to but she must ask all the same) and then? She will drink. Horribly. ]

Dorian. [ A whipcrack of his name, cold and hard and weary. It's all the warning he has before she pushes her way into his tent. ]

[liberalum]

[ Reading a slender book he'd bargained off of someone in Sahrnia, entitled Les Trois Soeurs: Aventures Manquantes, Dorian is at least academically enthralled as he thumbs through the pages and struggles through his sketchy understanding of Orlesian. Many men might celebrate a victory in battle by drinking and fucking, and for all that he isn't above those things, and actually quite enjoys them, a good book is occasionally exactly all he needs after an encounter with a desire demon, cleansing and quiet.

Up until this moment, anyway, startling at his name but unmoving from his recline on his bedroll. There's another across from him, where he shares the space with Bevenenuta, who'd been content to leave him alone for the moment.

By the time Adelaide storms in, his expression is a little wide around the eyes. She's holding two bottles of alcohol, which is usually a good thing, but he doesn't put his book down yet. ]

Whatever it was, it wasn't me. Was it?

Sending Crystal | Private | ~whenever~

[ombranera]

[ Sounding faintly distracted- with the distinct jingle of buckles and the slide of rope- ]

I found the corset and the clamps packed with my red silk rope and candlewax you like, I knew I'd left them somewhere. Doghren shoved the case far under the bed apparently- ah, also: did you wish me to bring the glass or the silver set of rods tonight, Bull?

[liberalum]

[ In this moment, Dorian has wandered off from their little camp upon checking in on his crystal, his feet bare against sand from the day and his shoulders -- baked darker brown from all this sun -- exposed, stripped to the waist. None of this is relevant to an audio-only medium, but helps paint the picture as he sort of turns a palm up in bafflement as if to ask the Western Approach at large what Zevran is hoping to achieve in tell him about his corset.

And clamps. And rope. And candlewax he likes?

By the time it's gotten to the rods, there's a name, clearing up the mystery, and Dorian knows a wash of very stupid, icy jealousy that gives him pause, before he lets it go. He just misses Skyhold. Company that isn't suspicious of him, that he isn't suspicious of in turn. A proper vanity. (The marks that Bull left on him, that have faded and healed.)

Ice melts in favour of rich amusement. Well, isn't this too good. It colours his tone as he responds; ]

Unless it's a mirror, I'd advise against glass in the bedroom, but then again, I'm currently far, far away.

Action, back from the land of sun and sand

[ombranera]

[ Tracking down Dorian isn't all that difficult if one bothers to learn his usual haunts. Tracking one down out of sheer curiosity to see what sun and desert would do to already sinful skin and how that jaw might appear with a fuzz of beard- trimmed or otherwise- is easier still. Look for the sunlit corners of the library, full of musty books and a few bottles of wine.

Zevran lingers at a distance for a moment simply to enjoy the visual. And, perhaps, shift his grip on the sketchbook tucked under his arm. ]

You brought him back safely and thus? I owe you a favor.

[liberalum]

[ Dorian is barely reading his book; it's open in his lap, held there by a long-fingered splay of his hand, but his mind is wandering. What affect the land of sun and desert had on him internally is yet to be seen; externally, he is decidedly browner, the unshaven shadow sleek and dark along his neck and jaw. He's groomed himself without yet embarking on that specific task. Likewise, his hair has grown in wilder, the careful razoring shade grown thick and indistinct, blending into the rest of his curls.

Additionally, there are probably patches of himself he is going to apply moisturising creams lovingly morning and evening. The desert is, innately, a dry place.

Dorian looks up at the sound of a voice, blank attention warming to familiarity, even if he doesn't take his feet down from where he's perched his heels up onto a tower of books, or close the one in his lap. ] Well, I believe the standard favour asked of a Tevinter magister is ones soul. Hand it over.

[ Maybe the desert has done something to his tone, too, but then, dry humour has always been in his arsenal. ]

randomly around the last week of Drakonis;

[fightingale]

( Dorian will discover a series of feathers. Nowhere alarming; just tucked into particular favourite books he may have been seen reviewing repeatedly in the Library, or perhaps lurking at the corner of a painting that he walks by frequently. They don't point to anything in particular, but eventually he can discover a little clutch of would-be eggs, wrapped in gold foil and nestled in black paper, resting in a space on one of the bookshelves. Fancy chocolate eggs, these, nowhere near so troublesome as the other variety in his quarters not so long ago.

You see? The Spymaster isn't always terrible. )

[liberalum]

[ But Tevinters always are. ]

Sending Crystal

[gatheringstorm]

So, I need to get my hands on Venatori tomes. Any advice?

[Hello, Dorian, how are you. Maybe when she's not so focused, she'll remember manners.]

[liberalum]

Venatori tomes.

[ Dorian repeats this, musing and amused both. ]

Tomes about Venatori? Tomes possessed by Venatori? I have rather bad luck regarding either.

a couple of days after his arrival back.

[twelvelabours]

I hear I have you to thank for getting Max back safe. Thank you.

[liberalum]

[ Oh, hello. You can practically hear the hand in chin leaning forward kind of reaction Dorian might have to Hercules' suddenly appearing over the crystals. ]

Don't mention it. Really. The amount of drool that animal cultivates could be used to flood the Deep Roads, given time and opportunity.

How long've you been a free man, Warden?

action, whenever in the timeline makes most sense

[colecomfort]

[After months of barely speaking - apart from in passing, or Cole's occasional question - what draws him to Dorian is the change he senses in the man. It's nothing solid yet, but a shifting, a thread knitting itself between him and another. Almost a knot, the kind that holds and secures, but not quite. Not yet.

Still, it's good, enough to make Cole want to shadow him for a while. Admiring the happiness of others is one of the few things he does that could be called an indulgence.

He makes himself known, as is often the case, by speaking.]

Touches come with questions, questing, drawing out the boundaries. A tied tongue, tethered without rope. Held by hands too warm to be made of iron.

[liberalum]

[ Skyhold's perpetual spring is finally meeting true spring in earnest, which means Dorian is even likelier to be found inside than out as flowering things insist on itchily, eye-wateringly invisible expressions of fornication that make him sneeze unattractively. This nook of the library is already his constant, and at the moment, he isn't even reading.

Seated with feet rested on a precarious stack of books deemed worthy as furniture only, Dorian is feeling his fingers over serpentstone, heavy black wood, and leather ties. Checking his staff for fault. Cole's presence in the form of words winding amongst the shelves therefore only get a raised eyebrow, initially, rather than looking up as he winds leather strips over wood.

Until that final word settles, and Dorian glances up, hands pausing. ]

It's hardly noon, Cole, I need at least a little forewarning before grappling with verse. [ His complaining is light, more amused than snippy, glossing past his own twinge of recognition. ] You could consider such greetings as hello and how are you.

While the Antiva Mission is out and about

[keeperofmagi]

Dorian.

Do you know the Antivan poet... "Aleadri?"

Or any kind of poetry that is appealing and not - ridiculous.

[liberalum]

I wouldn't look to Antiva for non-ridiculous poetics, personally, although I'm of the opinion that that's what makes some of it so charming.

What sort of appealing?

Letter, somewhat backdated

[stabsbooks]

[ A short note arrives attached to copies of recent correspondence. ]

Dorian,

This may be of interest to you, due to both your heritage and your particular research interests. Seeker Reed is an intelligent man and a reliable one. I am sure he will be able to answer any questions you may have.

You are of course also free to question the mages themselves as you see fit. I ask only that anything useful you may discover be reported to the advisors.

Cassandra

P.S. If you are finished with the book I lent you, I would like it back. Only if you are finished of course. I do not mean to rush you.

Letter, sent with same runner

[liberalum]

How curious, and not a little bit awkward for all involved. I'll make contact with your fellow Seeker. My thanks for the notice.

- Dorian

P.S. Quite finished, but I'm holding it hostage for the one I lent you last.

Backdated to Post-Fade

[qunari]

[ The demon that managed to get its claws into him nearly had the last laugh, as it turned out. Fucking demons. Managed to ruin everything.

Not that the trip into the Fade had gone well. It still resided rather firmly in the 'things we wish never actually happened' category, and while everyone seemed to have made it out more or less in one piece, and less one very big nasty demon...

Things got complicated when that wound got infected. More complicated when he nearly attacked Adelaide in a fear-and-pain induced rage. And that was before the fever hit. Somehow, they all got back to Skyhold, thought it seemed a blur thinking back on it.

And now? Now things just felt hazy and too-warm and son of a bitch, but this wasn't how he was going down. He refuses, outright. He'd say as much too, if he could manage to get out of bed.

That...that might take a while, actually. ]

[liberalum]

[ Bull might almost think he were alone in the room, if not for the fact that he is a literal spy, and Dorian can't even be inconspicuous in sitting quietly in Bull's blindside. His perfumes and oils are familiar to sensitive qunari noises, somewhat less astringent than the potions and tinctures used to help combat infection. Because rather than deciding whether to hover between Bull's quarters or attend to his work, Dorian occasionally brings his work here. There's a book in his lap he is barely reading, fidgeting with the fine paper between two fingers and ruining a corner as ink seems to run away from him.

He'd been somewhat close at hand, too, prior to Skyhold. They'd had to watch Bull closer in the worst of his fevers. Dorian had, on more than one occasion, woken up to finding he'd fallen asleep on his vigil, someone having thrown something rough-spun but warm over him.

The dust has been beaten from his clothing. He's still brown as a nut from all that sun.

Something in Bull's breathing changes, indicating wakefulness, and Dorian looks up, closing his book with quiet hands. ]