[ She sags- but not with relief. If she'd suspected anything of him in truth, she would be relieved but-
As difficult as Dorian can be, as sneaky and flashy and sideways- he's never been dishonest. She'd taken comfort in that more often than not, that the person with the least reason to be open and straightforward actually has been. His regard, his trust is a gift and one she's spat on a bit in her lack of composure.
At least he is gracious enough to ignore it.
Without her fear and fury to spur her onward Adelaide shivers as she sits, skirts tangled rather than swept, tense and frustrated and miserable. ]
I have, with the exclusion of you and perhaps a few others, shit judgement in character.
[ Dorian doesn't sit up so much as reposition himself, stretching out with his weight on an elbow as he reaches across expectantly for whatever bottle of liquor she feels like giving him. All the while, the look of study he gives her is one of focus, listening, just short of speculative.
The corner of his mouth goes up. ]
I'm a shining credit to your taste in friends, [ he corrects, loftily. ] That must outweigh other, more regrettable decisions.
Infinitely more regrettable. [ She releases the wine, the brandy can come later. It ought to be warmed anyway and the focus it takes for her to manage such a thing might help settle this flayed raw, gnarled thing spiraling in her chest. She can ignore it more often than not. Tuck it away, not be bothered.
But this is too much. ]
I have been made a fool of. Twice. Both times they came to me, confessed to me. 'I have lied to you and I am sorry for it, here are my sins'.
[ Paraphrasing. With Martel it had been that, a list of sins for absolution. Anders-
A word. A name. Her lips twist bitterly and she is not going to weep over this. She did not weep over Martel, she will not weep over Anders- she glares stubbornly into the middle distance as though that will prevent the tears from falling. ]
[ Dorian takes his time, working the cork out of its snug settle as he listens, an eyebrow raising at the news of confession. Now that's slickly done, isn't it? ] Now now, [ he says, a tone of caution. ] None of that. That is, after all, the thing about liars. They lie.
[ Wine opened, he doesn't drink from it immediately, but does set it within reach. His hand rests on the ground between them, not quite invading her space, but nudging against it. She looks like she might cry, which Dorian understands to be one of the worst things that can happen, but also not so terrible when it's other people. ]
Once in a month would be unlucky. Twice in a single week?
[ Martel she has demanded his solemn word and forgiven, after a fashion. Gutted herself before him so he might understand why her reaction had been quite so visceral. Detlef-
Anders.
That apostate. Is beyond her capacity to forgive. ]
Months I have known them both. Months they've kept up the lie. And now because they feel poorly or are spurred by guilt they- [ She shakes her head, hand fisted in the bedroll under her. Gradually her grip loosens, she lets it drift enough to rest against Dorian's. Allows it to ground her a little. ]
[ Dorian curls his knuckles enough to better shape against her hand, before opting to turn his palm enough and fold her fingers against his palm. ]
I wouldn't say no to gossip if it would make you feel better, you know. Unless you feel particular duty towards keeping their secrets.
[ Despite the slight joke to his words about whether sharing in such chatter would or would not delight him personally, his tone isn't specifically prying. His curiousity settles more in this last point; whether Adelaide feels that obligation at all. ]
One is irrelevant as the sins are not of this world. [ Hint enough and now- now she takes the wine as she squeezes his hand, damn the glasses, and takes a draught from the neck. ] The other-
Fuck.
The other is far, far too relevant.
[ Does she owe them her silence? Martel's lies- as she'd said- were irrelevant. The revelation that he'd been a reprehensible human being in his own world cuts distantly, quick and sharp and healed swiftly enough. Anders- cleaves to the bone with a rusted blade, gutting her more than she'd like. ]
[ Given some thought, Dorian can probably narrow it down from there -- the Rifter population is a limited pool -- and raises an eyebrow in brief reflection as she drinks, before this next part settles. ]
It isn't anyone I like, is it?
[ Also: a limited pool.
At least, strong enough like to be remarked upon, disappointed by. He reaches out for the wine once he's certain she's had her current fill. ]
[ She crackles a wry, bitter laugh, swallowing around the name. Maker, had she been so blind? Signs all around and she'd overlooked all of them. The bottle she passes over even as she curls in on herself, listing faintly in Dorian's direction- but not leaning.
I've traded more words with the former than the latter, although I've seen him about the library. Healer, yes?
[ He takes a swift sip of wine, mainly to fortify. Getting properly drunk isn't on his agenda, although he won't begrudge a lady from attempting it herself. ]
He didn't strike me as a man with a great deal of skeletons in his closet.
[ At talk of being drawn to someone, Dorian's eyebrows hike up juuust a fraction. Intrigue, perhaps a touch of concern. He and Adelaide are friends, but he'd be surprised if she described herself as being in any way drawn to him.
Or perhaps this is just the language of those who have been tricked. ]
Not a small lie, then.
[ But she doesn't seem ready to just out with it, so-- ]
He's in a secret marriage. To a family member. That is to say, one of yours, not his. Or-- oh! He is a family member and is courting one. Am I getting close? He's a cultist, trying to lure you into his schemes -- orgies, and virgin sacrifice when they don't participate in the orgies.
A lie of a name which- normally is a terribly small thing.
[ Lies of omission, lies of intent. Every time she circles back to 'she should have known better'- she drinks.
Not the best way to cut off that line of thought but the burn of the brandy does help somewhat. The sheer absurdity of what Dorian is suggesting wrenches a wry laugh from her, the first thing that doesn't sound terribly broken. ]
[ At first, Dorian honestly doesn't comprehend what she's saying. Yes, there was an Abomination named Anders that triggered a civil war that lasted years, but surely she doesn't actually mean--
--no, she does, and he blinks at a shadowy corner of the tent, slow in his absorption of this information. ]
He told you this, [ he says, a little stiffly, still trying to put the pieces together. ]
He apologized for the deception. Apparently he is turning himself into the Wardens.
[ Time to drain a fair portion of the bottle. It isn't elegant, it isn't ladylike- but she does not wish to recall the conversation and remain sober. ]
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As difficult as Dorian can be, as sneaky and flashy and sideways- he's never been dishonest. She'd taken comfort in that more often than not, that the person with the least reason to be open and straightforward actually has been. His regard, his trust is a gift and one she's spat on a bit in her lack of composure.
At least he is gracious enough to ignore it.
Without her fear and fury to spur her onward Adelaide shivers as she sits, skirts tangled rather than swept, tense and frustrated and miserable. ]
I have, with the exclusion of you and perhaps a few others, shit judgement in character.
no subject
The corner of his mouth goes up. ]
I'm a shining credit to your taste in friends, [ he corrects, loftily. ] That must outweigh other, more regrettable decisions.
no subject
But this is too much. ]
I have been made a fool of. Twice. Both times they came to me, confessed to me. 'I have lied to you and I am sorry for it, here are my sins'.
[ Paraphrasing. With Martel it had been that, a list of sins for absolution. Anders-
A word. A name. Her lips twist bitterly and she is not going to weep over this. She did not weep over Martel, she will not weep over Anders- she glares stubbornly into the middle distance as though that will prevent the tears from falling. ]
I should have known better.
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[ Wine opened, he doesn't drink from it immediately, but does set it within reach. His hand rests on the ground between them, not quite invading her space, but nudging against it. She looks like she might cry, which Dorian understands to be one of the worst things that can happen, but also not so terrible when it's other people. ]
Unlucky, perhaps.
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[ Martel she has demanded his solemn word and forgiven, after a fashion. Gutted herself before him so he might understand why her reaction had been quite so visceral. Detlef-
Anders.
That apostate. Is beyond her capacity to forgive. ]
Months I have known them both. Months they've kept up the lie. And now because they feel poorly or are spurred by guilt they- [ She shakes her head, hand fisted in the bedroll under her. Gradually her grip loosens, she lets it drift enough to rest against Dorian's. Allows it to ground her a little. ]
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I wouldn't say no to gossip if it would make you feel better, you know. Unless you feel particular duty towards keeping their secrets.
[ Despite the slight joke to his words about whether sharing in such chatter would or would not delight him personally, his tone isn't specifically prying. His curiousity settles more in this last point; whether Adelaide feels that obligation at all. ]
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Fuck.
The other is far, far too relevant.
[ Does she owe them her silence? Martel's lies- as she'd said- were irrelevant. The revelation that he'd been a reprehensible human being in his own world cuts distantly, quick and sharp and healed swiftly enough. Anders- cleaves to the bone with a rusted blade, gutting her more than she'd like. ]
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It isn't anyone I like, is it?
[ Also: a limited pool.
At least, strong enough like to be remarked upon, disappointed by. He reaches out for the wine once he's certain she's had her current fill. ]
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[ She crackles a wry, bitter laugh, swallowing around the name. Maker, had she been so blind? Signs all around and she'd overlooked all of them. The bottle she passes over even as she curls in on herself, listing faintly in Dorian's direction- but not leaning.
Not yet. ]
Detlef.
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[ He takes a swift sip of wine, mainly to fortify. Getting properly drunk isn't on his agenda, although he won't begrudge a lady from attempting it herself. ]
He didn't strike me as a man with a great deal of skeletons in his closet.
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[ At first. The rest, the smile, the humor, the camaraderie.
The understanding. ]
You would be surprised.
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Or perhaps this is just the language of those who have been tricked. ]
Not a small lie, then.
[ But she doesn't seem ready to just out with it, so-- ]
He's in a secret marriage. To a family member. That is to say, one of yours, not his. Or-- oh! He is a family member and is courting one. Am I getting close? He's a cultist, trying to lure you into his schemes -- orgies, and virgin sacrifice when they don't participate in the orgies.
no subject
[ Lies of omission, lies of intent. Every time she circles back to 'she should have known better'- she drinks.
Not the best way to cut off that line of thought but the burn of the brandy does help somewhat. The sheer absurdity of what Dorian is suggesting wrenches a wry laugh from her, the first thing that doesn't sound terribly broken. ]
Literal Skeletons, Dorian. A great many. He-
Anders. His name is Anders.
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--no, she does, and he blinks at a shadowy corner of the tent, slow in his absorption of this information. ]
He told you this, [ he says, a little stiffly, still trying to put the pieces together. ]
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[ Time to drain a fair portion of the bottle. It isn't elegant, it isn't ladylike- but she does not wish to recall the conversation and remain sober. ]