[ 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.
[ 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. ]
Alas, I have none left to give. I bartered that years ago for freedom, beauty, and skill in the bedroom. To be completely honest I think I got the better end of the deal. Besides. You are no Magister, Pavone.
[ No patch today. Little by little he's becoming accustomed to the air on that side of his face, the blurred if not entirely blank space the milky eye offers. Working the scars is easier, he's been doing that, more or less, for the majority of his life. Also- the leather chafed after awhile, pressed the hair of his brow into an irritating whorl.
Easier to not.
There is something delightfully wild about Dorian's appearance that makes Zevran's fingertips itch for a variety of reasons. Oddly enough- the first impulse isn't the carnal. He leans (lounges) against the nearest bookshelf and flips through the sketches in his hand, charcoal tugged free with a thought. ]
May I? [ Not that he asked for the last few in the book, all from memory but this is...less polished. Possibly more honest. It might make him preen, which is always charming. ]
[ Flippant, as ever, Dorian still doesn't climb out of his recline, content to watch Zevran -- and study, a little, the new dimensions of his face, enough that he might almost miss that he is being studied in return. The scars, now shown in the open, don't elicit particular response, even if Zevran were to try to look for one.
If nothing else, they're a point of interest. They make him look a little closer to the danger he is, as opposed to something that's been hurt.
But Dorian's attention to snatched back up and turned around again, focusing on good eye instead of bad with a raise of an eyebrow, glancing down at the sketchbook and coal in Zevran's hands. ]
May you--? [ He smiles, a little crooked. ] Immortalise my neglect [ he gestures at his own countenance ] as a form of proof?
[ As if he'd let himself go around in public, anything less than satisfied with his own appearance. ]
As a contrast to those I have already done of you.
[ Complimentary pieces were often done in Antiva- night and day, land and sea, sinner and devout. Dual portraiture was a booming business in lockets and small paintings meant to be carried to remind oneself of home. Complimentary or contradicting as they often were, Zevran found a great deal of joy in the idea. He had not quite set out framing any of his sketches as a proper portrait, to be certain, at least not many.
But those of Dorian? He took the extra time. Something in the man demanded it. As strange as the practice might be there is something to be said for Tevinter breeding. Their nobles were glorious.
He flips through to one such sketch in particular, Dorian lounging as he'd been in Nevarra, painted and languid on a chaise, and offers it to him. ]
[ Dorian takes the sketch to look at, head tipped, admiring immediately, his sense of surprise kept masked behind study. He hasn't had a portrait done of him since he was a much younger man than he is now, and immediately feels this has been a deplorable oversight of the wider art world. ]
You've a skilled hand at this. It can't hurt to have such handsome subject matter, of course.
[ There's a sincerity to his smile that belies his easy arrogance, handing the book back to Zevran. Please, at being shown the care taken to depict his likeness, and the desire to do so again now. ]
It helps to be good with faces, as an assassin- killing the wrong person can be embarrassing for everyone involved. It is also an easy enough way to render myself invisible. 'Oh, why is that elf here? Portraits for the Lady? Of course'- and occasionally? I earn a coin or two.
[ Even if it had started as a way to not kill the wrong target- he's enjoyed it. Honed it on his own- all the better for putting charcoal to paper and starting up the long curves that make up the shadows of Dorian's current posture. ]
An excuse to stand and admire you? What is not to like.
I'd offer a coin or two myself, but then, I shouldn't like to deprive you of my portrait.
[ He isn't exactly lounging on a chaise now, a sort of conscious twinge that maybe he ought to be posing, or something, but Zevran has already started. Well, he's at least in a sort of poise, book in hand and by the window, so he relaxes, and looks back down at what he was barely reading.
Given time, a proper canvas, and some of the minerals that keep mysteriously appearing in packages meant for me I might perhaps do these again in color.
[ His hand moves over the paper, unhurried, eye flicking up to Dorian to gauge the line of his shoulders, the bend of his torso- the broad strokes before he flitted to the finer details. Shadows would wait until he had the bulk of it sorted out. ]
There is an old tale told by Antivan fish-wives about souls and portraits, something of how a skilled artist twists the souls of those he paints and steals them for his own use. His paintings were so alive, so real that of course this had to be the case, yes? A fine fiction. And then you learn that no, roughly a century ago there was a melificar Crow that did more or less just that from one of the other Houses.
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Action, back from the land of sun and sand
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ No patch today. Little by little he's becoming accustomed to the air on that side of his face, the blurred if not entirely blank space the milky eye offers. Working the scars is easier, he's been doing that, more or less, for the majority of his life. Also- the leather chafed after awhile, pressed the hair of his brow into an irritating whorl.
Easier to not.
There is something delightfully wild about Dorian's appearance that makes Zevran's fingertips itch for a variety of reasons. Oddly enough- the first impulse isn't the carnal. He leans (lounges) against the nearest bookshelf and flips through the sketches in his hand, charcoal tugged free with a thought. ]
May I? [ Not that he asked for the last few in the book, all from memory but this is...less polished. Possibly more honest. It might make him preen, which is always charming. ]
no subject
[ Flippant, as ever, Dorian still doesn't climb out of his recline, content to watch Zevran -- and study, a little, the new dimensions of his face, enough that he might almost miss that he is being studied in return. The scars, now shown in the open, don't elicit particular response, even if Zevran were to try to look for one.
If nothing else, they're a point of interest. They make him look a little closer to the danger he is, as opposed to something that's been hurt.
But Dorian's attention to snatched back up and turned around again, focusing on good eye instead of bad with a raise of an eyebrow, glancing down at the sketchbook and coal in Zevran's hands. ]
May you--? [ He smiles, a little crooked. ] Immortalise my neglect [ he gestures at his own countenance ] as a form of proof?
[ As if he'd let himself go around in public, anything less than satisfied with his own appearance. ]
no subject
[ Complimentary pieces were often done in Antiva- night and day, land and sea, sinner and devout. Dual portraiture was a booming business in lockets and small paintings meant to be carried to remind oneself of home. Complimentary or contradicting as they often were, Zevran found a great deal of joy in the idea. He had not quite set out framing any of his sketches as a proper portrait, to be certain, at least not many.
But those of Dorian? He took the extra time. Something in the man demanded it. As strange as the practice might be there is something to be said for Tevinter breeding. Their nobles were glorious.
He flips through to one such sketch in particular, Dorian lounging as he'd been in Nevarra, painted and languid on a chaise, and offers it to him. ]
To this. The North and the South, yes?
no subject
You've a skilled hand at this. It can't hurt to have such handsome subject matter, of course.
[ There's a sincerity to his smile that belies his easy arrogance, handing the book back to Zevran. Please, at being shown the care taken to depict his likeness, and the desire to do so again now. ]
If you like.
no subject
[ Even if it had started as a way to not kill the wrong target- he's enjoyed it. Honed it on his own- all the better for putting charcoal to paper and starting up the long curves that make up the shadows of Dorian's current posture. ]
An excuse to stand and admire you? What is not to like.
no subject
[ He isn't exactly lounging on a chaise now, a sort of conscious twinge that maybe he ought to be posing, or something, but Zevran has already started. Well, he's at least in a sort of poise, book in hand and by the window, so he relaxes, and looks back down at what he was barely reading.
He turns a page, backwards, momentarily lost. ]
But I'll take a picture in lieu of your soul.
no subject
[ His hand moves over the paper, unhurried, eye flicking up to Dorian to gauge the line of his shoulders, the bend of his torso- the broad strokes before he flitted to the finer details. Shadows would wait until he had the bulk of it sorted out. ]
There is an old tale told by Antivan fish-wives about souls and portraits, something of how a skilled artist twists the souls of those he paints and steals them for his own use. His paintings were so alive, so real that of course this had to be the case, yes? A fine fiction. And then you learn that no, roughly a century ago there was a melificar Crow that did more or less just that from one of the other Houses.