[ Another night he passes by the battlements, another night he forces himself to choose. Up the stairs to stare out and tempt himself and fate- or across the courtyard to someone that might take his mind off the siren's call of the void. He hasn't the focus for Mia nor the humor for any of the Dalish- all of his rough, snarled edges brought to the surface in Alistair's absence.
Chasing him off hadn't been as helpful as he'd assumed.
Before he can think better of it- before he can think at all? He finds himself at Bull's doorstep and knocks. Of everyone he knows, Bull judges the least. That more than anything else is what he needs. ]
[ The red lyrium in Emprise du Lion has been something of an issue. They've seen that already. Staying out there for long stretches of time isn't something he really wants to risk, and letting people return to the keep to clear their heads seems the best way of dealing with whatever effect it might be having on them.
So he's back, for a time. A few days respite before heading back out, with the promise of a dragon or two when he returns.
He hadn't been expecting company tonight, however. With a thoughtful furrow to his brow, Bull moves to open the door, but seeing who his visitor is? Suddenly, it makes a lot more sense. He hasn't seen much of Zevran since their return from the Crow's stronghold.
The elf looks...well. About like you'd expect, considering. ]
[ If Dorian had said something like I wasn't going to do this again, it wouldn't exactly be a lie. He thought he knew he wouldn't do this again, and stands corrected.
The chances of Iron Bull being preoccupied already by the time Dorian finds his way to his room are fairly high.
But there's no sound of conversation that he can detect, or other such social activities, so he must knock, and knock he does, a sharp rap before he can secondguess himself. Secondguessing is profoundly unattractive, especially when it isn't for any good reason, like being concerned he might enjoy himself again. That is, after all, the whole point. But his posture is drawn up without being stiff, wearing the light leathers customary to him, metal attachments that glint with light that isn't present.
Dressed though he is, he feels profoundly bare, primarily of excuses. Even the half-filled bottle of brandy he's holding doesn't quite seem weighty enough reason. There's no driving cold ushering him in, just an open promise that he wishes to see fulfilled.
Still. His fingers tap against the glass in his hand, anticipatory. ]
Edited (fantasy months are hard) 2016-02-22 13:49 (UTC)
[ There could be any number of reasonable responses one might expect Bull to have, seeing Dorian at his door expectantly waiting with a bottle of brandy and looking just a little anxious. Most of them involve teasing of some variety.
But Bull forgoes that notion immediately with a smile, warm and genuinely pleased. ]
Dorian. Hey.
[ And the door opens further without question, a nod inviting him in. No questions, no teasing, just space within his space, if he'll have it. ]
[ muttering, mortified muttering] Now that I have the right name-
Bull, I found everything we discussed for tonight and wished to know if you wanted the glass or silver set of rods as well as the corset, rope, clamps and wax?
( what a great name. some of the enthusiasm in her voice is just how much she enjoys saying it, in that particular nevarran accent of hers; whether he will recognise the voice is a mystery, so she introduces herself a moment later- )
Lady Benevenuta Thevenet. Councilor, if you like, but I do not approach you in an official capacity. Rather, I hope you will not take it amiss if I have made a small recommendation to Madame de Fer's tailors on your behalf? A matter of colourscheme.
[ There's a lot of party to go, and it feels longer than it is. He stays long enough to bid Nerva a good evening, and after that, finds himself sitting with Benevenuta in their nice things, on the ground, petting Hansen's dog. There's a moment where he considers staying with her, instead, and sending his apologies, but in the end, a little solitude and a lot of sleep seems like it might work out better for his friend than his company.
He stops by his own quarters to ensure his face isn't a wreck. He doesn't remove the touches of makeup so much as push it back into its established lines and placement. The outfit of the evening remains as is.
He also doesn't bring anything with him to share and drink. Sodden with fancy wine and deceptively tiny foods on wide silver trays, Dorian's needs have whittled down by the time he arrives at Bull's door, going by way of empty battlements, reflexively. Empty handed, he goes to try the door rather than knock, although submits to knocking if a lock fixes fast. ]
[ He hadn't latched it after his return from the party outside, though he's already dispensed with a great deal of the finery from the great hall. The jacket, at the very least, had to go.
The horn ornaments, he'd had to think about, before finally opting to leave them where they were. Why not? Not really his style, and they wouldn't see much use after the fact, but Dorian had seemed to like them. Good a reason as any to postpone taking them off, and they're not exactly in the way of him reclining against his headboard and mentally parsing through everything he's managed to pick up tonight.
Then comes the turning of the door handle, some time later, and his attention shifts entirely. Reports can wait. One brow raises as he moves to sit up. ]
[ He clears his throat, first and foremost, and begins, without warning; ]
Dorian, is how it begins. He always fails to address me so directly when he has nice things to say. You should see this handwriting, too. So exact, and yet I can tell his hand is hurried.
Anyway, I digress.
Dorian.
When I learned of your joining the Inquisition, I had trusted that you were at least seeking purpose, even in your abandonment of your proper duties. Please. He thought I'd gone and joined the circus. When we last spoke, I put faith in your belief in its work. But what I have learned instead is that you have only found new ways to shame me.
That's you, by the way.
[ His tone is jovial, perhaps a hint forced, but not disingenuous in humour. ]
[ Pretty obvious from the tone and wording, not to mention the fact Dorian had all but been expecting this. He doesn't precisely like the idea of causing for issues for him back home, even if he's perfectly willing to help him give the middle finger to everyone back there who tried to tell him who he had to be.
[ This is somewhat self-evident, holding whatever it is in his hands, wrapped in a plain, disguising scrap of linen. Dorian doesn't hand it over, and instead goes to unfold it himself. It's been several days since he's felt sick, during which Bull had seen the interior of his room more times than Dorian had anticipated he would while out of commission, but rather than invite him back, he has -- after some pre-arrangement couched in the usual code and banter -- instead shown up again at Bull's door.
Doing all of this in Bull's territory feels somewhat necessary. At least for now. Even if its sense of decoration could use some-- well, literally anything.
As mentioned, he isn't sick, but he feels like his blood is warmer than usual. The last almost-conversation he'd avoided had, as they always seem to, stayed with him, before finally working his way up to this. What he produces from the linen, which is cast aside without care, is not in itself very remarkable, or likely very daring, in the scheme of things. It's a generous coil of rope, practical black and with a smooth finish, its braiding almost scale-like in its fineness. ]
I brought us something, [ he amends. Chin up, hands hesitant, at first, before lifting the coil up for the taking and inspection. ]
[ There's a lot of avoidance going on lately. Not physical. Dorian's usually pretty forthcoming in that regard, as evidenced here. The tension remains, though. Something carried in the shoulders and the eyes and mouth, but without words. Discomfort doesn't suit him, and he likes it even less when it's someone else carrying it, refusing to see to it.
Sometimes on the field, it's necessary to keep moving. But right now it feels like a festering wound that can't really be ignored for too much longer.
There's a significant look given to Dorian out of his one good eye before he reaches for the coil of rope. It's silky-fine in his hands, his thumb running over the texture of it. Nearly snake-like. Little of that 'Vint still in him, after all. ]
Good craftsmanship. When'd you order it?
[ A seemingly throwaway question as he looks it over. ]
( The Iron Bull. Impressive name. Hopefully nice phone manner? Crystal manner? Whatever. )
Hi, Iron Bull? My name's Ruby, I don't... think we've met. Formally, anyway.
( She sometimes works in the tavern, but lately she's been scouting more than pouring drinks. )
Um... ( And a breath of laughter, self-conscious. ) So Councilor LeBlanc and I were brainstorming a sort of morale boosting competition kind of thing, trying to get different groups of the Inquisition to build some more camaraderie and everything, and she mentioned you as being a good person to talk to. I just wondered if a find of... I wondered what you thought of a kind of capture the flag, fortress warfare with snowballs and if you'd be interested in being involved?
( Suddenly this feels like the most stupid thing she has ever said. )
[ When Dorian leaves Iron Bull's bed, it isn't to leave the room; he steps over his garments and fallen boots to where neglected wine glasses are warming where they'd been hastily set down. The room is warm enough through their combined efforts that he doesn't shiver or cringe or, indeed, race back to the bed, wine in hand.
No, he lingers where he is, wine in hand, glancing over the faded, leathery covers of books left by Bull. ]
You shouldn't just leave these lying around. They'll do nothing for your reputation.
[ His fingertips pick the edge of a cover, turning it to title page, investigatory without actually being very curious. He's been a little distracted all night, if we're being honest, save for those privileged, white-hot moments where he can literally think of nothing else. But that moment is well over, fading, and he has the fingermarks still showing red on his flank to remember it by. ]
[ The moment's passed, but Bull's content to laze a while longer. They'd been at it for quite some time, now, perhaps making up for time missed, or just relishing being up and moving again in his case. Now he's propped up on an elbow, watching Dorian pad across the wooden floor.
While he could take the time to admire his handiwork, something else is going on. Hasn't escaped his notice that Dorian has seemed a little...detached. Not during, during was more or less the same as ever, but Dorian's acting like a dinner guest who's trying to find a way to graciously excuse themselves early. ]
Eh. Keep 'em guessing. Some of the stories start to get boring if you hear them often enough.
[ He cocks his head slightly, watching Dorian's fingers tracing the edge of parchment as the page turns. Alright. Something's up. Even if he doesn't exactly know what. ]
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[There's no question in his voice. He's tired, yes, but he needs to make sure all of them are able to get home safely.]
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[ Yeah. He got hit a little harder than usual, but they all walked. That's enough for him.
Stitches isn't on hand, though, and Detlef's been trying to help as best he can. Won't turn the help away, that's for damn sure. ]
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After Crows, Before Dragons, Action
Chasing him off hadn't been as helpful as he'd assumed.
Before he can think better of it- before he can think at all? He finds himself at Bull's doorstep and knocks. Of everyone he knows, Bull judges the least. That more than anything else is what he needs. ]
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So he's back, for a time. A few days respite before heading back out, with the promise of a dragon or two when he returns.
He hadn't been expecting company tonight, however. With a thoughtful furrow to his brow, Bull moves to open the door, but seeing who his visitor is? Suddenly, it makes a lot more sense. He hasn't seen much of Zevran since their return from the Crow's stronghold.
The elf looks...well. About like you'd expect, considering. ]
Hey.
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latter end of guardian. action.
The chances of Iron Bull being preoccupied already by the time Dorian finds his way to his room are fairly high.
But there's no sound of conversation that he can detect, or other such social activities, so he must knock, and knock he does, a sharp rap before he can secondguess himself. Secondguessing is profoundly unattractive, especially when it isn't for any good reason, like being concerned he might enjoy himself again. That is, after all, the whole point. But his posture is drawn up without being stiff, wearing the light leathers customary to him, metal attachments that glint with light that isn't present.
Dressed though he is, he feels profoundly bare, primarily of excuses. Even the half-filled bottle of brandy he's holding doesn't quite seem weighty enough reason. There's no driving cold ushering him in, just an open promise that he wishes to see fulfilled.
Still. His fingers tap against the glass in his hand, anticipatory. ]
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But Bull forgoes that notion immediately with a smile, warm and genuinely pleased. ]
Dorian. Hey.
[ And the door opens further without question, a nod inviting him in. No questions, no teasing, just space within his space, if he'll have it. ]
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Sending Crystal | Private | ~whenever~
Bull, I found everything we discussed for tonight and wished to know if you wanted the glass or silver set of rods as well as the corset, rope, clamps and wax?
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Something wrong?
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sending crystal; shortly before dorian interrupts her fitting on drakonis 8.
( what a great name. some of the enthusiasm in her voice is just how much she enjoys saying it, in that particular nevarran accent of hers; whether he will recognise the voice is a mystery, so she introduces herself a moment later- )
Lady Benevenuta Thevenet. Councilor, if you like, but I do not approach you in an official capacity. Rather, I hope you will not take it amiss if I have made a small recommendation to Madame de Fer's tailors on your behalf? A matter of colourscheme.
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Two days before the Soiree
[Beware Iron Lady's bearing gifts?]
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Oh? Yeah. I'm free whenever you've got time, ma'am.
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after the soiree. action.
He stops by his own quarters to ensure his face isn't a wreck. He doesn't remove the touches of makeup so much as push it back into its established lines and placement. The outfit of the evening remains as is.
He also doesn't bring anything with him to share and drink. Sodden with fancy wine and deceptively tiny foods on wide silver trays, Dorian's needs have whittled down by the time he arrives at Bull's door, going by way of empty battlements, reflexively. Empty handed, he goes to try the door rather than knock, although submits to knocking if a lock fixes fast. ]
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The horn ornaments, he'd had to think about, before finally opting to leave them where they were. Why not? Not really his style, and they wouldn't see much use after the fact, but Dorian had seemed to like them. Good a reason as any to postpone taking them off, and they're not exactly in the way of him reclining against his headboard and mentally parsing through everything he's managed to pick up tonight.
Then comes the turning of the door handle, some time later, and his attention shifts entirely. Reports can wait. One brow raises as he moves to sit up. ]
Finally wrapping up, are they?
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exactly this belatedly ;
sending crystal.
Dorian, is how it begins. He always fails to address me so directly when he has nice things to say. You should see this handwriting, too. So exact, and yet I can tell his hand is hurried.
Anyway, I digress.
Dorian.
When I learned of your joining the Inquisition, I had trusted that you were at least seeking purpose, even in your abandonment of your proper duties. Please. He thought I'd gone and joined the circus. When we last spoke, I put faith in your belief in its work. But what I have learned instead is that you have only found new ways to shame me.
That's you, by the way.
[ His tone is jovial, perhaps a hint forced, but not disingenuous in humour. ]
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[ Pretty obvious from the tone and wording, not to mention the fact Dorian had all but been expecting this. He doesn't precisely like the idea of causing for issues for him back home, even if he's perfectly willing to help him give the middle finger to everyone back there who tried to tell him who he had to be.
There's concern, just the same. ]
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Sending Crystal
Iron Bull, I need a favor if you have a moment.
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what if i just moved in to your inbox. action.
[ This is somewhat self-evident, holding whatever it is in his hands, wrapped in a plain, disguising scrap of linen. Dorian doesn't hand it over, and instead goes to unfold it himself. It's been several days since he's felt sick, during which Bull had seen the interior of his room more times than Dorian had anticipated he would while out of commission, but rather than invite him back, he has -- after some pre-arrangement couched in the usual code and banter -- instead shown up again at Bull's door.
Doing all of this in Bull's territory feels somewhat necessary. At least for now. Even if its sense of decoration could use some-- well, literally anything.
As mentioned, he isn't sick, but he feels like his blood is warmer than usual. The last almost-conversation he'd avoided had, as they always seem to, stayed with him, before finally working his way up to this. What he produces from the linen, which is cast aside without care, is not in itself very remarkable, or likely very daring, in the scheme of things. It's a generous coil of rope, practical black and with a smooth finish, its braiding almost scale-like in its fineness. ]
I brought us something, [ he amends. Chin up, hands hesitant, at first, before lifting the coil up for the taking and inspection. ]
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Sometimes on the field, it's necessary to keep moving. But right now it feels like a festering wound that can't really be ignored for too much longer.
There's a significant look given to Dorian out of his one good eye before he reaches for the coil of rope. It's silky-fine in his hands, his thumb running over the texture of it. Nearly snake-like. Little of that 'Vint still in him, after all. ]
Good craftsmanship. When'd you order it?
[ A seemingly throwaway question as he looks it over. ]
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crystal; guess who is chilling out in the fallow mire aw yiss
Hi, Iron Bull? My name's Ruby, I don't... think we've met. Formally, anyway.
( She sometimes works in the tavern, but lately she's been scouting more than pouring drinks. )
Um... ( And a breath of laughter, self-conscious. ) So Councilor LeBlanc and I were brainstorming a sort of morale boosting competition kind of thing, trying to get different groups of the Inquisition to build some more camaraderie and everything, and she mentioned you as being a good person to talk to. I just wondered if a find of... I wondered what you thought of a kind of capture the flag, fortress warfare with snowballs and if you'd be interested in being involved?
( Suddenly this feels like the most stupid thing she has ever said. )
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[ There's a warm chuckle from his end. He knew the woman had a sense of humor hidden behind that no-nonsense exterior.
Ruby, he knows less about. And knowing more about anyone is usually grounds for him to rouse himself and get involved? ]
And she's endorsing this? How'd that happen?
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action.
No, he lingers where he is, wine in hand, glancing over the faded, leathery covers of books left by Bull. ]
You shouldn't just leave these lying around. They'll do nothing for your reputation.
[ His fingertips pick the edge of a cover, turning it to title page, investigatory without actually being very curious. He's been a little distracted all night, if we're being honest, save for those privileged, white-hot moments where he can literally think of nothing else. But that moment is well over, fading, and he has the fingermarks still showing red on his flank to remember it by. ]
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While he could take the time to admire his handiwork, something else is going on. Hasn't escaped his notice that Dorian has seemed a little...detached. Not during, during was more or less the same as ever, but Dorian's acting like a dinner guest who's trying to find a way to graciously excuse themselves early. ]
Eh. Keep 'em guessing. Some of the stories start to get boring if you hear them often enough.
[ He cocks his head slightly, watching Dorian's fingers tracing the edge of parchment as the page turns. Alright. Something's up. Even if he doesn't exactly know what. ]
You've heard the ones about us, I'm guessing.
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Written, sent by messenger
A. LeBlanc
returned by messenger, once he's tracked them down
The Iron Bull
Written, sent by messenger
action!
ACTION