Friends, Vints, Countrymen

[flamen_turbulentum]

WHO: Vergil and Dorian
WHAT: A meeting of two countrymen
WHEN: Current
WHERE: Skyhold's Library
NOTES: N/A

Skyhold is a small enough place. All you have to do is ask around. Especially when it comes to a figure as distinctive as a mustachioed mage from distant Tevinter. There is no real point concealing where he is from, so Vergil has made no such effort. Indeed, avowing his nationality has made it that much easier to claim he knows the man he seeks. I mean, don't all 'vints know each other? And really, what is he going to do- put on a Fereldan accent? Ew. No thank you.

This may not have won him any new friends, but best to get the bad impression over with- and best to know from the beginning who is truly prejudiced, and who is merely leery. The most successful inquiries - ones that did not end with instructions on where else he ought to stick his nose - all name the same place: a cozy little nook of in the keep's library.

So it is there that Vergil waits, reclining in the chair, a lean man with dark skin and dark eyes, dressed in a well-worn velvet suit of understated clerical black. A book lies open in his lap, propped up by one bent knee. The text is bound in burgundy-dyed drake leather, its vellum pages adorned with particularly gorgeous illumination in Orlesian. While it is doubtless centuries old and rich with Theodosian insights, Vergil flips through it with an air of idleness, sparing each page a fraction of the time that would be necessary to really read it. And this even if he could actually read Orlesian.

Comments

[liberalum]

It's a nice chair. There aren't a lot of nice chairs about, even if it's not the only one -- donations from across Thedas, of different eras, tastes, and quality. This one's Orlesian, and lush enough to be faintly ridiculous, and so of course, Dorian had claimed it for himself, or rather, the corner of the library he most often frequented, with its good light and better view. The evidence of his existence can be seen in the stacks of books he's currently working through, an unfurled curl of parchment left on a low table and a pen negligently left behind.

And now there's a man in black at his usual spot. He is dressed too distinctly for Dorian to simply resign himself to some less than ideal corner of the library.

It should be said that Leliana works quickly, and had already put a name passed Dorian in hope of insight (and was rewarded with an I haven't the faintest idea, we don't all know each other, I hope you realise). He attempts to recall it as he approaches, distinct in his own right; leathers of an ordinary brown but an excess of buckle and strap, with metal that catches the light dazzlingly. The cut is straight from the Imperium, gaudy and suggestive and well-fitted, a mark of difference in the sea of scuffed metal and shapeless, fraying wool, that makes up the rest of the rabble.

"Would you like me to get you one with pictures?" he says, as wry as he is warm, charming by default. He can see you're not reading, friend.