V. CLOSED.

[liberalum]

WHO: Dorian Pavus and Fenris (and later, Cremisius Aclassi and possibly more, TBA)
WHAT: Three Tevinters walk into a bar.
WHEN: Mid-Guardian.
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Probable violence.

With much of Inquisition forces occupying Emprise du Lion, Skyhold feels its emptiest as it's been since those first early days. This is not a thing Dorian all the time notices in the privacy of the library, but does when it comes to the tavern, quieter than usual, winding down earlier. The errands that have seen his return to the headquarters of the Inquisition is complete, an errand that was more or less an excuse to get out of the snowy, red lyrium-riddled hellhole if only for a little while, and he is due to set out again at first light.

This has not stopped him from frequenting the tavern one last time, and staying there.

A drunk Dorian as compared to a sober Dorian is fairly difficult to tell apart, unless he is expected to use stairs, or do complex mathematics, or make good decisions. But he is ceasing before he actually passes out in a place he would rather not, draining the last of his brandy, as if it were in itself liquid warmth he could retain in preparation for the icy descent into Orlais.

He tips the barkeep a silver coin before getting to his feet, planning to go to bed, destined instead to catch sight of something intriguing, whether within the tavern, or out of it.

Comments

[aggregiopavali]

Fenris faded out once again. Dorian could try to make him a shiny smear on the floor, but he would have Dorian's heart out before he could try. He moved closer to Dorian just to prove a point.

"A dead Tevinter mage in the middle of anywhere is a good thing to me," Fenris pointed out. As far as he was concerned, Tevinter was too mired in itself to ever contemplate chance, and one lowly Altus? It was never going to happen.

But he had a point about Danarius, and it made him pause for a split second before dismissing it, ignoring Krem's offer a drink and stalking out into the night, looking for his own room, and the wine he had there. Far better. He wasn't going to be anywhere near anyone who had pulled a knife on him.

[kremdelacreme]

Krem had to fight not to put his head back and yell at the ceiling over all of this. Yes, it might have been stupid to pull a knife on Fenris to begin with, but it got the point across, and nobody was bleeding. Well, one person was bleeding, but it was superficial and would heal with time. He turned back to Dorian and shoved on his arm again, though not in a way that could count as actively hostile.

"You know what I meant though. Now go sit down, would you? You're causing a bigger scene all by yourself."

[liberalum]

Dorian isn't so unwise as to stop Fenris from walking out, even as he forsakes the last word for the cause. Tension is electric in his bones, enough that he jerks back and away to pace from Krem's mild shove, as precious about his space as a cat brushed the wrong way.

"He had his hands around my neck, I'm rather sure you noticed. I've made spectacles for less."

Wine spilled on ivory satin, for instance. His books and notes misplaced when he'd been absent from the Skyhold library for too long. But his words, while sharp and slithery, lack the imperious volume of before, now that the true subject of his ire has left, and he turns a look to Krem. Sitting down. Having a drink. He drops his hands from where they had planted on his own waist.

Relenting, then, moving towards where the empty seats, and slowly, the tavern noise begins to pick up around them. Picking at the sit of his robe, Dorian kicks a leg over the other, before dragging his attention back up to Krem.

Gaining back his calm, reluctantly, faced with the fact he should probably thank the younger man.

[kremdelacreme]

"Yes, yes, you are a spectacle all on your own just by existing in the general vicinity of other people. Calm your mustache." Honestly, what does the Chief even see in this man?

Once settled down with a flagon in hand, Krem doesn't seem to be expecting anything at all, let alone an apology. He just jerks his thumb at Dorian, telling Cabot wordlessly that the mage needed a drink too.

[liberalum]

Dorian bridles, ever so, at what seems in his mind to be an unnecessary jab, assumptive and disparaging, but the most of his temper is spent, sodden and ashy, unlikely to respark as he watches Cabot grudging go through the routine of fixing his drink. Equally grudging, himself.

Once it comes, he nods his thanks, and takes a deep pull. A half-pint of Fereldan ale. There's no complaining flinch, despite origin.

"Did you mean that?" he asks, eventually, in Krem's direction. Before he can be pressed for detail, he adds, "The bit about being the best chance for change."