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

[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."