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]

It was unsurprising to see Fenris in the tavern, making good on his latest attempt to drink the way through every bit of terrible ale or wine in the place. He'd won a game of Wicked Grace earlier, and was in a good mood as he got up to stagger out of the place.

"Vitae benefaria!" he called out to the barkeep, draining that last jug of ale, and slamming the tankard onto the table. "For once, the ale doesn't taste of piss in here!"