Ma Vhenan and Amatus

Ménage à Mage

"Harrit?" Dorian threw out while running his fingers across a cavalcade of cobwebs. No, not a cavalcade, a fortress for the eight legged creatures. Truly, they were the Grand Grounds of Minrathous of spiders, complete with servant quarters and dungeons overstuffed with rotting fly carcasses. The last time someone dusted down here elves were running things.

"Hm...?" the Inquisitor sat in the only chair, a foot crossed upon his lap so that he almost looked prim and proper. The decanter with a dribble of liquid remaining and the fact he'd pried open the first few buttons on those ridiculous leather pajamas told a different story.

"Harrit, you must have an opinion on him," Dorian said before his wandering attentions faded away. "Why is there a skull on the bookcase? Skulls go on mantles, as decorative posts for thrones of a particular mindset, or -- in a pinch -- serve as paperweights."

Gaerwn waved off the skull talk, his hand reaching for the barely passable liquor they'd split, refilled, and split again. His hand trembled, causing the crimson liquid to slosh over the side. Specks of red dribbles coated an ancient book someone left wide open upon the altar. For a moment, the Inquisitor frowned at his fumble before sighing, "If anyone asks, I shall claim it's blood."

Dorian chuckled at that while swiping a finger along his mustache. It always wilted when he drank too much. In truth, it was a wonder he ever managed to keep it upright. "You're avoiding the question..."

"He's an upstanding blacksmith," Gaerwn said.

"As diplomatic as our dear ambassador herself," Dorian sputtered, ending in a bow the Inquisitor couldn't see from behind. "But..." Dorian hooked a finger around the elf's shoulders, digging into the for once relaxed muscle, "that isn't the game."

"One I didn't wish to begin. Fine," he flounced, that thick bottom lip of his popping out. Gaerwn screwed his eyes shut tight and he sighed, "I don't care much for that type, but he seems well in shape for his lifestyle and a tad gruff. If that's your preference."

"Says the most taciturn man I've ever met short of a living statue," Dorian snickered. With both hands hooked onto the back of the chair, he leaned his face around to pluck a kiss from the grumbling Inquisitor. The man tasted of the piss brandy they'd suffered for the afternoon but Dorian didn't mind. He was far too enraptured in the disconcerted tremble to that tempting lip. His Amatus was rather perturbed today and he suspected it was his doing. At least he knew a few ways to draw the man out of his dour moods. Reaching a hand off the chair, Dorian caressed down Gaerwn's limber chest, paused at those thin, elven hips and wafted his fingers across the thigh.

At that, Gaerwn's lips popped away and sighed, "Not now, Dorian."

"Fair enough," he rose up and returned to pacing. Let the man stew in his personal cauldron of angst and ennui. He'd been on about it ever since the Winter Palace. No, something after tipped his dour frown into an endless glower. At Halamshiral he'd been more than ecstatic to give into Dorian's temptations, but as of late it was always a curt word and hand to wave the mage's delightful machinations away. He should probably feel slighted but Gaerwn kept returning to him at night so it wasn't all bad.

"Let's see..." Dorian pawed through ancient texts on that elven general of Andraste. What was his name? Chartreuse? "Fairbanks. He cuts a rather swarthy impression as the noble man obscuring his true heritage, striving to rescue the bedraggled poor while frolicking out in the woodland squalor. That should go right up your alley."

A sharp hiss rolled out of Gaerwn's nose and he took a moment before speaking. "Why is this how you wish to spend your time? To spend our time?"

"You've never sat around perusing the various options on the menu?"

"No," he twisted around in the chair, the weak candlelight giving his eyes a demonic red glare. "I don't see the point, nor why it would matter."