"If you can find me ten silk scarves I've got a dance that will really shock them."
His grin is devious. It always is. Canines bite into the slender lip he pulls beneath them, worrying the pale flesh until it flushes pink.
"Do you now?" Even in this crowded courtyard, with orlesian nobility chittering from behind their gilded masks and silk gloves, his lover makes no attempt to hide.
Dorian can't help but incline his head with subtle hint toward the nearest couple. Emerald skirts lined with an ungodly amount of lace, and beside her? A man wearing too many rings on plump fingers. They are either poor players of the grand game or they simply do not care. For their eyes have been pinpricks in his spine since he left Bull at the buffet tables. Careless regard that is all for show has melted into naked attention covered only by a painted fan in the woman's right hand.
Lavellan doesn't even glance.
No plumage for the marked one, he slinks with exotic grace that dares for errant comment. He has remained guarded beneath a veil of deep bows and well plucked platitudes since their arrival. But not with Dorian, oh no. 'let them see.' His eyes whisper, helio blue and shining with curling invitation. Never mind that he is savage to them, or worse, rabbit.
It could go no other way. Twenty minutes at this facade of civility and every head has turned at least once. Should the mage blame them? Did not his own gaze linger first? Formal attire, tailored masterfully to his thin frame, that mane of grey tamed just for the night by Dorian's own hand. He cuts a clean figure, polished silver and slick black satin no different from what Dorian himself wears at this very moment. But even in human finery Lavellan is ever himself, and the painted faces have noticed. To what end... the evening has yet to decide.
Dorian raises his glass even as he curses the liquor with in. It would appear the punch is as strong as it seems.
"Well if you're going to dance with the 'evil magister' you might as well give them a good show." He had been joking, it should have been obvious. But Lavellan is giving him that long look with that implicating smile... no, smirk. That which sets a glow just under his fair skin and crinkles the corners of his eyes beneath their kohl lining. He wields it well and only for a moment, just a little affirmation. Such a promise is dangerous back at Skyhold, here it could prove fatal for them both. Dorian would chastise him were others not listening to their every word. "It'll have to be later of course, there are other dances waiting for you."
"Quite a few I believe, but I'll think of something... trust me." The touch of his gaze and warmth of his body linger long after they've parted company. It always does.
Dorian amuses himself to quell the feeling of absence that lurks at his heels and wears the mask of boredom. It's been an hour and the only thing of interest is the peculiar flavor of ham being passed around on silver trays. Not even the punch can fully cleanse it from his tongue, not that he isn't trying while he eyes the hidden faces around him. He notes a Marquis whose dress is an affront to more than just fashion and a Dowager who has just told a joke worse than any he's ever heard from Bull. No sign of assassins beyond those targeting good taste. He ponders lighting something aflame just to brighten the mood.
But as he picks at a nonexistent snag on his sleeve and rolls the knots from his shoulders he hears it. Too faint at first to be more than mere suggestion. Thick orlesian accents that twist syllables into such lofty obscurity, it makes even the act of listening a trial all its own. So he drifts closer to the nearest tangle of people so casually even his own mother would have to applaud. And it is all too easy to dissimulate intent with the aid of fragile blooms. Conveniently positioned wisteria creeping from its planter, carefully cared for and pleasantly close to occupied stone benches is all it takes to complete the disguise of aloofness Dorian adopts.
Inbetwixt the faux flattery and underhanded insults stirs a begrudging sense of approval. It comes slow at first, sweet breeze of compliment and admiration from wine loosed lips. And with them a name that soon all are familiar with. But it is only the last half and the title, never the first. As he studies the contents of his second glass he wonders if any of them even know it. His own lips curl across the rim while the spice and bite run over his tongue. For the best really, he does not wish to share its taste.
Goblet now empty he sets it on the stone besides him only to see it whisked away by a servant. Timid little thing, round eyes and freckled skin beneath a fringe of blonde hair. In such a hurry too, just like the others. Time in the south, time with the inquisition has trained him to things of which he was once blind. And he sees them even though those around him do not. In every shadowed nook and prowling the balcony above the garden, Halamshiral's elves are no more visible to the people they serve than the currents of the wind. So like home he can almost smell the coppery aroma of blood at the back of his throat.
Another pair of pointed ears appears from the crowd, a loud and recognized pair. Sera, pulling at her sleeves and rolling her eyes at every feathered hat, makes a beeline for him. She bumps his ribs lightly with an elbow and smirks while he glowers.
"Hey you, what's your face long for? Thought you'd feel right in bed with this lot."
"Truly, I'll never want for company again." He does not roll his eyes, he will not give her the victory so easily. "Have you come to enjoy the air? Or did you just tire of watching all the trays go by?"
The look she gives is askance and this time he does roll his eyes. "Thought you had a task you were looking after?" he adds in a voice more hushed. How odd that Sera seems to only understand sharp things no matter how vague she speaks.
"Pfft, I did that, and now I'm doing something else."
"Which is?"
"Getting your arse of course." Ever cheery, even with the tightness at the corners of her mouth. How long will she last before some 'nob' ends up 'accidentally' sitting in a 'misplaced' custard? Dorian wishes only to witness the eventual blow out she'll cause. So much for Josephine's chiding.
"Something's up in the kitchens," she finishes with the slightest nod. "Bull's got the stuff and I've got you."
"And our darling Herald?"
"Passing word to little miss pretty bird. Heard he found some stuff on some git or other. Like being a nob isn't bad enough. Don't know which one though. All kind of look the same, yeah?" She is tugging on his elbow, but has enough time to cock a brow when she considers the tone of his question.
"What ever you think you know Sera, not a word." He knows he's said it too quickly when her brows draw together and it is especially clear when her fist connects affably with the arm she's already commandeered. But she says nothing that isn't hidden in a toothy grin and merely ushers him through gold trimmed doors.
His handkerchief is ruined. No spell of cleansing or good scrub will ever get the blood stains out now. At his feet a corpse still smoulders on one side, turning Venatori red into fitting black. It felt lovely to char the grin from this idiot but it has done a number on his own clothes and that is a pity. Thankfully he prepared for this, no fewer than six sets of robes lay tucked away in the room he'll eventually see at the end of this mess of an evening. Well, provided he survives and the civil war doesn't erupt within Halamshiral's marble halls before the night is done. But that doesn't deal with the immediate problem of blood on his face.
"Does anyone else have a handkerchief they'd be willing to part with?" Even before he asks he knows the pickings will be slim. Bull is far more interested in cleaning his weapon off on the doublet of the nearest corpse, Sera is too busy lightening the pockets of the dead and the Inquisitor? Off with the Elven 'ambassador' on the balcony beyond.
If he strains he can just make them out over the music filtering up from the ballroom.
Briala does not strike kind when she brandishes a blade and appears to treat words in the same manner. Implication drips like a poison through otherwise casual words. Guilt is her first choice, as if they hadn't just fought through a swarm of Venatori agents responsible for killing countless elves. And where had the ambassador been? Watching her ex lover, and the man who wishes to be king. But no, she needles Lavellan with the reminder of what city elves must endure. She is wasting her breath. And when this becomes clear? It's as if she's never mentioned it.
She is so quick to switch tactics when no ground is given. Bribery plays its tune next, a chorus that has even Bull chuckling beneath his breath. A feeling shared as Dorian slides his staff through the leather loops on his back. No matter the locale, regardless of the time, there is always someone somewhere vying for the Inquisitor's favor, support or dime. It's a point of pride that Dorian himself does not number among them.
"You know how to make a sales pitch I'll give you that." Cey's baritone is a touch harder to hear and for a moment Dorian isn't sure he's heard it right. Not the words, those are clear enough, but the undercurrent, the subtle lilt at the end. It sounds too pleased, too charming… makes his mind turn to unpleasant places, old wounds and the memory of their ache.
"Seriously no one? I'd even take plaideweave at this point." The pitch of his own voice drowns out what ever response Briala gives. He doesn't need to hear it to find it annoying.
Cey steps back inside and catches him with a quizzical look. There is a smudge of crimson down one cheek and wisps of his hair have worked free of braid that once confined them. They hover at the edges, framing a face Dorian has seen too often in the space behind his eyelids.
"Surely you have one yes? Some hopeful maid or silly countess must have slipped you one as a token or something."
"No and we don't have time to find any either. We stay here any longer and they'll start to wonder where we've gone." The bells are already chiming. Ten tolls, a musical way to keep the time for most, an unwitting warning to them.
Dorian sighs and makes sure Cey sees it before closing the distance between them. He has to step over several severed limbs and a deceased bard to do it but as he takes Cey by the jaw and uses the last clean corner of his ruined handkerchief to clean the Herald's cheek it becomes worth it. That smile is still there, the one only for him.