** The engagement on these has been pretty low so I haven't bothered posting them lately. If you're out there, let me know and I'll keep at it. Otherwise I will probably stick to Ao3 from now on.**
It starts, like so many interesting moments in Dorian's life, with bedsheets.
The chambermaid has tossed them carelessly over the rail on the mezzanine. They've been sitting there for almost half an hour now, which is a good deal longer than it should take to put on fresh ones and take these downstairs for washing. Clearly, the girl is distracted. That the dirty linens have been thus aired in the first place, in full view of the courtyard, suggests that Austus is likewise distracted, since the seneschal would never tolerate such carelessness. Nor is that the only lapse this morning. Dorian rang for tea five minutes ago and still no answer. What in blazes is going on?
Perhaps Mother is right, he thinks as he goes questing for some bloody tea. Perhaps I am too soft on the servants.
He spots the chambermaid across the mezzanine, gossiping with a kitchen girl. The presence of a kitchen girl on the third floor is a mystery all its own, but the two of them are hunched over one of the Sunday pamphlets, apparently riveted. Then Austus appears, looking harried; he breaks up their little conference with a few hissed words. "If I see one more copy of this tawdry rag," Dorian hears him say as he snatches the pamphlet from the chambermaid, "there will be consequences!"
Intrigued, Dorian drifts over. "What tawdry rag is that, pray?"
The maids scatter like mice. One of them actually squeaks.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with, my lord," Austus says, folding his hands demurely behind his back in a manner that just happens to conceal the pamphlet from view.
Dorian smiles blandly and holds out his hand. "If you please." With a reluctant sigh, the old boot hands it over, and Dorian scans it with a frown. "What's this? A society column? Who in Andraste's name is Lady Thistletongue?"
Austus clears his throat delicately. He looks like he'd rather be elsewhere. The Deep Roads, for example. "I believe it is an alias, my lord. I'm told her pamphlets are becoming quite popular."
Dorian is about to hand the thing back when he catches sight of his own name, and his eyes narrow sharply. The more he reads, the wider his eyes grow, and he feels the blood drain from his face. "SETH!"
A tone like that should bring the elf running, dagger in hand, but Seth is accustomed to his husband's dramatics and takes his sweet time. Eventually he appears, barefoot and shirtless, stretching in a highly distracting manner. "You summoned me, my lord," he says, yawning. He's tousled and delicious and were this anything short of disaster, Dorian would steer him straight back into the bedroom. Instead, without preamble, he starts reading aloud.
"The social season is upon us once more, Dear Reader, and even this jaded observer of Minrathous society must confess a certain frisson of anticipation. For this year's proceedings are sure to be the most interesting in an age, with the possible exception of the season of 9:22, in which Lady Eustacion spontaneously exploded at her daughter's debutante ball. Yet we may find that the season of 9:49 is more incendiary still, with the arrival in our orbit of a new heavenly body, one that has already arced across our sky like a shooting star – and is perhaps just as doomed.
I refer, of course, to Lord Inquisitor Setheneras Lavellan, whose appearance at last week's soiree at the home of Magister Grotius Philion sent a tremor through the streets of Minrathous, and may yet shake her to her very foundations. In the event that you, Dear Reader, reside in a fathomless pit devoid of all light and sound, allow me to acquaint you with the particulars of this noteworthy individual. Aside from being the former leader of the southern Inquisition, Lord Lavellan is a wild elf, one of those itinerant savages that call themselves "Dalish".
And how, you may ask, does such an exotic creature come to be in Minrathous? Here the tale grows still more delicious, involving a secret alliance to one our most venerable bloodlines. For it seems Inquisitor Lavellan is newly wed to none other than Magister Dorian Pavus. Yes, Dear Reader, you read that correctly. Magister Pavus has taken a wild elf of the thoroughly male variety for his spouse. For a young man whose reputation as provocateur is already thoroughly established, Magister Pavus has surely outdone himself. Indeed, he may have succeeded in securing the most shocking alliance in the history of the Tevinter Imperium. Moreover, in attending the Philion soiree, he has fired a warning shot across the bow of Minrathous society, declaring his intention to participate fully in this season's glittering calendar of events. To this, we can only say "bravo," and we look forward to the show.
Inquisitor Lavellan is reputed to be most capable of vanquishing his enemies. It is to be hoped for his sake that this talent extends to his social enemies, for he can be sure of having many. Indeed, the battle lines have already been drawn, and the first skirmish engaged – a victory, by all accounts, for the Inquisitor and Magister Pavus. They have in Lady Aquinea Pavus and Magister Maevaris Tilani formidable allies – joined, it must be presumed, by those young, self-styled progressives who would see the Imperium change her stripes. Arrayed against these starry-eyed young things are the traditionalists, whose towering choler at the audacity of this young couple cannot be exaggerated. It is no trick to pick them out from the crowd; they are the ones choking down bile as they sip their iced champagne. It shall be war, Dear Reader, as only Minrathous can wage it, in silk and in secret, lavish with lies.
May the best side win, and do please pass the grapes.
Yours in breathless anticipation,
Lady Thistletongue."
Dorian finishes reading and looks up, only to find his husband propped against a pillar, smirking. "Cute," he says.
"Cute?" Dorian raps the page with his knuckles. "She has just painted the most enormous target on your back."
"There's been a target on my back since we met, Dorian."
Well. He has a point there. Still, it makes Dorian's stomach squirm. Much as he might take secret pleasure in making himself notorious (almost as much as he takes in imagining Aquinea's reaction to this column), they really don't need this Lady Thistletongue fanning the flames.
She's right about one thing, at least. It's going to be an interesting season indeed.