Dorian Pavus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-07 08:14 pm
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-07 08:14 pm
blood & wine (geralt)
A summer night in Antiva City is nearly as warm and fragrant as a spring evening in Minrathous. Standing in the midst of the villa's outdoor garden terrace surrounded by night blooming flowers and the press of silk-clad bodies and the scent of free-flowing wine, with the sea breeze off the Rialto Bay, Dorian is reminded enough of home so as to feel a pang of longing without the trappings of actually being in Tevinter. Antivan soirees have the potential to turn out as dangerous as Tevinter ones, but rarely do. The constant warring of the twelve merchant princes has nothing on the daily infighting and petty one-upsmanship of the Magisterium. But Antiva does have the better assassins, Dorian will give them that.
Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.
A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.
He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.
Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house
Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.
A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.
He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.
Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house
no subject
Dorian doesn't do much initially. He makes his bed up nicely, checks his reflection, and once satisfied begins organizing the journals on his desk. He passes the time by arranging his research notes into some sort of comprehensible order, and by the time he's finished with that, irritation and concern have begun to gnaw at his stomach. Geralt really should have been here by now.
But he gives the benefit of the doubt; enough that he starts packing up books, which will be an arduous task in the morning. But before long the titles begin to lose meaning. He isn't concentrating on the task, but thinking about Geralt and wondering what could possibly have held him up.
He counts the passage of an hour before he leaves his room and makes his way through the quiet halls to the room Geralt had been appointed. He meets no one but a few quiet servants on the way. He doesn't cross paths with Geralt as he'd hoped to. Apprehension makes him nauseous. What if something has happened to him? What if he never made it there in the first place? Dorain doesn't run, but he does hasten his steps.
The door is unlocked. Dorian needn't have steeled himself before opening it. He finds nothing. Not any of Geralt's belongings and certainly not the witcher himself. Gone, then. Slipped out without a word. There's a sense of numbness at first, like being slapped across the face; the pain doesn't surface immediately. But when it does, it is dizzying.
His return to his quarters and his furious, chaotic packing become mostly a blur. If he'd found it difficult to concentrate earlier, it's impossible now. His emotions shift back and forth in a horrible balancing act, unable to decide which way to lean. In one moment he is furious with Geralt and in the next he recognizes that he himself is to blame for feeling this way, and his anger becomes entirely self-directed. He should never have placed so much importance on a man he's met only twice, whatever strange attraction there seemed to be between them. This is so predictable it's almost funny. He'd been so certain that this time would be different, but it never is. He was so certain that Geralt wanted him, that Geralt felt the same connection he did. Yet he'd run at the very first chance to do so.
What had all of that been about, then? Why had Geralt looked at him that way, kissed him that way? What had he wanted? Dorian can't answer that, and it keeps him awake all night.
In the morning when he departs with everything he owns and turns north, he tries to leave that question behind.