I promise I will not run my finger along anything for dust.
( she holds his eye. not for dust.
and then, straightening, clicking her tongue against her teeth in a way that has max on his feet: )
Off you go. Go mind the room.
( & dorian, if he's in it. either way, she is apparently sparing marcus the audience, which is more consideration than some get. perhaps best she isn't inviting anyone back to their shared room, for now, since obliging her casual affairs to put up with the knowledge that the skull is aware even if it isn't offering commentary might be
well, it might put the most battle-tested mage off his stroke. dog accounted for and lecuyer spared the indignity, she offers marcus her hand. )
I expect the Inquisition has obliged me to worse conditions than you could possibly be offering.
[ At some point, Dorian will have to wonder what became of the lady, when he receives only the dog.
But for now--
Marcus takes her hand. He has had not very much wine, but he hasn't had a great deal to eat, and it has been a relatively short amount of time spent drinking it. It's enough that he feels it a little when he is on his feet. Blood flow, blood warmth. It's a good thing she's not a Chantry spy sent here to slit his throat or something. He'd be an easy mark.
He takes her to his room. He keeps a hold of her hand all the while, which is very indiscreet, but at this hour, they pass no one. He lets her into his room and shuts and locks the door while she makes her assessment. There would be no dust to lift, everything very clean and neat. His bed is made, a set of spare boots are lined up and polished at the foot of it. Any dirty laundry is packed into a basket. The desk is bare, save for a clean ash tray of glass. He could do with a rug. Some flowers. A decorative unread book.
At least it doesn't smell like dog. Just earth, and soap. A trace of smoke.
From behind, Marcus takes a hold of her hips and pulls her in close. His presence becomes the physicality her back meets behind her, him nosing into her hair above her ear. He asks the question he is curious about, not whispered but pitched quieter; ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( she holds his eye. not for dust.
and then, straightening, clicking her tongue against her teeth in a way that has max on his feet: )
Off you go. Go mind the room.
( & dorian, if he's in it. either way, she is apparently sparing marcus the audience, which is more consideration than some get. perhaps best she isn't inviting anyone back to their shared room, for now, since obliging her casual affairs to put up with the knowledge that the skull is aware even if it isn't offering commentary might be
well, it might put the most battle-tested mage off his stroke. dog accounted for and lecuyer spared the indignity, she offers marcus her hand. )
I expect the Inquisition has obliged me to worse conditions than you could possibly be offering.
no subject
But for now--
Marcus takes her hand. He has had not very much wine, but he hasn't had a great deal to eat, and it has been a relatively short amount of time spent drinking it. It's enough that he feels it a little when he is on his feet. Blood flow, blood warmth. It's a good thing she's not a Chantry spy sent here to slit his throat or something. He'd be an easy mark.
He takes her to his room. He keeps a hold of her hand all the while, which is very indiscreet, but at this hour, they pass no one. He lets her into his room and shuts and locks the door while she makes her assessment. There would be no dust to lift, everything very clean and neat. His bed is made, a set of spare boots are lined up and polished at the foot of it. Any dirty laundry is packed into a basket. The desk is bare, save for a clean ash tray of glass. He could do with a rug. Some flowers. A decorative unread book.
At least it doesn't smell like dog. Just earth, and soap. A trace of smoke.
From behind, Marcus takes a hold of her hips and pulls her in close. His presence becomes the physicality her back meets behind her, him nosing into her hair above her ear. He asks the question he is curious about, not whispered but pitched quieter; ]
What is it you want of me?