Each breath in and out the same warmth of his body in a way that drove him mad and desperate for the cold rainy world beyond the four walls of The Black Cat.

Why he had come there, he would never know. Perhaps it was the allure of rebellion, or the promise of cheap alcohol shoved in to his hand by pudgy faced men with roving eyes. Never to know, but always to find his feet near stuck to the unwiped floorboards of the ledge by the bar. Men and women and more flickered from stools to the main floor with little consequence. The women who whooped and screamed, surely straight and delighted with the idea of mixing with the crowd of gays that occupied the space like petty entertainment for them. The men with broad shoulders that purred and shifted with movement that may have been sinuously sensual in sobriety but instead came off as more of an uncoordinated wobble each time. Some young and revelling in the rebellion just as Dorian did, some old with a wisened sort of nonchalance that lead them to order a shot for efficiency before disappearing amongst undulating bodies once more.

He had spied a man at the end of the bar. Must have been pushing in to his 40s with thinning hair and a shivering constitution, fingers tensed around a glass of whiskey. Dorian had seen some like that on his fleeting visits. The ones who slipped off weighty silver bands in to their back pockets while still out on rain-slicked pavements before stepping inside. The liars and the cheats. Gentlemen with a taste for a certain flavour they craved but could never find in their tight faced brides at home. He couldn't resist the wrinkle of his nose in judgement… or perhaps it was a wrinkle from the vodka and coke that the bartender had poured in a double shot on a clumsy free pour.

Dorian knew men like that. They usually bought his drinks when he had little more than a pot to piss in since November the year before. The cheats were patron saints to miserable homosexuals with nowhere else to be but drinking to the bottom of a bottle.

None offered much salvation that night. The greedy eyes had found a new target.

Sat beside 'the comb-over' as he had mentally dubbed was another. Their ass parked on the stool but their top moving like on a loose pivot at the waist to drape against the button-up shirt clad man. Chin propped on tensed shoulders so that lips could whisper all manner of salacious things. Well, not whisper. Dorian could certainly hear him from a few seats away over the grating music mix.

"So, I dunno, 'm not high maintenance. I'm, like-" the ginger drawled, ending on some vapid 'like' statement as if his tongue suddenly knotted behind his teeth before groaning in defeat.

Dorian didn't think himself nosy… oh, who was he lying to? He could be entirely nosy. Beaky, even as he nudged and prodded in to drama that had nothing to do with him. Lying had been half his life, he could at least be honest on the fact that his ears pricked and his gaze lingered on the strange pair.

The comb-over and the forest nymph. Some horridly contradictory fresco painted out before his eyes.

Drunken slurs fell from pouty heart lips in to the ear of the businessman surely only plying him with booze so the ginger would forget the inherent ugliness of him to get in to bed in time for one round. Despite the liquor clearly ingested, based on the cups that circled the pair, the ginger had a certain earthly quality that remained. Tanned skin with a face of freckles haphazardly dotted over wherever there was a stretch of skin, his nose a straight thing with an upturned tip like the snout of some curious creature. While the comb-over had his greying strands, his companion for the night had mockingly thick locks. Ruffled and haphazard, chopped in a hurry that curled with no sense of direction in warm autumnal shades. A manic static frizz dazzled like a halo under pink tinted LEDs around his head and shoulders.

That sinking feeling of having his stare be met washed over Dorian as brown met his own pale. Wide and doe-eyed but downtrodden in the same stroke of lashes. A strange old contrast that knocked the wind from Dorian's critical sails for a beat.

Must have been an accident, Dorian concluded, as he watched the nymph grab for a glass of what had once been vodka on the rocks but was more alcoholic sludge. And in one swift movement that nearly sent the man flying on to his back off the stool, he tossed his head back and the slush in to his mouth. A wet spluttery giggle broke through un-swallowed burn as the glass slammed down again. The comb-over nearly shot out an arm to grab his companion to keep him close for his own ego if not for the fact that nymph had gotten to unsteady feet.

Like a foal on fresh legs with knock knees, the nymph slumped and sloshed closer until he wriggled lithe limbs between where Dorian sat and the butch who had taken the stool beside him. A knobbly elbow collided with the bar in a way that set Dorian's teeth on edge in a sympathetic wince.

"You wanna dance?" the nymph slurred out.

"Excuse me?" Dorian replied sharply.

"I said-" he began, leaning in close to the point that Dorian could smell him. Bottom shelf vodka, floral body spray doused in to the tight shirt he wore, and desperation. "Do you want to dance?"

The words were annunciated harshly to break through the brogue of accent and blending of words, breathed near directly in to Dorian's face.

Dorian had been asked to dance only once in his life before at some ridiculous gala his family had attended like they really were some Victorian toffs of a bygone era parading their son like a prized steer at a farmer's market. Some pink frocked daughter of one of his father's friends with an unbearably nasily voice and clammy hands who had offered him a dance and Dorian had been forced to comply. But he supposed that sort of dancing stood very far flung from the type The Black Cat favoured. Less clean and precise ballroom steps and more arses and grinding. Not that there was anything distinctly wrong with arses and grinding but more so a difficulty in getting past the heat flushing his ears when he thought too hard about it. The most he'd done with another man had been more of a boyhood folly in the showers of the boarding school he'd been whisked off to. Not the open wave of figures that occupied the centre of the space.

The ebb and flow reminded him of the tide. In and out in a repititve and hypnotising motion if drawn in long enough. Yet, instead of white foam lapping at craggy cliffs it just happened to be hairless young men against burly shores.

"Fuckin'-" the nymph started against, waving a slender arm in a fumbling arch that nearly whacked the butch beside him towards the comb-over. A pause, a breath, a space that screamed he had no idea what that man's name was despite the free drinks. "Fuckin' what's-his-face won't dance wi' me. I wanna dance." he pleaded as he flicked his head back to Dorian with some pleading tilt to his mouth.

"No thank you," Dorian politely declined, parting his lips to give some reason that the nymph did not even hear.

Not before a hand with oddly well manicured nails - painted with little posies - clamped around his arm and Dorian found himself being pulled from his stool towards the tide.

He barely contained the very undignified sound that escaped his lips as he discarded his glass on to the bar top. The nymph dragged him by the other arm. Drunkards were often bold, but it was like alcohol had given the man that Dorian now found himself in the grasp of an almost inhuman confidence. To flatter himself Dorian considered that maybe the nymph, who was admittedly very pretty in a way that he'd never admit, had decided he was more attractive company than the comb-over. Yet, logical conclusions prevailed over delusions that he was probably just the nearest man the nymph could man handle. Dorian was no weak man, but he would always be easier to shift than the bearded bear who had been the only other man at the bar.

To be continued!

As if Corypheus' forces could turn a blind eye to the isolated fortress for a day or two more for its occupants to have some peace. A moment of respite in turmoil that tore apart the very fabric of the world. After the waltzing and political intrigue of the Inquisition's first and likely last invitation to Orlais' Winter Palace, Dorian found himself tuckered out. Of course, it had been no Tevinter shindig - the poor Orlesians with their pungent perfumes and tacky dresses could only hold so much of a candle to the opulence that the Imperium imposed. There had been no call to arms, nor even a simple ride on horseback to some far flung location, which Dorian remained thankful of - the last journey to the Fallow Mire had left him with a terrible queasiness in his gut and foul mud caked in to each groove of his boot's sole. All there could be for now were the whispering scouts under Leliana's command and the soldiers of Cullen's. It left the days deliciously and dreadfully open.

After a few days scouting through the library only to find some Chant spouting propaganda, Dorian could only stand so much dullness. He long thought himself patient (a lie) with a high tolerance for drivel (an even greater lie - Dorian could be offended by even some romantic smut if it were not written to his discerning tastes) - but alas, the library yielded nothing. Nothing but the horrid and constant squawks from Leliana's rookery above and Solas' pointless mumbling bellow. He truly could not stand that elf. Some thought it a symptom of his Tevinter upbringing that Dorian did not even attempt much in way of communicating with Solas, but in fact it was a simple dislike. There were plenty of elves of the Inquisition he enjoyed the company of. The Inquisitor himself being a shining beacon of that in fact.

Nanari Lavellan.

A name so foreign that when Dorian saw it on paper for the first time he had thought that perhaps under the layers of poorly arranged syllables there had to be a proper name. In some attempt at a jab, Dorian made a comment about if Nanari had a 'proper' name and received a swift slap across the face. Deserved, he would have to admit, stingingly remembered.

Much had been learnt from the Inquisitor Lavellan already in dismantling many preconceived notions of Dalish elves. Dorian could remember many lessons from his father when a curious son had tugged on his sleeve and asked why some elves in art he saw in a book had funny patterns across their faces - simple savages who wore their gods on their skin in some brutal ceremony. A cruelty amongst these clans seemed common from an outside perspective. They even looked different to the city elves Dorian had seen moving with meek motions in the shadows of the human superiority of Tevinter.

City elves had a more defined dip between brow bone and nose bridge as humans did, blunt teeth as humans did and even in places shorter ears. The anatomical differences of Dalish elves had never been much of a fascination to Dorian until he met Nanari. The line where the forehead met nose in a smooth curve, sharpened teeth and much longer ears that seemed even to move in animated speech. That elf seemed to have many distinctive features that fascinated Dorian beyond the original academic curiosity of the Anchor embedded in to the now scarred right palm of the man. A head of auburn hair that stuck out like the first autumn leaf drifting from the tree, he stuck out like a sore thumb anywhere.

It made Dorian realise he had not seen Nanari wandering the usual haunts.

The sun had crawled its way across powdered cloudy skies and past the mountains that cradled Skyhold in its grasp. The evening dawned and much of the Inquisition clamoured and scrapped in to the crumbling dining hall that had only been recently patched to scoop food on to chipped plates. All of Skyhold could be described as a bit patchwork, a bit underdog-like that the entire organisation was and chipped plates were simply part of the image. And amongst the rabble not head of autumnal hair.

Nanari seemingly never missed a meal so he could sit at the end of the table beside Varric and listen to some of the dwarf's tall tales.

Recalling idly as he bit in to a hunk of sloppily made bread, Dorian supposed he had seen Nanari last tending to his elk. That elf had always been far too attached to that beast. But since then, the elven Inquisitor may have as well been a leaf in the wind with how swiftly he disappeared.

Dorian had been scrounging the Inquisition for some drama, something scintillating and fresh to gossip with. He and the mage of Orlais, Vivienne, got along on nearly purely transactional business of rumours. Quite sure he had wrung Vivienne for all she was worth in whispers, he felt he had quite an effective dossier on the comings and goings in people's business that was none of his business to chatter with Nanari over. The elf fascinated him, yes, but Dorian found himself near infatuated with how the man could hang off his every word - Dorian never made it much a secret how he liked the attention.

The likely explanation had to be that Nanari finished up whatever diplomatic bullocks went on in the war room and found himself tired, skulking off to his quarters in a heavy silence. Generosity flooded Dorian as he felt a duty to entertain the sullen elf with his collected tidbits. He was aware of the sarcasm laced over his own thoughts when that passed his mind as he shoved open the heavy door towards the quarters in the great fortress. The heavy oaken door stood as the only thing separating the grand hall from the wing for quarters, a heavy thing Dorian near had to shove with his shoulder in determination to be an endlessly charming nuisance.

Nanari always acted as if he were too nice for the small bits of cruelty that came from poking and prodding, but Dorian had seen the clenched teeth and stifled giggles. How he hated himself for living for stifled giggles.

Taking two steps at a time, Dorian scaled the winding staircase up the highest tower. It had been a watch-point in a long lost history but had become the Inquisitorial quarters. He wondered if it had been given in pity, if the people of the cause looked at Nanari being dragged from the snow half dead with frostbitten fingers and thought like some half-hearted mother that he deserved something a little nice. Certainly kept the man, and Dorian who often came to visit, fit with the amount of steps spiralling high over the landscape. Reaching the top bannister, Dorian took a moment to catch his breath if only to save face before adjusting his hair, even brushing a scrutinising finger along his moustache - he felt a fool caring about how he looked before this man.

When hearing some movement from inside, Dorian decided it fine enough to grab for the door handle and simply barge in. Confidence meant usually that he let himself in wherever he wished. Lips parted in preparation to spew fresh mindless gossip - Sera had pranked Solas, the Iron Bull had started chatting up one of the recruits, many things in a similar vain. Deep breath and prose on his tongue died right there.

Dorian had not walked in on anything particularly scandalous. Nothing compromising - not as if he hadn't seen Nanari nude before in passing, a sight that had certainly stuck with him in the quiet moments.

No, instead, the scene before him was a lot simpler and yet endlessly more complex. He knew little of the Dalish, Tevinter history as if it were common for the wild elves to dance nude in the moonlight often, but even in limited and extremely biased knowledge he could presume this to be a prayer. At the edge of the room beside the messy bed had been hung a tapestry of a female figure with some odd pointed crown framing a serene expression, the edges of the fabric torn and the threads frayed.

A small consistent stream of smoke wafted and caught in the light before the imagery, smelling strongly of something herbal and medicinal that stuck to the inside of Dorian's nostrils with each breath. A low stool likely made for propping up a foot to polish a boot at one point in time had instead been repurposed in to a low altar with an array of trinkets across its chipped surface. And amongst it all, Nanari.

Nanari folded in on himself with knees pressed to the cold flagstone floor, hunched forward deeply as if he would keel forward any moment. Hands that Dorian had witness kill with an assassin's grace now folded delicately in his lap.

Of course, most had some inkling that the Inquisitor held some beliefs of the old elven world that could be described as 'antiquated' (or worse if Solas stood as part of the conversation). He wore a vallaslin marking across his skin with pride, he held odd little habits and superstitions practically exclusive to Dalish and even more narrowed in the Lavellan clan - it had been obvious enough.

Yet, Dorian stood in the doorway watching the man in prayer feeling that odd itch at the back of his neck that screamed he had become audience to something much more intimate than he would ever treat it as.

Taking a breath, he felt suffocated by the moment and the incense in one inhale. He considered turning on his heel and just wandering off to find something else to do. Bothering Nanari could come at any other time, maybe it would be a kindness to give him his peace. But alongside that rising itch of being where he should not came a hunger. The veracious hunger that inspired him as a boy to sit cross legged in the dim light of his father's study and read books he should not have been simply to learn. A craving to understand that he felt in relation to Nanari Lavellan far too often. It began as a purely academic when it came to the Anchor embedded in the elf's scarred palm, then in to something more personal when he observed oddities in his personality and now finally wishing to dive in to this cultural difference that willed him to stay rooted to the spot. Dorian was a scholar at heart.

"Am I interrupting?" Dorian piped up politely. He hardly even remembered what gossip he had come there with to begin with as he lent in the oaken doorway.

Lowered on the stones, Nanari had been silent for a long while in quiet prayer. The stone chill cut in to his knees through the fabric of his trousers but if anything it would be a demonstration of devotion as he exhaled quiet chants to call upon favour of the gods. He needed the favour of any being out there more than anything with the current state of Thedas. He prayed. Prayed for many things - for himself, for the Inquisition, for the entirety of Thedas. Such a heavy prayer, however, never saw its end.

Jolting upright, Nanari sat back on his heels as his head whipped around quickly to the intruder in his doorway. Wide doe-like eyes seemed even wider, auburn eyebrows near reaching Nanari's hairline as he barely stifled the sound of surprise that had shot forth from him. Soon that expression settled though with a long exhale, coming undone as a hand settled across his chest over his heart. Even long elven ears pricked to attention like a creature hearing the distant sounds of the forest. Dorian often thought Nanari to be a forest creature forced in to armour.

"No, no. I'm done." Nanari answered quickly, firmly shaking his head. The elf had the demeanour of a young man caught doing something much more scandalous instead of simply being a man in prayer.

A lie spoken between teeth with ease. The prayer had not concluded and he would have to put in quite an effort to gather the fixings for it again.

Nanari had partaken in dinner in the grand hall - settled and eaten alongside the early soldiers among the benches. Not out of any desire for their company, more so he could clear his plate and then skulk his way to the kitchen. The kitchen had never been in no way a heart of a militarised movement but it fed the many hungry mouths that came to the Inquisition now. The soldiers, the advisors, even the refugees. Gathering resources to keep such a kitchen running with cooks willing to do so was a war in and of itself, but Nanari had always tried to keep himself sweet in their eyes. Befriending the quite friendly lady who stood always at the narrow window chopping vegetables had been a boon for Nanari even if she never understood why he came.

Politely, he would compliment dinner and insist her work had its importance. That hadn't been a lie, but Nanari definitely was doing this with an ulterior motive with little shame.

An apple.

He buttered up the staff of the kitchen who often seemed more the sort to pinch him on the cheek and call him sweet than respect his position of power simply for an apple. Carefully, Nanari wrapped the fruit in a piece of fabric before finally disappearing to his quarters.

Knelt before his makeshift altar, he slid his dagger through the apple to slice it in his best facsimile of neatness to place in a bowl. A bowl stolen from the inn, actually - he did feel ashamed that much of his altar had been gained through theft and cobbled together. There could be little done to rectify such a matter, though. Skyhold hardly stood as a friendly and welcoming place for a Dalish man such as himself. So, Nanari made do in the secret quiet of his quarters.

"So this is why you scuttle off so quickly at the end of the day? I thought you just wished to avoid being dragged by your collar to the tavern like some unsociable hermit." Dorian mused.

It came off as judgemental snark, a sort of snark he could wear easier than a coat, yet this time it sounded odd. As if he did not really mean it. As if he were already internally berating himself for coming off as so insensitive. But insensitivity was the sister to snark, the easy way to hide behind his own ignorance by looking down his nose at anything that challenged old ideals.

The tone seemed to strike Nanari as he blinked for a few moments near dumbly at Dorian's comment. Near taken aback as his lips parted once, then twice but with nothing to be said.

"I- I suppose so." Nanari replied, a sort of filler when there had been no true response to give.

"The Inquisitor prays before a, quite frankly, grubby altar - the sisters would be up in arms."

"Likely."

Dorian frowned ever so slightly at that. No wit in that retort, just a sort of quiet resignation. He wanted flame and contest, not a tone that made him feel so horrid. A lump formed in his throat he could hardly swallow.

"Is this the best you could find?" Dorian asked, dark brow raised in curiosity.

Nanari had not looked at the mage since he entered the room, his gaze fixed upon the tapestry hastily hung to his wall. In a futile attempt to keep it hung, Nanari had looped string through the wooden pole it had been mounted in and hung it from a sconce in his quarters. Not a place of pride, but instead necessity. The feminine figure with her face framed in a pointed crown had once been stitched lovingly by an elf of a long ancient past. It had near killed Nanari at the thought of leaving it behind when coming upon the dusty remnant of it in the depths of an abandoned elven hallowed grounds. Foolish, really, but while on that mission he had ducked to save the thing from the grounds by wrapping it up gently and sticking it in the pack on his elk.

How the Inquisitor longed to have some knowledge of the needle to mend its torn and frayed edges, but his hands had been made for bow and dagger not thread and thimble.

Dorian had queried after it more in concern that time.

It tugged horribly at a heart string he would deny he had that this elf who had tried to be nothing but understanding to him would have to hide like this. The Inquisition was not ignorant to their leader's beliefs - the man had a bloody vallaslin with dark lines as if it were fresh - yet here Nanari still was.

His teeth felt on edge as he gazed upon the scene from the doorway, and before a more discerning part of his mind could kick in, Dorian crossed the room. Stood like a sentry at Nanari's side, Dorian gazed down at where he still knelt.

"Aren't your people meant to worship out in nature?"

"That's more because we're nomadic," Nanari replied as he shrunk under his ally's gaze, shifting himself to sit on his behind with his legs held close to his body, "We're not exactly in a place long enough to build anything rivalling The Chantry."

Dorian hummed in quiet understanding.

The Orlesian Chantries he had seen in passing were places of worship but also opulence.

High arching ceilings carved in marble and excess to frame the painted murals and soldered stain glass windows. Podiums inlaid with gold and other fine materials that sermons would be belted from day by day.

Nanari's world seemed a lot quieter, but Dorian supposed that came only from circumstance. The frayed tapestry, the burning incense clearly made by a clumsy hand, and an apple in a bowl with it's flesh slowly browning at the edge. Not silk nor silver, just amongst it a fraying braid with a metal charm hung from it that Dorian had seen worn hidden threaded in to the locks of Nanari's hair in passing.

"My ignorance is showing." Dorian admitted, his lips quirked at the corner in amusement.

The levity in expression and conversation seemed to relax the elf slightly, Nanari's tense shoulders dropping as his head tipped on a slight angle to gaze up at Dorian. A shy smile spread across his features from dimpled cheeks to the creases at the corner of his wide amber eyes.

"You're forgiven, even if you did rudely interrupt me."

A scoff fell from Dorian as he rolled his eyes playfully, "Oh, well excuse me, oh mighty Inquisitor. I did not realise you were up here worshipping. Honestly, you should make a sign for your door."

That gained a small laugh from Nanari that soothed Dorian's previous worry that he may have offended more than he intended. The light laugh the elf let out quietly in rare occasions had always made Dorian's ears prick with interest. It was nowhere near beautiful, there was no melody to the sound… but the small snort and rasp he found to be much more enjoyable than something perfect.

Inviting himself even further in to the moment, Dorian slowly lowered himself to kneel beside Nanari on the cold floor.

"I must ask," Dorian begun, feeling the deep inhale the elf took to brace beside him before continuing, "Why an apple?"

The air returned to the moment as Nanari sighed, strong shoulders lowering again as he reached for the bowl from the stool-turned-altar. Cupped delicately between his hands, he placed it on the ground between the pair of them. The questions were not offensive, but they were prodding and probing in a way that Nanari had never known that made the hairs on his arm prickle. Before the time of the Anchor embedded in his palm, Nanari had not known life beyond the land of his Clan - to be questioned on something so simple to him felt strange. Dorian did not understand, so all he could do was try. So many would rather turn their gaze away and close their minds to the differences, yet a Tevinter mage of all people was the one trying to understand.

"It's an offering. Well… less of an offer, more of a request made with fruit," Nanari began, his words awkward as if his tongue were foreign to his own mouth, "In my clan, we cut the fruit then pray to bless the fruit. And then eat it like a talisman for protection."

Now that sounded absolutely absurd to Dorian. Yet, he did not interrupt.

"It's a symbol of connection, too. Each person takes a slice of the apple and eats - each person gets a part of the whole. A link."

Nanari hardly would ever be an ambassador for his people when it came to their beliefs. The origin, the meaning, much of it was lost on him - they were simply rituals performed day by day that had always been done. Every few days, he would gather with family before an altar with sliced fruit at its feet and pray then sit and eat together. Routine he once found near boring but now stood as respite. If there were ever a time in his life to pray to Mythal for protection, it was the days of the Inquisition.

To emphasise the point, between nimble fingers Nanari plucked a slice to raise to his lips and eat. He ate in the quiet, staring down into the bowl. Dorian felt that clawing at his throat again that he should not be there. Running would ruin it all in a second though.

A blessing of the gods sounded ridiculous, but a connection? A link? Dorian knew a hushed sort of loneliness that wrapped tight and constricted. He would not let it choke Nanari.

Reaching for the bowl, Dorian lifted a slice to his own lips to eat.

A silence fell over the quarters once more, broken only by crunching of a bond between teeth. Dorian did not dare look from where he watched the dying smoke of the incense, but he could feel the burning gaze fixed upon him.

He may not believe in any of the Dalish ways, but he could offer companionship - even if it was just through sharing an apple.