[ There are certain realities one must come to face when waging a war against untold numbers, against faceless enemies who have yet to completely show their hands. One of which being, of course, that things tend to jump out at you at any given moment. First, they were merely battling demons. Alright, all in a day's work. Then, they were beating back cultists which-- while not ideal, certainly didn't come as a surprise. And then there were suddenly gods involved -- or at the very least, darkspawn with delusions of grandeur, corrupted men who thought themselves worthy of divinity.

Dorian would rather do without all of them, if it were all the same.

And isn't it just the way, to be out wandering out by their twosies, only to be taken nearly by surprise by a gang of ne'er-do-wells? It's just as well that they manage to beat the idiots into submission. ]

Join the Inquisition, they said. It'll be fun, they said. They'll respect you, they said.

[ He's still shaking off the bits of human goop that had splattered on him; a cultist had gotten a bit too close for comfort, and Dorian had been forced to show the poor fool why, exactly, that had been a mistake. ]

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood and viscera out of Royale Sea Silk, Inquisitor?

Because I certainly don't. Honestly, I haven't a clue. I so rarely do my own laundry. Is it difficult? I imagine it must be.