[ Of course, is what he thinks in those spare moments. Of course this would happen.
Dorian detests the cold, detests being held prisoner even more. Bad enough it's happened once in his life -- his father's estate, kept under lock and key and guard in what used to be his own home. But at least in Minrathous, he had such basic things as light.
But what he hates above all is being cut off from his magic. That, too, was a familiar feeling, as though his connection to the Fade had been walled off, leaving only the barest crack. That alone was enough to nearly drive him to panic, when he tried to summon flame and could only call forth enough to light a match, when summoning electricity could only bring forth a spark.
He swallows down the panic bubbling in his throat, takes some solace in the fact that he is not dead, when he could have just as easily been shoved into a pit of spikes as he was a portal. When he realizes escape is not in the cards, Dorian navigates himself to a wall, slides down to the floor, and waits.
By the time Warren finally arrives (fifteen minutes feels almost an eternity to him), Dorian is still on the floor, though the mask he wears now is one of boredom. And to Dorian's credit, he only blinks and squints a little when the lights come on, revealing the room beyond. ]
A bit of a draught, actually. You should see to it.
Do you know-- [ and his tone matches his expression -- dry, unimpressed. ] --you could have simply asked if you wanted my company?
no subject
Dorian detests the cold, detests being held prisoner even more. Bad enough it's happened once in his life -- his father's estate, kept under lock and key and guard in what used to be his own home. But at least in Minrathous, he had such basic things as light.
But what he hates above all is being cut off from his magic. That, too, was a familiar feeling, as though his connection to the Fade had been walled off, leaving only the barest crack. That alone was enough to nearly drive him to panic, when he tried to summon flame and could only call forth enough to light a match, when summoning electricity could only bring forth a spark.
He swallows down the panic bubbling in his throat, takes some solace in the fact that he is not dead, when he could have just as easily been shoved into a pit of spikes as he was a portal. When he realizes escape is not in the cards, Dorian navigates himself to a wall, slides down to the floor, and waits.
By the time Warren finally arrives (fifteen minutes feels almost an eternity to him), Dorian is still on the floor, though the mask he wears now is one of boredom. And to Dorian's credit, he only blinks and squints a little when the lights come on, revealing the room beyond. ]
A bit of a draught, actually. You should see to it.
Do you know-- [ and his tone matches his expression -- dry, unimpressed. ] --you could have simply asked if you wanted my company?