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"Dorian."
"Feyn."
"This is.. really it?"
"It.. appears so."
Lavellan sighed woefully and turned towards Dorian, one hand coming to cover his mouth as his eyes, so full of the feeling of lost hope, brimmed with tears. That, partnered with the way his shoulders shook like they were under the weight of the world, made the elf appear as if he teetered on the edge of a firm breakdown. Knowing what was at stake, knowing that this was the worst possible threat to the Inquisition, it was a teeter that no one could pull him from quick enough. Before Dorian knew it, a tear slid down Feyn’s cheek, thereby signaling his fall into the abyss.
“This is the worst possible thing I could’ve imagined,” Feyn whimpered.
Dorian nodded, pity lacing his eyebrows up high in the center. When the scout first delivered the package, this certainly wasn’t the outcome the Altus had pictured. He should’ve predicted it. The air had grown cold, and the peace of Dorian’s reading and Feyn’s writing had been broken. It was an omen.
Slowly, as if not to startle, he took a step forward, coming to stand beside the elf. A comforting hand was placed on one of those quaking shoulders. It hurt seeing this. It hurt knowing the pain Feyn must be going through at this very moment. Certainly, the Inquisitor breaking like this was something Dorian never would’ve possibly thought he would even have the chance to see. The man had stared down demons, red templars, handsy nobles, but this.. Dorian feared his amatus would never recover.
"You're certain no one could've done anything? Anything at all?" he said, the grim words muffled by the sweaty, shaking hand covering his lips. A few tears spilled past the crevice between hand and face to roll gently down his knuckles. When the first reached the floor, the mighty Inquisitor let out a small sob that wracked his shoulders even more.
It took Dorian a moment to come up with a response to the poor man's plea, and when he spoke his words were filled with all the pity he could bear to the Herald. "Amatus, I spoke to Leliana when it arrived. It was out of her hands, already paid for, but she tried. Our illustrious commander.. did not seem to mind."
Feyn sniffled and turned back to the mirror propped against a wall in his quarters, letting his hand fall limply back to his side. He grimaced as it brushed the bright red material bound across his body like a straight jacket. "Of course Cullen wouldn't mind. The man wears red on a regular basis like its a good colour," he muttered, betrayal and hurt lacing his words. "And this blue? What was Josephine thinking? She didn't think to ask me or- or anyone, at least?"
As the Inquisitor started to monologue over the harshness of the Inquisition's formal attire, Dorian nodded along sadly to every word, every rhetorical question asked. He listened as Feyn complained about the frightening contrast of the blue sash against the red body and gold trim, and even as he lamented over the unholy knee-high brown leather boots he was expected to wear. The belt was next. The belt matched nothing. Dorian nodded once more.
The blue as a statement against the warm tones works in art. Clothing is not supposed to be that bold. Of course, Dorian felt otherwise for most aspects, but he nodded yet again and chirped out an ignored, “I know.”
Where was the Inquisition symbol? People know who we are, but people need to know who we are. Dorian shrugged, heaving a sigh at the same time and giving it such a tone to suggest he was annoyed with that as well.
On Feyn went, turning from the colours to the design and then back to the colours. It was never-ending, seemingly, each syllable sounding like it was leaving the mouth of a broken child whose parents had passed. Though, the situation made it feel more like a 3 year old crying over a biscuit the family mabari had stolen.
Still, Dorian's heart grew heavy with each biting word as the pain the elf must’ve felt was well-warranted. He didn’t think he would ever be caught dead in such a getup. In fact, the day he was forced to step into those boots was the day he decided he’d have to set fire to his own feet.
This continued for a few minutes (an hour?) until finally the Inquisitor turned back to Dorian. He seemed calmer by miles now, and his face was no longer a wet mess. Being given the chance to rant heavily about Josephine’s crime against the nature of style really worked wonders, but his voice still broke at times when he continued, “Shouldn’t my outfit be different from everyone elses? I’m the Inquisitor. I don’t view myself above all of you, of course, but isn’t that how things work?” Dorian nodded for what felt like the umpteenth time, and then he froze.
“I won’t even get started on how itchy this suit is..” Feyn trailed off and ended his speech by dropping his head softly into his hands and using their palms to rub his puffy, red eyes.
“Yes..of course..” Dorian was staring. He knew that made no sense in the context of the conversation, but he was hardly paying attention to the words leaving his lips. Instead, he was very clearly focusing on the words leaving Feyn’s lips. His mustache twitched, and his hands curled into half fists beside his robes. Had he heard it right? “I’m sorry. Sorry. Did I hear that right? Every-everyone is supposed to wear these…” he said while starting to gesture wildly at Feyn. The common lexicon, his mind’s jargon, his very command of language flew out the stained glass window and tumbled down the snowy cliffs outside Skyhold’s walls. There were no words. There was no insult strong enough. He continued to gesture rapidly, mind broken.
When Lavellan responded, his head didn’t even leave his hands as he said, “Monstrosities? Horrid eyesores? Fen’harel’s, I don’t know, shit made into fabric?”
A headache was coming on definitely, Dorian thought. He dropped onto the edge of the bed and rubbed absently at a temple. Though considering the predicament, a drink would certainly do him better than two measly fingers. He’d get one of the more spendy ales maybe, or perhaps a bottle of rare wine from the cellar. Those were both potent and distracting. If distraction is more important though, Dorian supposed the cheapest swill the tavern had would do. He’d be in worlds of sorrow drinking that piss, and he wouldn’t even think of Josephine’s evil doing.
“Dorian. Dorian, help me.”
Right. The Tevinter mage turned back to the distressed, mess of a man vying for his attention and standing in front of him now rather than the mirror. He tried not to make eye contact with the formal attire; the red was starting to hurt his eyes as well.
“There has to be a way out of this. An express order. Modifications,” Feyn paused to let out a tiny whine. “Something. There has to be something. I’m the Inquisitor I’ll just-- I can just order someone to do this!”
“Amatus, we leave for Halam’shiral in 3 days. I’m as perturbed by this whole mess as you are, but there has to be sense. We’re simply stuck looking like..what was it.. Fen’Harels shit made into fabric?” Dorian said, cracking a small, sincerely and absolutely fake smile and hoping it would spread on gold-gilded wings smack onto the Inquisitors face. It did not spread.
However, it certainly smacked the man and left him with a deeper frown that would undoubtedly speed up the aging process.
“You,” Feyn started, moving to point an accusatory finger towards Dorian’s chest, “of all people know fashion is nothing to be trifled with, Vhenan.”
Dorian sighed and focused his gaze on the tip of the elf’s finger rather than the face wearing the frown he’d put there with his impromptu joking around. “Of course this is serious, but like I said, sense. There’s no conceivable way to get an entirely new outfit. One fit for a grand masquerade, at the very least.”
Lord Inquisitor Feyn Lavellan ignored Altus Dorian Pavus of the Vyrantium Circle completely as his words were irrevocably unhelpful and went on to say, “Red doesn’t even bring out my eyes,” a pause, ”Anyones eyes. She’s from Antiva, and she’s.. she’s a noble. Is it the Antivan part? Is Antiva just this disconnected from anything good and whole in Thedas?”
Dorian ignored that he was being ignored. He said with a measure of patience, “Yes, and how do you know any better than an Antivan? If I recall, you plucked some god-awful plant out of the ground in the Hissing Wastes and ate it. Without reserves. In the Hissing Wastes.”
Feyn squared a look at the altus and raised his chin indignantly. “I know my herbs, and I know my fashion. Dalish armour is prettier than anything I’ve ever seen on a sheml-- well, Grey Warden armour is kind of pretty I suppose.” he sniffed and glanced to the side before continuing on, “ Beside the point. Have you seen the Orlesians? And they’re supposed to be the pinnacle of fanciness?”
“Oh, come now. You can’t use the Orlesians in this argument.”
“And why not?”
“They’re not so much fanciful as plainly showing off their riches. I mean, you didn’t think clustering priceless gems onto a shoe of all things was a show of fashion, did you,” Dorian said, crossing his arms and coming to a stand a few feet in front of the elf.
The aforementioned elf seemed to be at a loss for words. His feet shuffled quietly in those horse-shit coloured boots, and one of his ears gave a delightful annoyed twitch. It was plain and simple. Dorian was right, and Feyn obviously knew it. Still, he tried to redeem himself. He didn’t so much say as mumble, “The Fereldans then.”
Dorian sighed gently, uncrossed his arms, and clapped a pitiful hand onto one of those slim, red-covered shoulders. When he spoke, it was softly, “I’d let you have it, but now you’re just being a bully. Fereldan didn’t deserve that; they’re still floundering to match their drapes to the rugs.”
Feyn seemed to consider this, tilting his head just ever so slightly side-to-side. Finally, he rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, and tucked a strand of long, black hair behind his ear. “You’re right. That was frightfully rude of me,” he said.
The altus raised a brief hand as if to say “thank you” in a far too exasperated fashion. Turning, he made his way to the Inquisitors desk and leaned against it, being careful not to disturb the open ink pot. After a moment, Dorian picked up the lid and closed it for good measure. Best not to stain the letter Feyn was writing before the scout came up to his quarters. It looked far too long to patiently rewrite, and he didn’t want to incur more harm than what was already done by the horrible excuse for an outfit that was still ruining the elf’s good looks.
When he looked up, that ugly red drawing his attention before he quickly focused instead on the Inquisitor’s face, Feyn was staring silently towards Dorian’s knees. He looked deflated, positively exhausted. Dorian supposed an unintelligible amount of time ranting and crying would do that. “Well,” he began, causing Feyn to meet Dorian’s gaze, “you don’t have to wear it right now, do you? You might feel better after you rip that crime against my eyes off and have a pint.”
“At least until tomorrow,” Feyn agreed, nodding ever so slightly. He didn’t look completely convinced with that grimace scrunching the lines of his vallaslin, but he didn’t look completely abhorred to the idea either.
“Delightful!” Dorian clapped loudly once and straightened, a grin lighting up his lips. “Now, see, I had some lovely thoughts on what to drink. Would you like to hear about them? Of course you would.”