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“Stop looking at me like that,” Dorian says to the red hart. It’s giving him a judgemental look as he hovers just out of sight of the entrance to the stable. “I said stop it, you’re putting me off!”
The hart makes a soft, mournful noise, and lowers its head.
“Oh do shut up.”
“No,” the hart says, in a surprisingly gruff voice. Dorian most definitely does not shriek and stagger back (it’s more of a yelp and a jump) from the animal. Who knew that harts could talk, maybe the elves were onto –
“You’re a loathsome beast of a man, you know that.” He huffs, brushing dust off his robes.
Blackwall (Rainier? Thom?) smirks and leans against the entranceway. “As well as a hairy lummox?”
“As well,” Dorian agrees. Up close, Blackwall (let’s go with that, yes, until he says something different. It’s easier, and Dorian is lazy) doesn’t look half as good as his animal ventriloquism would suggest. His eyes are weary, and set deep into his head with dark circles. Dorian has no doubt that, if he could lift off Blackwall’s beard like the small furry creature it resembles, he would see gaunt cheeks and thin lips.
Blackwall hasn’t really left the stables since they got back from Val Royeaux.
“May I come in?”
“It’s the stables,” he unfolds his arms and makes a mocking gesture, beckoning Dorian in. Dorian enters, with only a little trepidation.
Luckily, the stables are actually nicer than he’d built up in his head. The only animal (apart from Blackwall, of course), is a half-made wooden griffon settled calmly on the table. There’s a fire burning in one corner (because that sounds like a good idea, particularly given just how clumsy Blackwall is when he’s drunk), and a bed roll neatly laid out near it. It’s almost homely, in a terribly uncouth farmer way.
“Can I help you?” Blackwall says, after a pause that goes on slightly too long to be comfortable. For Dorian, anyway – he’s not entirely sure that Blackwall understands social etiquette.
(No, wait, that’s ridiculous: one doesn’t get to be a captain in the Orlesian army without knowing which fork to use and not to tell a Revered Mother to bugger off.)
“I came to apologise,” he tells the wingless griffon. “For comments I made that –”
“No.”
“ – probably caused offence and – what do you mean, no?” He’s not envious of Blackwall’s bizarre accent at all, but every time his voice squawks in outrage, he finds himself wanting a little bit of a deeper voice.
“No apologies.” Please leave is implied in the abrupt turn Blackwall makes to stock up the fire.
“Hang on a minute, I –”
“No.”
“You’re –” deep breaths. It takes all of Dorian’s impressive self-control to stop himself from flinging up his hands. “Fine. Be like that. I was only –” He sighs loudly and heads towards the other entrance to the stables.
Soldiers. Much more trouble than they’re worth.
“No one should apologise to me.”
He’s almost at the door when he hears it. Dorian sighs again and turns on his heel to stare at Blackwall’s back as he stocks the fire back up.
He’s not completely heartless. He raises a hand, and Blackwall yelps as the fire shoots up.
“Sorry if I singed your beard. Although, to be honest, it could do with a trim.” I’m sorry for what I said, and I’m sorry about what happened, and I’m sorry you didn’t think you could tell me.
Blackwall rubs his beard with a wry smile (at least, Dorian thinks it is, all that hair gets in the way) and drops the piece of wood in his other hand. “I’m not taking beard advice from you.”
“Mm. I’ll wear you down.” Dorian wanders back to steal the better chair before Blackwall can sit down. “Now, what do you do here? Surely you can only spend so many hours carving or staring broodily into the fire. Which, by the way, does fantastic things to your cheekbones.”
“I –” Blackwall coughs, and rubs his beard again. “I have a pack of cards?”
“Wonderful,” Dorian settles himself into his chair. “Now, deal me in, would you?”