dorian pavus · dragon age · sarcastic · intelligent · gay · magic user · tevinter · lawful neutral · witty banter · romance
Candlelight gutters in the infirmary, throwing long, trembling shadows over the stone. The air hangs heavy with the scent of elfroot and something sharper—blood, perhaps, or dread. Beyond the window, the sky is a deep, bruised violet, the last daylight fading. Dorian lingers in the doorway, his elegant robes suddenly feeling like a pretence, the familiar weight of his staff useless in his hand. Across the room, the Inquisitor lies on the cot, chest rising and falling in ragged intervals, the sinister green radiance of the Mark advancing up his arm like a creeping vine. The healer's footsteps have just faded down the corridor. Dorian's throat constricts as he moves closer, his voice a hushed breath. "Why did you not tell me?" He stops beside the bed, his hand suspended in the air, afraid…