The answer is practically instinctive, as is the mild disdain: "Those books never have anything good inside them."
Between one breath and the next, Cabot appears with their order, placing two bowls and two mugs before Dorian and the Bull without spilling a drop. Reflexively, Dorian reaches for his coin pouch before Cabot waves it away, grumbling something about placing the order on the Chargers' sizable tab – something, Dorian has been told, that Cabot allows to reach relatively astronomical heights, knowing and trusting the Chargers will repay him without any reminders. Before Dorian wonders if he ought to protest and insist that he can pay his own way, Cabot has already disappeared.
It's the ale that Dorian reaches for first. He's had plenty of stew in his week in isolation – it's the shitty, acrid ale that he's truly missed. The first swig is every bit as disappointing and, somehow, as satisfying as he hoped. Dorian simultaneously frowns and sighs with it, thumbing at the corner of his mouth to catch a stray drop.
"More likely, she'll probably insist on my getting some fresh air," he says. He picks up the spoon, idly dragging it through the bowl of stew. (He imagines his mother tutting and frowning at him. "It's unbecoming to play with your food, Dorian.") "Never mind that nearly every inhale leaves frost in my lungs. I suppose if Evelyn's intention is to preserve me, freezing me alive seems a fair option."
After one more mouthful of ale, and Dorian pushes off from the counter. "Your usual spot seems to be open," he says decisively – not that the Bull's spot is ever occupied by anyone other than the Bull. By now, all of the Inquisition and even its guests, whether highborn or low, know better than to attempt to claim the Bull's seat as their own. "Come. You'll tell me what I've missed."
no subject
Between one breath and the next, Cabot appears with their order, placing two bowls and two mugs before Dorian and the Bull without spilling a drop. Reflexively, Dorian reaches for his coin pouch before Cabot waves it away, grumbling something about placing the order on the Chargers' sizable tab – something, Dorian has been told, that Cabot allows to reach relatively astronomical heights, knowing and trusting the Chargers will repay him without any reminders. Before Dorian wonders if he ought to protest and insist that he can pay his own way, Cabot has already disappeared.
It's the ale that Dorian reaches for first. He's had plenty of stew in his week in isolation – it's the shitty, acrid ale that he's truly missed. The first swig is every bit as disappointing and, somehow, as satisfying as he hoped. Dorian simultaneously frowns and sighs with it, thumbing at the corner of his mouth to catch a stray drop.
"More likely, she'll probably insist on my getting some fresh air," he says. He picks up the spoon, idly dragging it through the bowl of stew. (He imagines his mother tutting and frowning at him. "It's unbecoming to play with your food, Dorian.") "Never mind that nearly every inhale leaves frost in my lungs. I suppose if Evelyn's intention is to preserve me, freezing me alive seems a fair option."
After one more mouthful of ale, and Dorian pushes off from the counter. "Your usual spot seems to be open," he says decisively – not that the Bull's spot is ever occupied by anyone other than the Bull. By now, all of the Inquisition and even its guests, whether highborn or low, know better than to attempt to claim the Bull's seat as their own. "Come. You'll tell me what I've missed."