Since the beginning of their homeland’s history, appetites drove Tevinter to a great and treacherous many feats. But, from Age to Age, the opprobrium that came with these appetites changed; morality falling in and out of fashion like the seasons, revised whenever appropriate. Deities, politics, schools of magic — anything could be deemed deviant, and it was inevitably determined within the eye of one’s era. The shame of it all is that just by coupling enough status to complying to the expectation of acting with some discretion, the most taboo of appetites are of no consequence. To satisfy them blithely, however, meant suffering absolute, social impunity.
What Dorian lacks, as his father and his string of failed mentors can all attest to, is obedience. The shining flaw on a prodigal son half-heartedly hidden by negligence to his duties; recently made obvious through a series of relapses and carousing. He wore the last stint as if it were a sack of rocks on his shoulders, and grooved deep into the sockets of his exhaust-reddened eyes. Half a day (he presumed, as time was slippery) was lost in a chamber that he had been brought to, a hope that he might sober enough to be, well, coherent and vice versa.
A curious smile was nevertheless on Dorian’s face, too. A bit queasy, but as small the end of a secret, it was already fading by the point that he had been accepted into the Divine’s grand study. Just a moment before, he had tormented that statue of a man outside, foolishly testing this predicament by requesting a proper drink. Whatever the severity of Dorian’s punishment was going to be, no amount of “even the cooking sherry will do"s would make any worse, so he demurred.
Down came his shoulders first, revering the title — and if he were pressed to admit, the person to whom it belonged — in the manner of fanciful bowing. There was a perfect one-two count where he lingered, hearing the memory of tutors in a now-intrinsic part of his mind guiding him just when to acknowledge the Divine, all in spite of the libations that still swirled.
His nerves were steady, unthreatened though a threat there was surer than not. Authority easy to ignore. But by the thrum in his ears, he knows it was not so easy to discount the Divine’s magnetism that overexcited the senses. Even on the precipice of his own freedoms, the man stood on a platform of inspiration so well that he felt a guttering sensation of hope.
"I suppose I should forgo saying "I can explain”?“
Urian watched with a small, interested smile on his face as the young man bowed. The obeisance was perfectly correct, in depth and form and duration, despite the rather, it must be said, ragged appearance of the Pavus heir – and the slight unsteadiness on his feet he’d evinced in sauntering into the room in the first place. Some very good tutors had spent a very hard stint of time in drilling manners and etiquette into the Pavus boy, that much was certain. And Urian found it interesting, under the circumstances, that young Lord Dorian had even bothered with a bow. He hadn’t shown such respect to anyone else in this entire ridiculous circus of an affair.
Perhaps, Urian mused, the Pavus boy actually revered Urian’s position… or Urian himself. Urian did have rather a reputation as a redeemer, after all; and from everything he’d heard of Pavus, the boy was unconventional and nontraditional in his habits. How very interesting indeed, if so; Urian could use that.
His smile only broadened when Pavus straightened and spoke. Indeed, he actually laughed aloud and waved a hand airily. “Well that depends,” Urian answered, with a certain warm amusement in the tone. “Do you think you have anything to explain?”
He stood up from behind his desk and crossed to a small table set beneath one of the windows. This high up in the Argent Spire, the windows were not the small slitted things which defense dictated lower down; far out of bowshot, this level boasted wide windows inset with diamond-shaped panes of crystal-clear glass imported from Serault. Afternoon sunlight spilled in and cast the aurum table with a dull, rich gleam, picking out the geometric patterns lightly incised in its surface. Upon it sat a teapot of worked silver, steaming gently; and a set of thin teacups. Urian lifted the pot and poured into two of them. The pale brew filled the room with its scent, mingling the grassy greenness of the tea and the brighter thrill of mint. Urian offered one of the cups to the Pavus boy with his own hands, hoping Dorian was at least present enough to be cognizant of the honor.
“Come now, Lord Dorian,” he said, with an avuncular amusement. “I’m certain you would prefer something stronger, but the tea will help with last night’s… excesses.” There was no judgment at all to be heard in his tone, no anger or annoyance or deprecation.
Urian raised one hand in a simple quelling gesture. “And please, before you begin with the your Perfections, I must insist you call me Father Urian. Divine is an important position, of course; but I do not choose to stand on dignity. I prefer to be the simple priest I’ve always been, at least in situations which do not require the most formal of my vestments.” He laughed softly and took a seat beside the tea table. “Please, my boy. Sit. And why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Of course I’ve heard tales, but now... I’d like to hear your own words.”
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