#unculled

Lord Halward should have been hailed famous for his ability to lecture. Dorian thought so, at least. It had been three days since his unceremonious return from the hands of bandits and each day his father had ordained to speech at him over his responsibilities, expectations, and the consequences of not upholding family values— or something like that. Dorian had done an exceedingly good job of tuning him out after the first one.

After promising never to venture alone in the seedier corners of the city, Dorian decided to celebrate surviving another lecture by doing just that. The afternoon sun was warm on his skin, seeping through the silk of his chiton pleasantly as he strolled down the steps that led into the courtyard and the house gate beyond, both speckled with the occasional slave or guard going about their duties. He gave a guard and appreciative once over as he passed, finding a new spot of gratitude in the length (or lack thereof) of his pteruges and even tossing a second glance back at him as he passed. Who designed those? They were wonderful.

He sighed as he continued, then suddenly stopped, his brow furrowing slightly in recognition as he did a quick double take of the guard. Was that a gold sword at his side? With rubies in the pummel? Yes. Yes, it was. That was—

“You there,” he called to him as he turned on his heel to backtrack. “Where did you get that?”

The guard slowed to a stop, blinking at him in confusion. “What—?”

“The sword! And that cape!” He added, finally noticing it and growing more offended. “Where did you get them! They were my fathers and gifted to the man that saved me. Why do you have them?”

“Uh..”

“An answer, if you please!” he snapped impatiently. The guard floundered.

“A-Apologies, Lord Pavus,” he said awkwardly, scowling as he shifted his weight between his feet. “But.. Well, the slave left them, you see. Behind, by the gate the night he left here.”

“He did what!”

“He gave it up freely, I swear,” the man insisted before he could be implicated. “We merely picked up what was left on the street. Free game, sir.”

Dorian bit down a short yell of frustration and snatched at the guard’s belt. He unfastened it maybe a bit too expertly and stole away sword and sheath before turning on his heel to storm out of the gates, leaving behind a very flustered guard struggling with the sudden exposure of his underthings.

“Dumped outside of the gate!” Dorian seethed under his breath, garnering himself puzzled looks from those he passed on the street. “Like common trash! The audacity, the absolute audacity— Can I help you?”

He had no idea where to find Cullen, though he decided the Coliseum would be a fair start for looking. He imagined he must have been quite a sight, storming around in all his silks and finery, toting about a warrior’s sword and making demands after a slave. But it worked. Cullen, as it turned out, was in a match— the stubborn idiot was really fighting without real armor or a proper sword, how much pride could one man possibly have!

Dorian took up a spot at the entryway to the arena meant only for slave handlers and fighters but no one seemed eager to challenge the Pavus heir. It was impossibly loud and the seats were filled to the brim with nothing less than an ecstatic audience. The crowd seemed to like Cullen, at least. Even Dorian, who had planned to spend the entire fight fuming silently and preparing a rant to challenge his father’s lectures, found himself paying keen attention to the match. Cullen was, well, actually quiteimpressive running about, performing daring feats and felling one opponent after another with practiced showmanship. And again with those pteruges! The man had exceptional thighs.

DA verse-

Max has always been the sort to go for simple, comfortableclothing when not doing anything important. As such, he can typicallybe found wearing a pair of comfortable leather trousers, a tunic(long or short sleeved depending on the weather) with a vest over thetop of it, and a pair of well worn leather boots that he’s had forsome time.

Modern Verse-

dont tell me to do sth, Bella, i’ll do iT

meme.

SEND ‘ROUGH TOUCH’

8. Your muse grips my muse’s hips.

@unculled

“No magic.” Ares repeats the rules breezily, dusting his hands with chalk and wiping off the excess. “So none of that strange magic that you templars do, Commander.”

“It’s not magic——”

“Whatever it is!” Ares interrupts imperiously, sauntering lazily into the sparring circle, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace that can hardly look so when his mouth is twisted in a smirk of utmost condescension. “I don’t know how it is that your chantry looks so unfavorably on magic, but allows their templars to use it. Curious.”

Cullen sighed, unwilling to get into a debate that required more mental effort than he was sure his opponent was capable of. Let him bluster, he decided, and followed him into the circle. 

Ares widens his stance, crouches down into a defensive position. His hands are turned, palms toward the commander, and cocks a brow. “No magic, templar,” he warns with a teasing lilt to his voice. 

The commander rushes him with a growl, slamming into his shoulder and following up with and elbow that cuts upward out of nowhere. It connects with Ares cheek, sends him stumbling back half a step. But he grasps the commander by his hips and uses the momentum to upset his balance and send him hurtling over his own bent knee. 

In spite of his weight, Cullen falls easily, rolls twice on the ground before he scrambles to his feet and charges him again. But Ares is ready this time, slamming a lethal right hook that makes Cullen feel as though his jaw must have crumbled beneath it. But he’s throwing his arms around Ares’s waist, ducking under his arms to twist around and slip behind him.

Ares is taller, and just as broad, and in theory, the center of his gravity should allow Cullen to unseat him with carefully applied pressure. He grips his hips and tries to twist him to the ground just as Ares had done, but the man is a brick and does not budge. He attempts to sweep his foot from between his legs. Nothing. One more grab at his hips to pull him down, even if he has to go with him. Still nothing.

"Are you really blaming me for this?" Dorian asked, unfussed as he sat back more against the other boy. It was warmer that way and whatever hard ground they'd been dumped on left much to be desired in the way of comfort. He wished he could remember the young gladiator's features. Everything had happened so fast, he'd only seen his face for a brief flash before the grubby sack had been pulled over his eyes. Blonde, armored, a scar on his mouth-- and about to say something, hadn't he?

The excitement of the evening had largely worn off, so it was almost quiet when Oleander nearly crashed into Cullen outside of the Winter Palace, excess energy propelling him slightly too quickly. Despite that, he managed to avoid spilling either of the champagne flutes he was carrying, though he had lost his blue sash and the buttons of his jacket at some point along the way, the garishly red jacket hanging open over his comparatively plain undershirt.

He carefully wiggled one of the flutes back and forth right under Cullen’s nose, until the commander finally rolled his eyes and accepted it. “I was under the impression that the party was over.”

Oleander scoffed. “It wasn’t a very fun party. Besides, now we can actually celebrate the fact that we did a good job without your entourage interrupting.”

Celene was murdered and the duchess was dead at Oleander’s own hand, but the fact remained that Corypheus had not gotten his way, and he thought that was probably the most important detail. Much more important than the small, tiny, minuscule, negligible detail that when he had taken up the mantle of Inquisitor, no one had informed him he would be juggling the lives of people he couldn’t even call villains.

“We did a good job,” he repeated, pointedly lifting his own champagne flute. His grip on it was tight, and his other hand was fisted against his leg to keep his hands from shaking.

Cullen sighed and tapped his glass against Oleander’s in an informal toast. “A job well done, Inquisitor.” Only when the champagne flutes were empty did he add, “And yet you still can’t play chess.”

Haven was in absolute rapture and for once, Dorian didn't quite mind the snow so much with all the wine to warm his blood. The music and dancing were about as provincial as they come-- that is, down here with the commonfolk anyway. Cicero had, of course, arranged for more refined entertainment inside. Which was why Dorian had foregone the indoors. Not that he harbored any distaste for the music, but he had nothing but distaste for that pompous cruentus--

Well, anyway. He took another sip from the goblet he'd procured, gaze interested as he eyed the commander from over the rim. He stood at a distance-- Dorian had had no desire to leave fire nearest to him, and anyway, Cullen seemed perfectly busied by a younger man in armor. If Dorian hadn't known any better, he would have suspected the commander for fratenizing with templars. But that, of course, couldn't have been the case and all their armor looked the same to Dorian.