( We need to talk about you being less of an apparent terror unto your people, sir!! But he takes the bait for these kinds of conversations too easily. )
As many times as he's sincere, of course. One can make all the difference just by being there for someone struggling to change when no one else will be. I'd rather be that person than not.
( This question gives him pause, because he has to think on it thanks to one particular person in his party— Alhaitham, order of scribes wizard and a former friend whom Kaveh now grudgingly maintains a working relationship with. Before the mists claimed them, they were famous for their ideological arguments. Alhaitham is a genius in his field, but if there exists any poster boy for wizardly, self-centric pursuit of knowledge with utter disinterest in others, Alhaitham is it.
Still, Kaveh is too sentimental to truly hate him. After a short time, the answer does come: )
No. I mean... There was a time I gave too many chances to someone who didn't really want them, because he didn't really want to change, and I thought I could convince him to. But I just wanted to believe he did, I think. That was my mistake.
( Sigh!!! )
At least someone appreciates it, I suppose. The people here don't seem to have much faith in second chances, but it all seems so dismal here, I don't exactly blame them.
[ Silk sheets, cool around his hands, enveloping them like a stream. Fresh sleepclothes, light and comfortable linen. Mattress and pillow stuffed with feathers. Heavy bedding, charcoal gray and embroidered with rich gold. Walls around him paneled in wood and patterned in deep blue and gold jacquard. A banded door to one side, and an unbanded door to his other.
Posts stretch in the four corners of his vision, richly appointed, each intricately carved face gleaming with polish. They support a black canopy trimmed in thick, golden tassels. Curtains drape back over each post, lashed in gilded rope.
The room around him is awash in morning light - mist gray, mostly, but dappled in colour. A glance toward his feet will reveal why this is; a large window just behind an inviting divan dominates the opposing wall, the central pane flanked with two windows of beautiful stained glass, which peek from behind a heavy pair of dark, embroidered curtains. In these frames, coloured glass and wrought iron framing lash together to imitate bright red roses and crawling vines and green leaves.
And in the central window - nothing. The sky is gray, and it floods the entire room.
There is a fine rug beneath his feet when he does find his way - fine and older than he is. Beneath that, the floor is paneled in beautiful herringbone wood, polished and glowing a deep chocolate brown. Once he's in it, the sunlight feels as cold as it looks - gray, and distant. The lands rolling below the steep tower are barely visible. Peering through the mists in search of them feels not unlike a child stretching toes toward a floor just slightly too far away.
He won't hear the door open. He won't even hear footsteps.
But he will hear a voice, dark and rich and smooth as velvet, suddenly filling the room from the door. ]
[ Dorian’s head is still foggy when he finally rouses, but it clears little by little as he realizes that he’s somewhere unfamiliar, in clothes that weren’t his. But it’s not enough to recall what had happened before, how he might have ended up in a place like this or what might have happened to the others.
Panicking a little, he stumbles over to the day bed, his body feeling rather weak but he forces himself there anyway. As he’s climbing onto the bed to see if there was a way to break it, an unfamiliar voice echoes in the room and causes him to jump, his gaze snapping towards the door. ]
[ The man he sees when he turns around cuts an impressive, trim figure in the foggy daylight - a man who is older, but not old. A pale face with severe cheekbones and a noble profile. Crisp black cravat pinned with a polished ruby at his throat, stark white shirt, red brocaded vest with a double-breast and coat tails. Long, black trousers, slim in the leg and pleated well, ending in polished shoes with a slight heel and a tapered point to the toe. His hair, long and straight and dark, lays ponytailed over one shoulder.
Something appraising, casually predatory in his gleaming and flinty eyes as he studies his newest visitor - eyes which soften in sympathy he's practiced and imitated for four hundred years as he asks his question. ]
You are in my home of Castle Ravenloft, in the valley of Barovia. I am Lord Strahd von Zarovich, and I am master of both.
[ Here, he dares to take some slow, testing steps, watching closely his frame for any uneasy and animal twitches of musculature. ]
You were found by my chamberlain, roaming the castle grounds. [ A lie, naturally - Rahadin brooks no intruders on these castle grounds, no matter how foolish or innocent their intent, and would have surely cleaved this one in two had he found him ambling around the dead rose garden - but a bit of Modify Memory never hurt anyone. ] Do you have need of anything?
Edited (peckin at this while i sit in work meetings dont mind me) 2023-03-13 16:49 (UTC)
[ Dorian slowly lowers himself to sit on the divan as he studies the man across the room - an admittedly handsome stranger, to be sure, but there’s something about him that makes Dorian feel a little uneasy, though he can’t exactly put his finger on what it is. And he can’t help a puzzled frown at the answer he receives. ]
Barovia…? [ He’s never heard of such a place before.
He stills a bit as the man starts to step into the room, feeling just a bit cornered despite the distance still between them. The explanation, though made some sense, still also confuses him. ]
Is…that so? I thank you for your kindness then, sir. [ But it does beg the question now of how he even got to this Barovia in the first place. And his friends… ] Were there…any others present at the time?
[ He hesitates, and as he glances around the room he notices that his things - his clothes, his instruments, his weapons - aren’t in sight anywhere. He grips the fabric of the sleepclothes he’s wearing, feeling a little vulnerable in them. ] No, I…I’m all right, thank you. I’m sorry for all the trouble. If I can just…get my things, I could be on my way.
[ As he stills, so does Strahd, red and green dapples of light casting their stretched shapes against his leg, glinting in one boot. Not out of a personal care for this man, this frightened man and his vulnerable state - no. This is done in service of manipulation. It would not do to push against the boundaries being set now. If he expected this to come to anything, then he couldn't risk breaking trust at this most critical of times.
And, he's relieved to know, he does want something to come of this. His tastes and whims begin to run fickle as the centuries march on, and this is a rare gift. He's not had a guest who seems as pliable as this in some time, and a genasi even rarer than that. Humans and elves and tieflings aplenty have run themselves to ruin in his Barovia - some even availing themselves to him before the end - and that was passing entertainment. A genasi is a rare thing. Pretty, silvery-blue skin, long hair fading into misty gray.
He wonders, quietly, on how the death pallor of blood loss might affect his unique complexion as he continues feigning sympathy, eyes softening further at his confusion, wordlessly shaking his head as he asks about his friends. ]
No others, I fear.
[ His voice is gentle - or as gentle as a king's voice might get.
Strahd lets silence fall in the room as he asks for his things, the soft sympathy in his face cringing to something else - concern. Slowly, he turns, and walks toward the large window, gazing through the stained panes - so as not to bring himself a step too near to his newest guest. He's quiet for a moment, watching the rolling mists, arms folded behind his steel-straight back. Face white in the foggy daylight. ]
My valley, you see, is quite wild, and her people's minds are... [ Here is where the first hints at what sort of place he's found himself in may be seen - Strahd takes a breath, the first in some time, imitating thought as his mouth opens, the tips of long fangs gleaming behind stretched lips for just a moment before his jaw pulls closed, and he looks at his newest captive, ] well, not so open as I might like. Turning you out thusly to the mercy of both - and in your current state - I can understand your trepidation, certainly, but... I am afraid to say that I cannot do this, in good conscience. I must insist that you stay, and avail yourself to my hospitality a little longer.
[ He couldn't be called a liar for that. The man barely knows where he stands. What goodly Lord would let him go to wolves and vampires and a sea of mist? ]
I don't know that I could trust you with weapons yet, but I entrusted washing your clothing to my servants, and they are surely finished now. [ He would rather dress him himself, but-- give and take. Give him some small personal freedoms whilst he's confined. Bide his time until he can push further. ] And I must admit, as a musician myself... your instruments quite intrigued me. I would be happy to return them to you, on the condition that they not be used to cause harm. And, perhaps...
[ Hesitation, glancing back toward the gray window. He'd never been a nervous man in life, but you get the hang of imitating these things as you get older. ]
If you will excuse the imposition, I would be most pleased if you would be willing to indulge me in some music.
[ Dorian does relax a little when the man stops, though still watches him a bit warily. There are still some things he doesn’t understand - what kind of condition had he been found in, and how long has he been here since being found - but his heart sinks at the admittance that the others aren’t around.
His eyes follow the lord as he walks to one of the stained windows, before turning to look out the central one at the land below. And while he does catch sight of those gleaming fangs, it’s quick enough that he wonders if it’s just a trick of the light. ]
I…thank you for your concern, sir. [ He could understand that, with how unfamiliar he is to this place, that the lord is simply being a good host. Yet something about it still feels…off somehow, he just isn’t sure why. He doesn’t have much choice at the moment, though, and resolves to go with it for now, see if he can come up with a plan later. ]
I was traveling with others before. Is there any chance they could have found their way here as well? Could they be looked for?
[ If he found his way here, surely the others could as well, and he would hate for them to get hurt if they were looking for him.
Disappointed as he is that he wouldn’t get his weapons back yet, having his clothes and instruments would at least be a comfort. The request does surprise him a little, but perhaps it will help him get in some good favor with this mysterious noble. ]
I would…be happy to provide some, Lord Strahd, in return for your hospitality. My, um… [ He thinks for a moment. ] The handle of my axe is actually a flute, if I could have that at least? And the mandolin?
[ He didn’t want to ask for too much, just in case. But while he would also want his lute, the enchanted mandolin would at least have some spells he could use just in case he needed them. ]
[ Offer hope without concrete promise. A string isn't much without a carrot to dangle. If he believes that his friends may at any time burst through the doors of Castle Ravenloft and rescue him, then perhaps he will content himself with his home's amusements until then.
Strahd's eyes are steady as Dorian navigates the conversation, finding his feet as quickly as he would expect. Even making some daring requests - he had certainly noticed the instruments mentioned, the fingerholes on the axe's haft and the buzzing enchantment about the mandolin. He hadn't expected that they would be admitted to.
Strahd smiles at that - and it almost reaches his eyes. ]
So long as you've no plans to heft it into my skull, I suppose that I can permit this.
[ Or do, says another corner of his thoughts. Strahd secretly thrills at the promise. It's an effort to not be knocked breathless at the mere thought.
But he keeps that to himself. If that is the way this meeting will carry out, then let it happen naturally. Far more electric is the moment one least expects. Strahd clears his throat with a wry little smile. ]
Pardon me. Barovian humour. It must seem quite grim to your tastes, but-- grim amusements for a grim land, you'll find. [ He presses his pale hand to his chest, fingernails just long and dark enough to become claws, and bends a short way at his waist. ] Excuse me.
[ He steps backward, then turns around, opens the door banded in iron to reveal a lavish sitting area - high-backed armchairs sit between two more wide, iron-wrought windows. The room is further elaborated with more plush divans, bookshelves and portraits on every wall, beautiful and ancient vases glittering on every surface. Matching heavy curtains, beautiful wooden paneling and deep blue jacquard walls say clearly that this lounge is the companion to Dorian's guest room.
His footsteps retreat through this room. Another door is pulled open, but does not shut. Strahd leans his head through the crack and converses in quick, strange words with someone on the door's other side. ]
Edited (i fucked up one of those paragraphs whoopsie daisy) 2023-03-14 02:23 (UTC)
[ Dorian nods, a little relieved in the hope that his friends would at least be kept a look out for. A small comfort, but he’ll take it for now.
He manages a faint smile at the “joke”, but having at least his axe will help him feel a bit safer. He won’t try anything just yet, but having some resources gives him some options if he does need to act.
Watching the lord bow and leave, Dorian waits a moment longer before sliding off the day bed and slowly crossing the room to peek into the adjoining one.
It’s certainly quite ornate, almost extravagantly so, and while Dorian himself isn’t a stranger to such luxuries, there are only so many treasures that the tents of the Silken Squall can hold.
He remains standing in the doorway between the sitting area and the bedchamber, his eyes roaming and studying the room, as well as the back of this Lord Strahd. His host has been gracious so far, and a part of him hopes his suspicions are wrong. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong here.
He’ll just have to bide his time for now, see what happens. ]
[ The conversation through the crack in the door is not necessarily secretive - Strahd's tone is low, but not harsh with secrecy. He speaks in a low whisper for the sake of politeness and little else, tactfully filling the open look the door leaves into the room with himself to hide Dorian in his sleepclothes while he may.
The language, however, is decidedly not what Dorian knows as common. What little he hears reveals fluency - Strahd's tongue moving quickly around thick vowels and hard consonants. A language that could easily sound harsh and unpleasant in a mouth other than Strahd's.
After a short exchange, Strahd pulls his head back into the room and pushes the door shut. He turns with a genial smile. ]
Your personal affects shall arrive momentarily.
[ The agreed-upon affects, in any case.
He begins to cross the room in smooth, relaxed steps, toward the white windows. ]
I have also requested some food and wine. Partake if you would like, but I will not be offended if you do not. [ He chooses one of the chairs by the window, lowering himself down into its seat with soundless ease. He rests his elbow next to a round table, where an unfinished chess game collects dust, in order to lean with polite interest in the direction of Dorian. ] Until which time our requests are met, come, if you would. Join me, and be welcome. I would know my guest, as I'm sure you would know your host.
[ Dorian frowns thoughtfully as he listens to what he can of the conversation. The language isn’t one he really recognizes. Probably not a surprise, if the land is as unfamiliar, but it only makes him feel a little more vulnerable, a little more dependent on his host.
Still he manages a smile and blows his head. ] Thank you, Lord Strahd.
[ The mention of food does remind him of his own hunger, but he can’t help hesitating at the offer. He feels oddly exposed compared to the other man, wearing only sleepclothes, but eventually his curiosity to know this strange man wins out, and he carefully crosses the room to lower himself into the other seat across from him. ]
Or the cultural equivalent, perhaps. Not a princeling. But the son of nobles is beginning to make himself more apparent than ever in Dorian - in the way that he speaks, clearly and concisely, lacking in neither vocabulary, structure, nor confidence when communing with someone of the upper classes, as peasantfolk often are. In the way he moves through the room without goggling at it all, but merely an interested glance around at the ancient accumulation. Comfortable around plenty, but not exceedingly so. Proper address, the shreds of etiquette lessons too ingrained to fully leave behind, and just the right level of audacity. He knew just what he could feasibly get away with.
Not the progeny of rulers, but of leaders, almost assuredly. If he grew up peasantry, then Strahd would eat his cravat.
He dwells on this, and on the way Lord Strahd sits in Dorian's mouth (quite nicely, he decides,) as he watches him cross the room and join him. He is still the entire journey.
After a moment, Strahd speaks; ]
I regret that the circumstances have required that I take leave of my manners. I've not yet asked your name.
Edited (i keep not finishing sentences im sorry..........) 2023-03-14 04:08 (UTC)
[ Dorian doesn’t realize the tells that gives away his background, even as he sits with his posture straight and tall as he’d been taught all his life. He manages a polite smile as he inclines his head, hoping he at least appears conversational. ]
I suppose they are rather sudden circumstances, so it can’t be helped. It’s Dorian Storm, my lord, at your service.
[ He repeats the name, a low, dark, rumbling sound. If a panther could purr.
The name sounds... pleasing, certainly, but in a way that seems unnatural and flashy to his ear. But he knows well enough that his is not a Genasi ear. He knows as much of the conventions and cultures of the planetouched as Dorian Storm knows of Barovians. Whether the name is fake or not, Strahd can't say - and he also isn't sure he much cares yet. It hardly matters to him what Dorian wants to be called.
And if his name should become a more pressing question, he has his ways. For now, eyes flashing over him as he adds that final courtesy, he lowers his head, thin strands of silvery-dark hair falling from behind his ears as he acquiesces. ]
A pleasure.
[ In service or otherwise. ]
I do hope that you will forgive me any missteps, but I must admit that your presence here greatly intrigues me. The company of one touched by the outer planes is a rare gift here in Barovia.
[ A stage name, to be sure, but one he is more comfortable using overall. Not that expects Strahd to know anything about the Silken Squall, but Dorian Storm is still the identity that he chose for himself.
He returns with a nod of his head, but he hesitates a moment as Strahd continues. ]
I…to tell you the truth, sir, I’ve been wondering about that myself. I admit that I seem to have no recollection of how I got here.
I am afraid that I can offer you little explanation.
[ Consternation expertly faked - you'd never know that the entire sequence of events lived behind his eyes as his brow knits. As he pulls back into his seat and crosses one of his legs ankle over knee, deep in mock contemplation.
He shoots Dorian a look, which turns into a dry smile. ]
Rather, I had been quite hoping that you could explain how it is you ended up in our courtyard.
[ No animosity in his tone - he can't have Dorian thinking he's in trouble, else he might try to leave. It is no transgression, but a mystery.
He rubs his chin and lets his gaze drift, frowning. ]
Castle Ravenloft is quite defensible, you see - we sit on high and sharp cliffs, which back the area in which my chamberlain found you. There is but one access point, and it is a drawbridge which must be lowered. The only way to the old gardens would be to climb those hundreds of feet, or through the castle - and my staff had no recollection of your passing through the halls. So that you found your way in... it beggars belief. I would find whatever hole in these defenses you did.
[ Another moment of silence passing, Strahd the picture of deep thought, before his red eyes flicker toward his intruder guest. ]
I see. I apologize for the intrusion, I truly don’t mean to cause any trouble.
[ Dorian frowns in concern as he tries to think. He can’t even remember what he’d been doing before ending up here, and while it’s not the first time he’s had lapses in his memory, it’s no less a problem. ]
No, I…I really can’t recall. [ Another pause as he thinks. ] You seemed to hint that Barovia is on a separate plane from Exandria? Is it possible that passing between planes might have affected my memory?
Oh, please, dear sir. You've been no trouble at all.
[ Get a little friendlier - practiced and easy smile. The very picture of a glad and noble host. ]
I've not heard of this land, though I suppose such a thing could be possible. Although I wish that I could settle this confusion for you, it has been too long since these halls saw a guest. I am all too pleased to open them for you. Perhaps after some time, we may settle this mystery to--
[ How timely - a knock at the door. Strahd leans out of the conversation and turns to face it, the earlier mirth withering before the grim and handsome countenance of a Lord. He clears his throat. ]
Aștepta.
[ He casts a last smile toward Dorian before pushing himself to his feet and crossing the room. He pulls the door open only a short way again - blocking Dorian from prying eyes yet again. First, he pulls in the flute, resting it carefully against the wall beside the door. Then he cradles the mandolin in his arms.
With another low word, the door closes. Strahd carries the stringed instrument carefully, feigning immunity to the buzzing draw of its magic over the short steps to the divan opposing their seats. ]
Remarkable craftsmanship, these. [ He sets the mandolin down with no small reverence, leaning it carefully against the divan's rich velvet back, fingers gently grazing its neck as he pulls away. He's smiling when he turns back to Dorian. ] My people play something similar to this one here. I was long ago very close to a man with some talent for it.
[ Poor, loyal, beautiful Alek Gwilym, strumming idly at glowing campfires between wartime skirmishes. He had been bled by Strahd on the courtyard's cobblestones for his loyalty, centuries prior. ]
[ Dorian manages a faint smile, feeling a bit more at ease in the noble’s presence. Before he can express his gratitude for any help that could be provided, the knock on the door interrupts them. He watches as Strahd rises and crosses the room again, and while his mood lifts some at the sight of his instruments, he notes that his clothes are not present.
He hesitates to ask about them just yet, though, not wanting to seem ungrateful. As Strahd places his mandolin down on the divan, he finally rises from his seat to slowly join the other man. ]
Thank you. Though I admit that the mandolin was a gift from a friend, so I can claim no hand in its creation.
[ He stops just a bit short of standing next to Strahd; though they seem to stand at about the same height, something about the man’s countenance still intimidates him a little. ]
[ His shoulders loosen as they speak. Good. Strahd folds his arms behind his back and smiles politely. ]
Dissimilar to your musical talents, however. My hands-- [ He raises one hand, displaying long and graceful fingers, ] --you can plainly see, I'm sure, that they are not for strings, but for keys.
[ Piano as a boy on his mother's knee, only a few short years before his father dragged him into the training yard and pressed a wooden sword into his hand. It wasn't until he settled in Barovia that he discovered where his true heart lie; in the wailing pipe organ and its powerful, belting tones.
The piano had a beautiful, shy voice - this could not be disputed. But the raw and powerful pipe organ could drown Strahd as it never could.
Strahd glances between Dorian and his mandolin, and then, steps back a short way. He knows well that re-acquaintance with an instrument is, for those who truly love them, as a reunion with an old friend. ]
I would be too pleased to show you, once we are better prepared to move. My instrument, unfortunately, cannot be so easily transported.
[ Glancing down at that hand, Dorian nods. He has experience with the piano himself, but it’s been some time since he’s been able to play one. As Strahd himself said, they’re not so easily transported.
He glances up again when the other man steps back, before looking at the mandolin. Then he reaches out to carefully take it into his hands, plucking the strings carefully as he sits on the divan, and tuning the strings as needed. Though he doesn’t offer the lord to sit with him, the space he leaves on the day bed is a silent invitation if he chose to join him as he glances up at him with a smile. ]
[ He sees the empty seat, of course. He can also guess that he's being quietly invited to take it.
Strahd stays standing, at least for now. He had always maintained a special relationship with music, and those who worked it. A musical performance wasn't solely about listening, but also watching. Following the fluttering of graceful fingers over strings, the standing bone of the wrist as the neck of the instrument is cradled, the tendons of the hand flickering beneath the skin as the body is worked. One who could make this as interesting to watch as it might be to listen to - and Dorian proves promising already as he tunes his strings, softly testing each as he adjusts the ornate pegs at its headstock - this was, in Strahd's estimation, a true artist.
And the view from the divan would be a poor one.
He does walk, though, taking slow steps to change his viewing angle. Eyes lowered as he watches him work, from the thickest to thinnest strings, lips curling just slightly. ]
The double strings lend such a pleasing sound. [ He raises his eyes from the ornate soundboard to touch Dorian's gaze. ] And a terribly inventive way to give power to the voice of such a small thing, or so I've always thought.
[ If Dorian is surprised by the noble’s decision to remain standing, he doesn’t show it as his fingers idly pluck at the strings, testing their tone once more. Finally deeming them ready, he strums a bit more before settling on a song, one with a melody that’s rich and vibrant, and works well to the strength of the mandolin. The enchantment on the instrument buzzes gently beneath his fingertips, but he doesn’t call upon its power now, letting the song speak for itself without any magical aide.
As he meets Strahd’s gaze, he nods with a smile. ] I agree. It certainly gives it a unique quality to its sound, even compared to other stringed instruments.
[ Watching him sink into the song is just what he had hoped it would be. Deft hands and beautiful fretwork, bending the voice of the instrument in his lap to his own will, muscles flickering beneath his skin with each quick movement. Pleasing to ear and eye both.
He'd made a sound decision. If he plays his cards right, Dorian would serve well with his music for many years to come.
Outwardly, Strahd is the perfect audience. He stands, silent and straight, letting the music wash over him as it floods the room, twanging strings filling every corner. He watches the flash of his fingers and the gentle bend of his neck. At times, he even lets his eyes close, that he might soak more completely in the sweeping notes.
Such is what Dorian sees when he looks up, at first. Strahd's eyes open again as the notes fray into the air, falling silent. ]
You perform beautifully.
[ Gently spoken as, eyes on his, Strahd draws nearer.
He's exceedingly careful as he comes to his side, where he holds the neck of the instrument aloft in poised hands. Strahd's hand comes to rest on the back of the divan, somewhere behind Dorian's shoulder. He brings himself down, close enough to graze Dorian's cheek with his fine hair. The cuff of his sleepshirt gapes at his wrist, and he appreciates anew its position - the delicate affect it has.
He leaves the room still but for this movement - his hand coming to his forearm, and gently, cradling the curvature of his wrist in light, grazing fingers.
Strahd smiles. He's warm. He doesn't turn his face, but he does angle his face just slightly back toward him, to murmur; ]
This, I have always believed, is the mark of a true artist. [ His thumb finds the divot between the tendons in his wrist and strokes, gently, absently. Feels the flicker of his heartbeat. ] When the performer is just as beautiful to watch as the music is to hear.
[ Dorian can’t help a small smile, catching the noble listening with his eyes closed. He appreciates music the same way at times as well, and it’s satisfying to see with someone else.
He doesn’t think much of when Strahd finally lowers himself onto the divan, other than note it as a bit odd that he sits to his side that he’s holding the mandolin’s neck.
But then the other man sits close, and he draws in a sharp breath as he feels his presence at his back, the tickle of his hair across his cheek. And his fingers falter slightly at the man’s hands find his wrist, and he’s acutely aware of the thinner fabric of the sleepshirt, feeling suddenly that it’s a weak barrier separating them.
His heart flutters as the fingers stroke across his pulse, sending a rush of blood to his face and staining his cheeks Violet. ]
[ Just like the son of lords - melting like butter as soon as an older man gives him scraps of affection.
It's refreshing, in a way. The impetuous nature of adventurers was something he was always ready to defend against. Eager, even - few pleasures could be as sweet as bending the ideals of heroes in on themselves, permanently twisting their reflections into something even more vile than Strahd himself. Changing barbs with some jumped-up mercenaries who thought themselves more righteous than they were was a rare treat in this gray land of gray people, always.
But just as rare is this - this fluttery nervousness he feels under his thumb, this innocent excitement. The sound of his breath catching in his throat. He nearly expects him to ask gently Strahd's intentions. Instead, he stammers out his thanks.
Despite his apparent, fluttering apprehension, Dorian doesn't shrink from his arms. That's all he needs to keep pushing - to see how much longer it would be until his back was against the divan. Strahd turns to face him, almost close enough to bump noses, and he holds his eyes in his.
He'll feel his other hand now, cold through the opposite sleeve. Trailing down the back of his arm to gently sweep his fingers beneath Dorian's, lifting his hand from the strings with a gentle twang.
His voice is gentle enough to be a whisper now, cool against his knuckles as he lifts his hand to his lips. ]
The truth is no kindness, my pet.
[ He presses kisses into knuckles he was admiring moments ago, gentle and meandering. ]
[ Dorian’s eyes widen as the noble draws closer, the scant distances between their faces causing the flush on his cheeks to darken. The rational part of him screams with warning bells, telling him to regain that distance, to push the other man away so he can breathe properly.
Instead he feels frozen, especially as that cold hand trails down his arm. He shivers, his heart racing as his hand his lifted to those cool lips, speaking words of endearment and brushing against his knuckles that catches his breath again. ]
A-Ah…Lord Strahd…?
[ The name falls from his lips, but the rest of the words are lost. He’s not even really sure what he means to say. ]
[ As one might guess, Strahd is no stranger to thawing this particular sort of resistance.
The trick, in fact, was really quite simple; it was not resistance. It was merely reluctance. What Dorian wants, he is making abundantly clear; in the colour of his face, in the look in his eyes, in the shiver that courses through his voice. Despite his apprehension, Strahd can feel the excitement, the breathless anticipation in him. Though he dares to deny himself, this thrills him.
What paralyzes him is not fear or unwillingness, but an internal debate. Dorian has made the mistake of so many other sons of nobility when faced with such possibility as what Strahd offers here - he invites rationality and reason to discussion, and balks immediately.
Though he prefers ultimately to lure them into taking what they want, he can see that he has little choice here but to settle whatever internal dialogue is claiming Dorian's attention, and settle it he does. With a deep sigh, he presses one last heavy kiss into his hand. Then, very gently, he kisses his lips.
He first plans to count how many of these silent, meandering kisses pass between them until they are returned - to see just how long before Dorian could deny himself. But the mandolin in his lap is proving problematic - it puts them at a strange angle, one which would almost assuredly get tiresome before long. And already tiresome was the restriction it placed on where his hands could travel; he couldn't very well start winding that night shirt in his hands or pressing his palm into the inner of his thigh while it sat there.
So, Strahd counts only three before he pulls back, just far enough to make reciprocation an awkward thing. Strahd lets his eyes linger shamlessly on his lips, and then, smiles, his fingers gentle on the mandolin's beautiful neck. ]
Let us put your instrument aside, my sweet. I would touch more than your hands.
[ And besides that, it was a beautiful piece. It would pain Strahd to hear it crack on the floor. ]
Edited (forgor to put this in the subject line: i made some assumptions here so just lemme kno if you want me to walk em back) 2023-03-16 04:59 (UTC)
[ His heart jumps at the kiss to his hand, and can’t contain the gasp that escapes him, muffled between their lips as Strahd kisses him. He barely has a moment to process what’s happening, however, before Strahd draws away again.
He feels his entire face heating up as he sees the way the noble looks at his lips, and he swallows the growing lump in his throat. Common sense demands that he pushes away, to cut this at the quick before the other man pushes too far. Dorian is already vulnerable, stuck in an unfamiliar land with a lord he doesn’t know, essentially trapped in his castle. If things escalate he has no way out, no means of escape without possibly falling into more trouble.
And at first his grip tightens on the mandolin, the only real barrier left between them. But despite his quickening breath, he mostly just feels paralyzed, struck with fear and - much to his shame - unusual curiosity. So eventually his grip does loosen around the instrument, and while he makes no move to set is aside himself, Strahd will find no resistance should he try to lift it away. ]
[ He might have laughed, if he knew the concerns running through his head. Far too late for such fears, and he had no idea. The moment Strahd had taken notice of him was the moment that door shut behind Dorian - the very second that this moment was sealed to fate. Strahd had already decided the course of these events.
That it had only just occurred to poor Dorian that they would happen would have been a comical, momentary distraction from the hot flush on the poor boy's face, the parting of his lips as he waits. Strahd feels his hold on the mandolin slack, and tightens his own fingers around its neck. He pulls it out of his grasp gently - regardless of its inevitability, it wouldn't do to rush the moment. He stretches only slightly to place it down, headstock leaning against the divan, before returning his attention to Dorian.
There is still apprehension in him - despite availing himself to Strahd in this way, knowing what would happen, waiting for it. Just as he'd anticipated, he doesn't want to chase the possibility away completely.
He could continue like this, he thinks - gently pushing and pushing until they inevitably have need of the large bed in the next room. It would be simple. A gentle tone, light fingers, words of endearment and encouragement whispered against the shell of his ear as he takes the moment and Dorian both. It would be no great thing to continue twisting the moment to his favour, and he wouldn't resist in any way that truly mattered.
But he would hate to risk souring things, and they were coming to a moment both sensitive and opportune. It was a tightrope - teeter to either side, and all efforts to this point would be for naught.
However, it was also a convenient time. Though he hardly thinks he has need of it, and he normally mislikes using his gifts in this way, charming was always an easier thing to disguise and play off when the overflow of trust occurred at a moment that was already wild and unexpected. A sudden and overpowering want to go where this moment might take him - to where Strahd might take him - could be easily excused as some mortal quirk of passion.
So it happens that Strahd sees his opportunity and takes it, exerting his influence and will through Dorian's own. The fingers of one of his hands twist in his thin nightshirt as he holds his gaze in his own, gently urging him back, exposing more and more skin to cool air. ]
[ It’s only once the mandolin leaves his hands - the only obstacle really separating them, the only thing protecting him - that Dorian finally moves. As Strahd places the instrument aside, he shifts backwards, trying to reclaim some distance. But there’s not much room, and he can’t get very far before he feels the backrest of the divan behind him.
He’s trapped.
And he knows, he knows that he should be fighting back. He can’t just let all this happen. And for a moment, his magic buzzes under his skin, ready to use in order to defend himself.
But then Strahd’s eyes meet his, and the gaze feels like it pierces into his mind. The tension in his body eases, even as he trembles slightly as more of his skin is exposed. ]
I-I…no, my lord. [ He’s speaking, and yet the words sound almost foreign, like he’s hearing them from far away. ] It’s just…surprising.
[ Adorable, really, the cursory attempt at breaking from the situation he does make. Scooting up until his shoulders brace against the divan's fine wooden rest, just after relinquishing his most effective barrier, shoving backward when he could have so easily rolled from the divan altogether.
Had he known just how close Dorian was to real retaliation, that he had already exerted his influence would so far be the only regret he could hold. Even more enticing than twisting stray adventurers into positions like this was when he could subjugate them in more direct ways - by exchanging blows and dueling with spells. The common ease with which this victory was won was a glad novelty, surely, but there was seldom anything more satisfying than driving into the ground heroes who thought themselves superior on ideals alone. Strahd sometimes felt that proving them wrong was what truly kept him young, not his condition.
But that would be another day's breathless anticipation. Dorian beneath him, tense with anticipation, was what deserved his focus now. He studies his face, then glances down to his chest. The linen draped pleasingly enough over it, waxed lacing holding shut a wide neckline like stitches along his sternum. The moment no longer called for it. He grabs each side between thumb and forefinger.
The way in which he pulls the neckline wide is slow and precise, the soft rasp of lacing against fabric filling the room until it gapes. Here is where Strahd knew one difference between Dorian and most most shy noble sons with musical ears and quick fingers - he'd been hiding a perfectly fine, firm chest beneath these nightclothes. ]
Surprising. [ A breathing, murmuring echo as he glances up, eyes tensing, watching Dorian's expression for any subtle change as one thumb runs the seam between linen and strong muscle. ] Please, explain.
[ Explain while his head graciously dips to press his lips right here, against the warmth just below your collarbone's divot, while he shivers to feel your jugular throb against his nose. ]
[ Leaning back against the divan, Dorian remains frozen as the noble slowly works the nightshirt open. His mind feels a bit foggy, and even though he feels he should be doing something he can’t think of what that is.
His chest rises and falls in quick motions, and he shivers as that thumb brushes just along the edge of where shirt and skin meet. ]
I… [ His draws in another sharp breath at the touch of those lips to his chest, his eyes fluttering closed as his head falls back against the rest behind him. ] I-I’m a simple bard, my lord. A traveler, adventurer.
[ Even now, with his mind in such a daze, he holds on to the lie that’s he crafted for himself during his travels. A last, meager form of protection, though it won’t preserve the proper thing at this time. ]
[ If Dorian's shroud of a lie comforts him, then Strahd won't rip it away. Not yet. He sees no sense in doing so for the time being, while things are going so well.
Though Strahd was indeed ascended from common mortality, he allows himself some particularly mortal weaknesses - such is his passing fondness for beautiful men and women, those who make up Castle Ravenloft's coterie of consorts, and his rare indulgence of their charms. Such is the hungry, unyielding hum against Dorian's chest as he says my lord again, while Strahd takes his time with his chest, kissing the length of his sternum, tasting secretly the beat of his heart through his skin. Such, too, is how the gradual loosening of Dorian below him goes straight to his dick, inspires his hands to roam his tight waist as his kisses press heavier and heavier, his fingers dragging greedily the linen fabric against firm muscle underneath.
So, though his indulgence is also partly indulging Dorian, carrying forward in this thoroughly selfish seduction effort - he is also indulging himself personally in his body while he has it, serving a selfish and rare fire in him when he presses lips against his collarbone, against his jaw as he shifts upward, just below his ear.
A single, cool, deep breath pools against its tender shell, palm chilling his flushed face, fingers already lost in long and silky hair. He lets the moment breathe for a second and no longer, running his nose against his ear's pointed rim. ]
And if your Lord would be pleased of your service, you would offer it.
[ Another shudder runs down Dorian’s spine, the touch of cool lips and fingers still somehow leaving a searing trail against his skin. His mind is in a daze, thoughts losing focus except for the presence of the man over him.
And he can’t help turning into the touch of that hand, shivering as the words brush over his ear, a soft moan rising from his throat at the fingers tangling in his hair. Blood rushes between his ears, making it harder to think, and the words fall from his lips without him realizing it. ]
[ It wouldn't be the last sound he roused from him like this.
It couldn't be. Not for Strahd's own gratification, of course - his thoughts would be the very same if it was this or shutting him in the catacombs until the cracks began to show which would twist his arm. Manipulating him in this way, tracing verbal circles around one another - that was certainly more enjoyable, more fitting to the Lord of Castle Ravenloft beyond any carnal pleasure than imprisonment.
But this was not wholly about his skills, his tastes and enjoyment. This was about what would snare him, what hook would drive into his jaw and allow Strahd to drag him into his step. Dorian was a man who wore foolishly his weaknesses on his sleeve - warm approval and affection. Although Strahd's unholy gifts had minimized his own efforts, and with them any chance of meaningful resistance from Dorian (both a blessing and a curse), a few well-placed friendly words had already brought him most of the way. Given time and a little stolen luck, he could have come here all on his own with more of the same. Another sweet-natured hero who only knew the most obvious monsters, bending before an older man who bore no judgment, showed only kindness. He had seen a thousand Dorians come to Barovia to die. He knew just where to stick his needles.
But, of course, that was all merely the beginning. Verbal submission was only one simple part of this system. It would not end their encounter.
Next was to play this encounter out so thoroughly that Dorian forgot that it was not his idea all along. Clawed fingers twist in his fine hair as he breathes out his submission, tightening before slipping free, cool fingers grazing his jaw to turn his face into his, to catch his lips and kiss him deeply. ]
[ A faint sound of protest starts to form when those fingers withdraw from his hair, but it quiets down as those fingers catch his jaw, turning him to face before those lips find his.
Then he moans again instead as he returns the kiss, shivering beneath the other man who seems to be somehow surround him completely, filling and overwhelming all his senses until all he knew was the noble and the way he was making him feel. His hands, trapped between their bodies, rests against the man’s chest. There is a brief thought to push the man away, that somehow this isn’t right, but instead his fingers tangle in the fabric of his clothes instead as his body curves slightly into the one above him. ]
Dorian, poor fool that he is, is left only with his immediate urges. Whatever second guesses might be in him would surely wither and die soon, if they hadn't by now. Warm hands resting on his strong chest, fingers winding into his clothing - all reflexive to what Strahd has stoked in him. He doesn't give the way his body curves against his, just barely touching the cool firmness of his own, any more thought than he might give breathing.
Strahd, meanwhile, is a different creature entirely. He has no beating heart and warm, running blood. He is a creature of tactical strategy. Every movement a purpose, every touch a motive. So it is that he intentionally keeps his fingers from sinking into him as they move to run along his back as it arches against him, a gentle touch, claw's tips just barely grazing his firm back through his clothes. Encouragement - but not possession. He needed give Dorian no reason to think now - all the better to make him think this was entirely his decision.
His body's weight is coming down against him, bit by bit, one knee pressing into the setee as he presses in just a little closer, tongue between his lips -- when the knock at the door comes.
Strahd pulls his face up with a frustrated grunt, but keeps the rest of him close. He clears his throat. ]
Mai tarziu.
[ It never takes much more than that. Wheels retreating. He returns his attention to Dorian below him, his fingers already playing in his long hair - the very picture of idol, amorous idyll. ]
[ Any lingering reservations are quickly fading away, replaced with the growing need and arousal that thrummed through his body. The feeling of this other man over him, wrapped around him, is overwhelming, and yet it still isn’t enough, and he presses himself as much into the man above him as he can.
In any other circumstance, he would be much more shy, maybe even embarrassed by how eager he was acting. But it’s difficult to think about propriety as those fingers dance across his back, leaving a shiver following their trail. He feels the man shift even closer, sending another pulse of heat through him, and a moan rises from his throat as his tongue glides between his lips.
The knock on the door startles him, his breathing a bit rough and his face flushed as Strahd sends away whoever is on the other side of the door. When the noble’s gaze returns to him, another shiver rolling down his spine as fingers play with his hair, and Dorian can’t help licking his lips, still feeling the phantom touch of the other man’s tongue still ghosting across them.
So swallowing the lump in his throat at the words and all they implied, he nods, too far gone to even consider leaving things off there. ]
I would assume that my opinion of him is already known, but this is Cazador we're talking about. Tell him, that we may laugh together over his surprise.
[ Cazador, who thinks himself his equal. ]
My doors remain open for you, little one. Seek out the mists, if ever you feel inclined to pass through them.
If there's anything that Cazador excels in, it's thinking himself greater than he is. It will be a delight to see him so insulted.
The mists shall have to wait for now. There's a rather pressing business of mind flayers and dead gods that must be addressed if I am to be left with any sort of world to rule over.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@housewaif
sorry for the wait as well! got sick u_u
As many times as he's sincere, of course. One can make all the difference just by being there for someone struggling to change when no one else will be. I'd rather be that person than not.
nw!!
[ anyways, oh boy a fixer 😈😈😈 ]
I find your ready clemency refreshing and intriguing both.
Tell me, have you never regretted your lenience?
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Still, Kaveh is too sentimental to truly hate him. After a short time, the answer does come: )
No.
I mean... There was a time I gave too many chances to someone who didn't really want them, because he didn't really want to change, and I thought I could convince him to. But I just wanted to believe he did, I think.
That was my mistake.
( Sigh!!! )
At least someone appreciates it, I suppose. The people here don't seem to have much faith in second chances, but it all seems so dismal here, I don't exactly blame them.
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Sentimentality has its place, but we mustn't let it obstruct our good sense.
[ Stopping just short of pointing out that appreciate is a very strong word for the feelings he's articulating right now.
It isn't distaste, it's sensible advice. He isn't trying to break up the party, he's simply offering his counsel.
See how it works? ]
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Posts stretch in the four corners of his vision, richly appointed, each intricately carved face gleaming with polish. They support a black canopy trimmed in thick, golden tassels. Curtains drape back over each post, lashed in gilded rope.
The room around him is awash in morning light - mist gray, mostly, but dappled in colour. A glance toward his feet will reveal why this is; a large window just behind an inviting divan dominates the opposing wall, the central pane flanked with two windows of beautiful stained glass, which peek from behind a heavy pair of dark, embroidered curtains. In these frames, coloured glass and wrought iron framing lash together to imitate bright red roses and crawling vines and green leaves.
And in the central window - nothing. The sky is gray, and it floods the entire room.
There is a fine rug beneath his feet when he does find his way - fine and older than he is. Beneath that, the floor is paneled in beautiful herringbone wood, polished and glowing a deep chocolate brown. Once he's in it, the sunlight feels as cold as it looks - gray, and distant. The lands rolling below the steep tower are barely visible. Peering through the mists in search of them feels not unlike a child stretching toes toward a floor just slightly too far away.
He won't hear the door open. He won't even hear footsteps.
But he will hear a voice, dark and rich and smooth as velvet, suddenly filling the room from the door. ]
You find your accommodations adequate, I hope.
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Panicking a little, he stumbles over to the day bed, his body feeling rather weak but he forces himself there anyway. As he’s climbing onto the bed to see if there was a way to break it, an unfamiliar voice echoes in the room and causes him to jump, his gaze snapping towards the door. ]
Who…Who are you? Where am I?
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Something appraising, casually predatory in his gleaming and flinty eyes as he studies his newest visitor - eyes which soften in sympathy he's practiced and imitated for four hundred years as he asks his question. ]
You are in my home of Castle Ravenloft, in the valley of Barovia. I am Lord Strahd von Zarovich, and I am master of both.
[ Here, he dares to take some slow, testing steps, watching closely his frame for any uneasy and animal twitches of musculature. ]
You were found by my chamberlain, roaming the castle grounds. [ A lie, naturally - Rahadin brooks no intruders on these castle grounds, no matter how foolish or innocent their intent, and would have surely cleaved this one in two had he found him ambling around the dead rose garden - but a bit of Modify Memory never hurt anyone. ] Do you have need of anything?
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Barovia…? [ He’s never heard of such a place before.
He stills a bit as the man starts to step into the room, feeling just a bit cornered despite the distance still between them. The explanation, though made some sense, still also confuses him. ]
Is…that so? I thank you for your kindness then, sir. [ But it does beg the question now of how he even got to this Barovia in the first place. And his friends… ] Were there…any others present at the time?
[ He hesitates, and as he glances around the room he notices that his things - his clothes, his instruments, his weapons - aren’t in sight anywhere. He grips the fabric of the sleepclothes he’s wearing, feeling a little vulnerable in them. ] No, I…I’m all right, thank you. I’m sorry for all the trouble. If I can just…get my things, I could be on my way.
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And, he's relieved to know, he does want something to come of this. His tastes and whims begin to run fickle as the centuries march on, and this is a rare gift. He's not had a guest who seems as pliable as this in some time, and a genasi even rarer than that. Humans and elves and tieflings aplenty have run themselves to ruin in his Barovia - some even availing themselves to him before the end - and that was passing entertainment. A genasi is a rare thing. Pretty, silvery-blue skin, long hair fading into misty gray.
He wonders, quietly, on how the death pallor of blood loss might affect his unique complexion as he continues feigning sympathy, eyes softening further at his confusion, wordlessly shaking his head as he asks about his friends. ]
No others, I fear.
[ His voice is gentle - or as gentle as a king's voice might get.
Strahd lets silence fall in the room as he asks for his things, the soft sympathy in his face cringing to something else - concern. Slowly, he turns, and walks toward the large window, gazing through the stained panes - so as not to bring himself a step too near to his newest guest. He's quiet for a moment, watching the rolling mists, arms folded behind his steel-straight back. Face white in the foggy daylight. ]
My valley, you see, is quite wild, and her people's minds are... [ Here is where the first hints at what sort of place he's found himself in may be seen - Strahd takes a breath, the first in some time, imitating thought as his mouth opens, the tips of long fangs gleaming behind stretched lips for just a moment before his jaw pulls closed, and he looks at his newest captive, ] well, not so open as I might like. Turning you out thusly to the mercy of both - and in your current state - I can understand your trepidation, certainly, but... I am afraid to say that I cannot do this, in good conscience. I must insist that you stay, and avail yourself to my hospitality a little longer.
[ He couldn't be called a liar for that. The man barely knows where he stands. What goodly Lord would let him go to wolves and vampires and a sea of mist? ]
I don't know that I could trust you with weapons yet, but I entrusted washing your clothing to my servants, and they are surely finished now. [ He would rather dress him himself, but-- give and take. Give him some small personal freedoms whilst he's confined. Bide his time until he can push further. ] And I must admit, as a musician myself... your instruments quite intrigued me. I would be happy to return them to you, on the condition that they not be used to cause harm. And, perhaps...
[ Hesitation, glancing back toward the gray window. He'd never been a nervous man in life, but you get the hang of imitating these things as you get older. ]
If you will excuse the imposition, I would be most pleased if you would be willing to indulge me in some music.
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His eyes follow the lord as he walks to one of the stained windows, before turning to look out the central one at the land below. And while he does catch sight of those gleaming fangs, it’s quick enough that he wonders if it’s just a trick of the light. ]
I…thank you for your concern, sir. [ He could understand that, with how unfamiliar he is to this place, that the lord is simply being a good host. Yet something about it still feels…off somehow, he just isn’t sure why. He doesn’t have much choice at the moment, though, and resolves to go with it for now, see if he can come up with a plan later. ]
I was traveling with others before. Is there any chance they could have found their way here as well? Could they be looked for?
[ If he found his way here, surely the others could as well, and he would hate for them to get hurt if they were looking for him.
Disappointed as he is that he wouldn’t get his weapons back yet, having his clothes and instruments would at least be a comfort. The request does surprise him a little, but perhaps it will help him get in some good favor with this mysterious noble. ]
I would…be happy to provide some, Lord Strahd, in return for your hospitality. My, um… [ He thinks for a moment. ] The handle of my axe is actually a flute, if I could have that at least? And the mandolin?
[ He didn’t want to ask for too much, just in case. But while he would also want his lute, the enchanted mandolin would at least have some spells he could use just in case he needed them. ]
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[ Offer hope without concrete promise. A string isn't much without a carrot to dangle. If he believes that his friends may at any time burst through the doors of Castle Ravenloft and rescue him, then perhaps he will content himself with his home's amusements until then.
Strahd's eyes are steady as Dorian navigates the conversation, finding his feet as quickly as he would expect. Even making some daring requests - he had certainly noticed the instruments mentioned, the fingerholes on the axe's haft and the buzzing enchantment about the mandolin. He hadn't expected that they would be admitted to.
Strahd smiles at that - and it almost reaches his eyes. ]
So long as you've no plans to heft it into my skull, I suppose that I can permit this.
[ Or do, says another corner of his thoughts. Strahd secretly thrills at the promise. It's an effort to not be knocked breathless at the mere thought.
But he keeps that to himself. If that is the way this meeting will carry out, then let it happen naturally. Far more electric is the moment one least expects. Strahd clears his throat with a wry little smile. ]
Pardon me. Barovian humour. It must seem quite grim to your tastes, but-- grim amusements for a grim land, you'll find. [ He presses his pale hand to his chest, fingernails just long and dark enough to become claws, and bends a short way at his waist. ] Excuse me.
[ He steps backward, then turns around, opens the door banded in iron to reveal a lavish sitting area - high-backed armchairs sit between two more wide, iron-wrought windows. The room is further elaborated with more plush divans, bookshelves and portraits on every wall, beautiful and ancient vases glittering on every surface. Matching heavy curtains, beautiful wooden paneling and deep blue jacquard walls say clearly that this lounge is the companion to Dorian's guest room.
His footsteps retreat through this room. Another door is pulled open, but does not shut. Strahd leans his head through the crack and converses in quick, strange words with someone on the door's other side. ]
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He manages a faint smile at the “joke”, but having at least his axe will help him feel a bit safer. He won’t try anything just yet, but having some resources gives him some options if he does need to act.
Watching the lord bow and leave, Dorian waits a moment longer before sliding off the day bed and slowly crossing the room to peek into the adjoining one.
It’s certainly quite ornate, almost extravagantly so, and while Dorian himself isn’t a stranger to such luxuries, there are only so many treasures that the tents of the Silken Squall can hold.
He remains standing in the doorway between the sitting area and the bedchamber, his eyes roaming and studying the room, as well as the back of this Lord Strahd. His host has been gracious so far, and a part of him hopes his suspicions are wrong. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong here.
He’ll just have to bide his time for now, see what happens. ]
no subject
The language, however, is decidedly not what Dorian knows as common. What little he hears reveals fluency - Strahd's tongue moving quickly around thick vowels and hard consonants. A language that could easily sound harsh and unpleasant in a mouth other than Strahd's.
After a short exchange, Strahd pulls his head back into the room and pushes the door shut. He turns with a genial smile. ]
Your personal affects shall arrive momentarily.
[ The agreed-upon affects, in any case.
He begins to cross the room in smooth, relaxed steps, toward the white windows. ]
I have also requested some food and wine. Partake if you would like, but I will not be offended if you do not. [ He chooses one of the chairs by the window, lowering himself down into its seat with soundless ease. He rests his elbow next to a round table, where an unfinished chess game collects dust, in order to lean with polite interest in the direction of Dorian. ] Until which time our requests are met, come, if you would. Join me, and be welcome. I would know my guest, as I'm sure you would know your host.
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Still he manages a smile and blows his head. ] Thank you, Lord Strahd.
[ The mention of food does remind him of his own hunger, but he can’t help hesitating at the offer. He feels oddly exposed compared to the other man, wearing only sleepclothes, but eventually his curiosity to know this strange man wins out, and he carefully crosses the room to lower himself into the other seat across from him. ]
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Or the cultural equivalent, perhaps. Not a princeling. But the son of nobles is beginning to make himself more apparent than ever in Dorian - in the way that he speaks, clearly and concisely, lacking in neither vocabulary, structure, nor confidence when communing with someone of the upper classes, as peasantfolk often are. In the way he moves through the room without goggling at it all, but merely an interested glance around at the ancient accumulation. Comfortable around plenty, but not exceedingly so. Proper address, the shreds of etiquette lessons too ingrained to fully leave behind, and just the right level of audacity. He knew just what he could feasibly get away with.
Not the progeny of rulers, but of leaders, almost assuredly. If he grew up peasantry, then Strahd would eat his cravat.
He dwells on this, and on the way Lord Strahd sits in Dorian's mouth (quite nicely, he decides,) as he watches him cross the room and join him. He is still the entire journey.
After a moment, Strahd speaks; ]
I regret that the circumstances have required that I take leave of my manners. I've not yet asked your name.
No worries!
I suppose they are rather sudden circumstances, so it can’t be helped. It’s Dorian Storm, my lord, at your service.
no subject
[ He repeats the name, a low, dark, rumbling sound. If a panther could purr.
The name sounds... pleasing, certainly, but in a way that seems unnatural and flashy to his ear. But he knows well enough that his is not a Genasi ear. He knows as much of the conventions and cultures of the planetouched as Dorian Storm knows of Barovians. Whether the name is fake or not, Strahd can't say - and he also isn't sure he much cares yet. It hardly matters to him what Dorian wants to be called.
And if his name should become a more pressing question, he has his ways. For now, eyes flashing over him as he adds that final courtesy, he lowers his head, thin strands of silvery-dark hair falling from behind his ears as he acquiesces. ]
A pleasure.
[ In service or otherwise. ]
I do hope that you will forgive me any missteps, but I must admit that your presence here greatly intrigues me. The company of one touched by the outer planes is a rare gift here in Barovia.
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He returns with a nod of his head, but he hesitates a moment as Strahd continues. ]
I…to tell you the truth, sir, I’ve been wondering about that myself. I admit that I seem to have no recollection of how I got here.
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[ Consternation expertly faked - you'd never know that the entire sequence of events lived behind his eyes as his brow knits. As he pulls back into his seat and crosses one of his legs ankle over knee, deep in mock contemplation.
He shoots Dorian a look, which turns into a dry smile. ]
Rather, I had been quite hoping that you could explain how it is you ended up in our courtyard.
[ No animosity in his tone - he can't have Dorian thinking he's in trouble, else he might try to leave. It is no transgression, but a mystery.
He rubs his chin and lets his gaze drift, frowning. ]
Castle Ravenloft is quite defensible, you see - we sit on high and sharp cliffs, which back the area in which my chamberlain found you. There is but one access point, and it is a drawbridge which must be lowered. The only way to the old gardens would be to climb those hundreds of feet, or through the castle - and my staff had no recollection of your passing through the halls. So that you found your way in... it beggars belief. I would find whatever hole in these defenses you did.
[ Another moment of silence passing, Strahd the picture of deep thought, before his red eyes flicker toward his intruder guest. ]
You truly have no recollection?
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[ Dorian frowns in concern as he tries to think. He can’t even remember what he’d been doing before ending up here, and while it’s not the first time he’s had lapses in his memory, it’s no less a problem. ]
No, I…I really can’t recall. [ Another pause as he thinks. ] You seemed to hint that Barovia is on a separate plane from Exandria? Is it possible that passing between planes might have affected my memory?
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[ Get a little friendlier - practiced and easy smile. The very picture of a glad and noble host. ]
I've not heard of this land, though I suppose such a thing could be possible. Although I wish that I could settle this confusion for you, it has been too long since these halls saw a guest. I am all too pleased to open them for you. Perhaps after some time, we may settle this mystery to--
[ How timely - a knock at the door. Strahd leans out of the conversation and turns to face it, the earlier mirth withering before the grim and handsome countenance of a Lord. He clears his throat. ]
Aștepta.
[ He casts a last smile toward Dorian before pushing himself to his feet and crossing the room. He pulls the door open only a short way again - blocking Dorian from prying eyes yet again. First, he pulls in the flute, resting it carefully against the wall beside the door. Then he cradles the mandolin in his arms.
With another low word, the door closes. Strahd carries the stringed instrument carefully, feigning immunity to the buzzing draw of its magic over the short steps to the divan opposing their seats. ]
Remarkable craftsmanship, these. [ He sets the mandolin down with no small reverence, leaning it carefully against the divan's rich velvet back, fingers gently grazing its neck as he pulls away. He's smiling when he turns back to Dorian. ] My people play something similar to this one here. I was long ago very close to a man with some talent for it.
[ Poor, loyal, beautiful Alek Gwilym, strumming idly at glowing campfires between wartime skirmishes. He had been bled by Strahd on the courtyard's cobblestones for his loyalty, centuries prior. ]
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He hesitates to ask about them just yet, though, not wanting to seem ungrateful. As Strahd places his mandolin down on the divan, he finally rises from his seat to slowly join the other man. ]
Thank you. Though I admit that the mandolin was a gift from a friend, so I can claim no hand in its creation.
[ He stops just a bit short of standing next to Strahd; though they seem to stand at about the same height, something about the man’s countenance still intimidates him a little. ]
Do you play any instruments, Lord Strahd?
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[ His shoulders loosen as they speak. Good. Strahd folds his arms behind his back and smiles politely. ]
Dissimilar to your musical talents, however. My hands-- [ He raises one hand, displaying long and graceful fingers, ] --you can plainly see, I'm sure, that they are not for strings, but for keys.
[ Piano as a boy on his mother's knee, only a few short years before his father dragged him into the training yard and pressed a wooden sword into his hand. It wasn't until he settled in Barovia that he discovered where his true heart lie; in the wailing pipe organ and its powerful, belting tones.
The piano had a beautiful, shy voice - this could not be disputed. But the raw and powerful pipe organ could drown Strahd as it never could.
Strahd glances between Dorian and his mandolin, and then, steps back a short way. He knows well that re-acquaintance with an instrument is, for those who truly love them, as a reunion with an old friend. ]
I would be too pleased to show you, once we are better prepared to move. My instrument, unfortunately, cannot be so easily transported.
[ Strahd asked to see music, after all.
It seems rude to not reciprocate. ]
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He glances up again when the other man steps back, before looking at the mandolin. Then he reaches out to carefully take it into his hands, plucking the strings carefully as he sits on the divan, and tuning the strings as needed. Though he doesn’t offer the lord to sit with him, the space he leaves on the day bed is a silent invitation if he chose to join him as he glances up at him with a smile. ]
I would love to see it, sir.
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[ He sees the empty seat, of course. He can also guess that he's being quietly invited to take it.
Strahd stays standing, at least for now. He had always maintained a special relationship with music, and those who worked it. A musical performance wasn't solely about listening, but also watching. Following the fluttering of graceful fingers over strings, the standing bone of the wrist as the neck of the instrument is cradled, the tendons of the hand flickering beneath the skin as the body is worked. One who could make this as interesting to watch as it might be to listen to - and Dorian proves promising already as he tunes his strings, softly testing each as he adjusts the ornate pegs at its headstock - this was, in Strahd's estimation, a true artist.
And the view from the divan would be a poor one.
He does walk, though, taking slow steps to change his viewing angle. Eyes lowered as he watches him work, from the thickest to thinnest strings, lips curling just slightly. ]
The double strings lend such a pleasing sound. [ He raises his eyes from the ornate soundboard to touch Dorian's gaze. ] And a terribly inventive way to give power to the voice of such a small thing, or so I've always thought.
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As he meets Strahd’s gaze, he nods with a smile. ] I agree. It certainly gives it a unique quality to its sound, even compared to other stringed instruments.
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He'd made a sound decision. If he plays his cards right, Dorian would serve well with his music for many years to come.
Outwardly, Strahd is the perfect audience. He stands, silent and straight, letting the music wash over him as it floods the room, twanging strings filling every corner. He watches the flash of his fingers and the gentle bend of his neck. At times, he even lets his eyes close, that he might soak more completely in the sweeping notes.
Such is what Dorian sees when he looks up, at first. Strahd's eyes open again as the notes fray into the air, falling silent. ]
You perform beautifully.
[ Gently spoken as, eyes on his, Strahd draws nearer.
He's exceedingly careful as he comes to his side, where he holds the neck of the instrument aloft in poised hands. Strahd's hand comes to rest on the back of the divan, somewhere behind Dorian's shoulder. He brings himself down, close enough to graze Dorian's cheek with his fine hair. The cuff of his sleepshirt gapes at his wrist, and he appreciates anew its position - the delicate affect it has.
He leaves the room still but for this movement - his hand coming to his forearm, and gently, cradling the curvature of his wrist in light, grazing fingers.
Strahd smiles. He's warm. He doesn't turn his face, but he does angle his face just slightly back toward him, to murmur; ]
This, I have always believed, is the mark of a true artist. [ His thumb finds the divot between the tendons in his wrist and strokes, gently, absently. Feels the flicker of his heartbeat. ] When the performer is just as beautiful to watch as the music is to hear.
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He doesn’t think much of when Strahd finally lowers himself onto the divan, other than note it as a bit odd that he sits to his side that he’s holding the mandolin’s neck.
But then the other man sits close, and he draws in a sharp breath as he feels his presence at his back, the tickle of his hair across his cheek. And his fingers falter slightly at the man’s hands find his wrist, and he’s acutely aware of the thinner fabric of the sleepshirt, feeling suddenly that it’s a weak barrier separating them.
His heart flutters as the fingers stroke across his pulse, sending a rush of blood to his face and staining his cheeks Violet. ]
A-Ah…I-I…thank you for your kind praise, sir.
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It's refreshing, in a way. The impetuous nature of adventurers was something he was always ready to defend against. Eager, even - few pleasures could be as sweet as bending the ideals of heroes in on themselves, permanently twisting their reflections into something even more vile than Strahd himself. Changing barbs with some jumped-up mercenaries who thought themselves more righteous than they were was a rare treat in this gray land of gray people, always.
But just as rare is this - this fluttery nervousness he feels under his thumb, this innocent excitement. The sound of his breath catching in his throat. He nearly expects him to ask gently Strahd's intentions. Instead, he stammers out his thanks.
Despite his apparent, fluttering apprehension, Dorian doesn't shrink from his arms. That's all he needs to keep pushing - to see how much longer it would be until his back was against the divan. Strahd turns to face him, almost close enough to bump noses, and he holds his eyes in his.
He'll feel his other hand now, cold through the opposite sleeve. Trailing down the back of his arm to gently sweep his fingers beneath Dorian's, lifting his hand from the strings with a gentle twang.
His voice is gentle enough to be a whisper now, cool against his knuckles as he lifts his hand to his lips. ]
The truth is no kindness, my pet.
[ He presses kisses into knuckles he was admiring moments ago, gentle and meandering. ]
It simply is.
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Instead he feels frozen, especially as that cold hand trails down his arm. He shivers, his heart racing as his hand his lifted to those cool lips, speaking words of endearment and brushing against his knuckles that catches his breath again. ]
A-Ah…Lord Strahd…?
[ The name falls from his lips, but the rest of the words are lost. He’s not even really sure what he means to say. ]
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The trick, in fact, was really quite simple; it was not resistance. It was merely reluctance. What Dorian wants, he is making abundantly clear; in the colour of his face, in the look in his eyes, in the shiver that courses through his voice. Despite his apprehension, Strahd can feel the excitement, the breathless anticipation in him. Though he dares to deny himself, this thrills him.
What paralyzes him is not fear or unwillingness, but an internal debate. Dorian has made the mistake of so many other sons of nobility when faced with such possibility as what Strahd offers here - he invites rationality and reason to discussion, and balks immediately.
Though he prefers ultimately to lure them into taking what they want, he can see that he has little choice here but to settle whatever internal dialogue is claiming Dorian's attention, and settle it he does. With a deep sigh, he presses one last heavy kiss into his hand. Then, very gently, he kisses his lips.
He first plans to count how many of these silent, meandering kisses pass between them until they are returned - to see just how long before Dorian could deny himself. But the mandolin in his lap is proving problematic - it puts them at a strange angle, one which would almost assuredly get tiresome before long. And already tiresome was the restriction it placed on where his hands could travel; he couldn't very well start winding that night shirt in his hands or pressing his palm into the inner of his thigh while it sat there.
So, Strahd counts only three before he pulls back, just far enough to make reciprocation an awkward thing. Strahd lets his eyes linger shamlessly on his lips, and then, smiles, his fingers gentle on the mandolin's beautiful neck. ]
Let us put your instrument aside, my sweet. I would touch more than your hands.
[ And besides that, it was a beautiful piece. It would pain Strahd to hear it crack on the floor. ]
Nah, it all looks good to me!
He feels his entire face heating up as he sees the way the noble looks at his lips, and he swallows the growing lump in his throat. Common sense demands that he pushes away, to cut this at the quick before the other man pushes too far. Dorian is already vulnerable, stuck in an unfamiliar land with a lord he doesn’t know, essentially trapped in his castle. If things escalate he has no way out, no means of escape without possibly falling into more trouble.
And at first his grip tightens on the mandolin, the only real barrier left between them. But despite his quickening breath, he mostly just feels paralyzed, struck with fear and - much to his shame - unusual curiosity. So eventually his grip does loosen around the instrument, and while he makes no move to set is aside himself, Strahd will find no resistance should he try to lift it away. ]
👌
That it had only just occurred to poor Dorian that they would happen would have been a comical, momentary distraction from the hot flush on the poor boy's face, the parting of his lips as he waits. Strahd feels his hold on the mandolin slack, and tightens his own fingers around its neck. He pulls it out of his grasp gently - regardless of its inevitability, it wouldn't do to rush the moment. He stretches only slightly to place it down, headstock leaning against the divan, before returning his attention to Dorian.
There is still apprehension in him - despite availing himself to Strahd in this way, knowing what would happen, waiting for it. Just as he'd anticipated, he doesn't want to chase the possibility away completely.
He could continue like this, he thinks - gently pushing and pushing until they inevitably have need of the large bed in the next room. It would be simple. A gentle tone, light fingers, words of endearment and encouragement whispered against the shell of his ear as he takes the moment and Dorian both. It would be no great thing to continue twisting the moment to his favour, and he wouldn't resist in any way that truly mattered.
But he would hate to risk souring things, and they were coming to a moment both sensitive and opportune. It was a tightrope - teeter to either side, and all efforts to this point would be for naught.
However, it was also a convenient time. Though he hardly thinks he has need of it, and he normally mislikes using his gifts in this way, charming was always an easier thing to disguise and play off when the overflow of trust occurred at a moment that was already wild and unexpected. A sudden and overpowering want to go where this moment might take him - to where Strahd might take him - could be easily excused as some mortal quirk of passion.
So it happens that Strahd sees his opportunity and takes it, exerting his influence and will through Dorian's own. The fingers of one of his hands twist in his thin nightshirt as he holds his gaze in his own, gently urging him back, exposing more and more skin to cool air. ]
I do hope that I've not caused you... discomfort.
[ He knows already what his answer will be. ]
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He’s trapped.
And he knows, he knows that he should be fighting back. He can’t just let all this happen. And for a moment, his magic buzzes under his skin, ready to use in order to defend himself.
But then Strahd’s eyes meet his, and the gaze feels like it pierces into his mind. The tension in his body eases, even as he trembles slightly as more of his skin is exposed. ]
I-I…no, my lord. [ He’s speaking, and yet the words sound almost foreign, like he’s hearing them from far away. ] It’s just…surprising.
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Had he known just how close Dorian was to real retaliation, that he had already exerted his influence would so far be the only regret he could hold. Even more enticing than twisting stray adventurers into positions like this was when he could subjugate them in more direct ways - by exchanging blows and dueling with spells. The common ease with which this victory was won was a glad novelty, surely, but there was seldom anything more satisfying than driving into the ground heroes who thought themselves superior on ideals alone. Strahd sometimes felt that proving them wrong was what truly kept him young, not his condition.
But that would be another day's breathless anticipation. Dorian beneath him, tense with anticipation, was what deserved his focus now. He studies his face, then glances down to his chest. The linen draped pleasingly enough over it, waxed lacing holding shut a wide neckline like stitches along his sternum. The moment no longer called for it. He grabs each side between thumb and forefinger.
The way in which he pulls the neckline wide is slow and precise, the soft rasp of lacing against fabric filling the room until it gapes. Here is where Strahd knew one difference between Dorian and most most shy noble sons with musical ears and quick fingers - he'd been hiding a perfectly fine, firm chest beneath these nightclothes. ]
Surprising. [ A breathing, murmuring echo as he glances up, eyes tensing, watching Dorian's expression for any subtle change as one thumb runs the seam between linen and strong muscle. ] Please, explain.
[ Explain while his head graciously dips to press his lips right here, against the warmth just below your collarbone's divot, while he shivers to feel your jugular throb against his nose. ]
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His chest rises and falls in quick motions, and he shivers as that thumb brushes just along the edge of where shirt and skin meet. ]
I… [ His draws in another sharp breath at the touch of those lips to his chest, his eyes fluttering closed as his head falls back against the rest behind him. ] I-I’m a simple bard, my lord. A traveler, adventurer.
[ Even now, with his mind in such a daze, he holds on to the lie that’s he crafted for himself during his travels. A last, meager form of protection, though it won’t preserve the proper thing at this time. ]
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Though Strahd was indeed ascended from common mortality, he allows himself some particularly mortal weaknesses - such is his passing fondness for beautiful men and women, those who make up Castle Ravenloft's coterie of consorts, and his rare indulgence of their charms. Such is the hungry, unyielding hum against Dorian's chest as he says my lord again, while Strahd takes his time with his chest, kissing the length of his sternum, tasting secretly the beat of his heart through his skin. Such, too, is how the gradual loosening of Dorian below him goes straight to his dick, inspires his hands to roam his tight waist as his kisses press heavier and heavier, his fingers dragging greedily the linen fabric against firm muscle underneath.
So, though his indulgence is also partly indulging Dorian, carrying forward in this thoroughly selfish seduction effort - he is also indulging himself personally in his body while he has it, serving a selfish and rare fire in him when he presses lips against his collarbone, against his jaw as he shifts upward, just below his ear.
A single, cool, deep breath pools against its tender shell, palm chilling his flushed face, fingers already lost in long and silky hair. He lets the moment breathe for a second and no longer, running his nose against his ear's pointed rim. ]
And if your Lord would be pleased of your service, you would offer it.
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And he can’t help turning into the touch of that hand, shivering as the words brush over his ear, a soft moan rising from his throat at the fingers tangling in his hair. Blood rushes between his ears, making it harder to think, and the words fall from his lips without him realizing it. ]
Y-Yes, my lord. I am…at your service.
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It couldn't be. Not for Strahd's own gratification, of course - his thoughts would be the very same if it was this or shutting him in the catacombs until the cracks began to show which would twist his arm. Manipulating him in this way, tracing verbal circles around one another - that was certainly more enjoyable, more fitting to the Lord of Castle Ravenloft beyond any carnal pleasure than imprisonment.
But this was not wholly about his skills, his tastes and enjoyment. This was about what would snare him, what hook would drive into his jaw and allow Strahd to drag him into his step. Dorian was a man who wore foolishly his weaknesses on his sleeve - warm approval and affection. Although Strahd's unholy gifts had minimized his own efforts, and with them any chance of meaningful resistance from Dorian (both a blessing and a curse), a few well-placed friendly words had already brought him most of the way. Given time and a little stolen luck, he could have come here all on his own with more of the same. Another sweet-natured hero who only knew the most obvious monsters, bending before an older man who bore no judgment, showed only kindness. He had seen a thousand Dorians come to Barovia to die. He knew just where to stick his needles.
But, of course, that was all merely the beginning. Verbal submission was only one simple part of this system. It would not end their encounter.
Next was to play this encounter out so thoroughly that Dorian forgot that it was not his idea all along. Clawed fingers twist in his fine hair as he breathes out his submission, tightening before slipping free, cool fingers grazing his jaw to turn his face into his, to catch his lips and kiss him deeply. ]
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Then he moans again instead as he returns the kiss, shivering beneath the other man who seems to be somehow surround him completely, filling and overwhelming all his senses until all he knew was the noble and the way he was making him feel. His hands, trapped between their bodies, rests against the man’s chest. There is a brief thought to push the man away, that somehow this isn’t right, but instead his fingers tangle in the fabric of his clothes instead as his body curves slightly into the one above him. ]
finally sprints back to this
Dorian, poor fool that he is, is left only with his immediate urges. Whatever second guesses might be in him would surely wither and die soon, if they hadn't by now. Warm hands resting on his strong chest, fingers winding into his clothing - all reflexive to what Strahd has stoked in him. He doesn't give the way his body curves against his, just barely touching the cool firmness of his own, any more thought than he might give breathing.
Strahd, meanwhile, is a different creature entirely. He has no beating heart and warm, running blood. He is a creature of tactical strategy. Every movement a purpose, every touch a motive. So it is that he intentionally keeps his fingers from sinking into him as they move to run along his back as it arches against him, a gentle touch, claw's tips just barely grazing his firm back through his clothes. Encouragement - but not possession. He needed give Dorian no reason to think now - all the better to make him think this was entirely his decision.
His body's weight is coming down against him, bit by bit, one knee pressing into the setee as he presses in just a little closer, tongue between his lips -- when the knock at the door comes.
Strahd pulls his face up with a frustrated grunt, but keeps the rest of him close. He clears his throat. ]
Mai tarziu.
[ It never takes much more than that. Wheels retreating. He returns his attention to Dorian below him, his fingers already playing in his long hair - the very picture of idol, amorous idyll. ]
The next room, perhaps, my pet.
\o/
In any other circumstance, he would be much more shy, maybe even embarrassed by how eager he was acting. But it’s difficult to think about propriety as those fingers dance across his back, leaving a shiver following their trail. He feels the man shift even closer, sending another pulse of heat through him, and a moan rises from his throat as his tongue glides between his lips.
The knock on the door startles him, his breathing a bit rough and his face flushed as Strahd sends away whoever is on the other side of the door. When the noble’s gaze returns to him, another shiver rolling down his spine as fingers play with his hair, and Dorian can’t help licking his lips, still feeling the phantom touch of the other man’s tongue still ghosting across them.
So swallowing the lump in his throat at the words and all they implied, he nods, too far gone to even consider leaving things off there. ]
A-All right…please, yes.
tfln overflow
@sangwhine
I would assume that my opinion of him is already known, but this is Cazador we're talking about. Tell him, that we may laugh together over his surprise.
[ Cazador, who thinks himself his equal. ]
My doors remain open for you, little one. Seek out the mists, if ever you feel inclined to pass through them.
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The mists shall have to wait for now. There's a rather pressing business of mind flayers and dead gods that must be addressed if I am to be left with any sort of world to rule over.