Chapter Text
Dorian Pavus is not much given to people-watching as a pastime. He generally prefers the company of books. And yet, here he is, standing in the fucking snow, no less, watching the Herald of Andraste run to and fro around Haven. In spite of the snow, Dorian finds himself forgetting the hardship. The Herald cuts quite the imposing figure. He is tall, and broad-shouldered, he smiles easily and often, which is not at all what Dorian had expected when he learned the much maligned survivor of the Conclave was Qunari. Dorian peeks around the back of the cabin he has been assigned as living quarters, watching the Herald speak with Varric. The conversation appears to turn serious part way though, but ends with mutual smiles. The Herald looks toward the cabins, but doesn’t see Dorian. He straightens, though, and starts to walk in Dorian’s direction, so he moves to take a slightly less obviously spying position in front of the cabin. The Herald stops to speak with Solas - making even the dour elf smile - and to drop off some papers with the herbalist. Dorian waits patiently to see if he himself would now be a stop on the Herald’s rounds.
The answer is clearly yes. The Herald shoots a warm smile in his direction, and settles on the edge of a crate of supplies nearby, obviously settling in for a decently long conversation. “Herald,” Dorian says, before the other can speak. Owning the floor like the scion of House Pavus should. Even if the floor in question is packed, dirty snow. “To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?” He smirks for emphasis.
“Please. Call me Adaar. I find the title, well ...weird, to be honest.” Indeed. Dorian can see the discomfort all over his face and in the slight tension in the arms folded over his chest. His face is oddly beautiful, for a Qunari. Tal-Vashoth no less, if Dorian’s sources are correct. His manners, while far from the refinement of Minrathous standards, are not what Dorian had been led to expect either. He was expecting someone a bit more like the Iron Bull, to be honest.
He doesn’t say any of that. He lets the smirk relax into a smile. “Adaar, then. Is there some way I can be of service to the Inquisition?”
The Herald - Adaar, smiles again. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I just thought I should get to know you, since we’re going to be working together.” He shifts slightly, his hips aligning with Dorian’s, crossing his legs at the ankle, letting the crates take more of his weight. Dorian swallows and crosses his arms. “You seem pretty critical of your homeland.” He raises a shoulder - half a shrug. “I have some sympathy for that.” His smile goes a little crooked.
Dorian decides to go on the offensive. “So you are Tal-Vashoth. I expected something a little... different.” He echoes the half shrug, trying mitigate what might sound like an accusation. He doesn’t let the surprise show on his face when Adaar chuckles.
“More pillaging, burning and general destruction?” He laughs again. “I suppose I’m not that kind of Tal-Vashoth.” He favors Dorian with a wide grin, showing strangely perfect teeth.
Dorian senses a story there. “Well, I suppose I’m grateful, then.” He laughs, too. Apparently it’s contagious. “Especially with the size of the fireballs I’ve seen you throw. You’re a mage? But you’re not collared and sewn up. Your parents then?”
Adaar nods, smile melting from his face with a swiftness that makes Dorian want to wince in sympathy. “I showed magical talent early on. They wanted better for me.”
Dorian is surprised by the honesty. He doesn’t even try not to let it show. He nods back, and changes the subject. “So why were you at the Conclave?”
Adaar doesn’t smile again, yet, but his face lightens. “I was hired as private security for the representative the mages sent. I ran a merc crew, had a reputation for being sympathetic. I was actually lost when I opened the door. I was looking for the food.” His smile is crooked, but it exists, so Dorian takes it as a win.
And suddenly he sees how Adaar is doing it. Why the right and left hand of the Divine, templars, mages, dwarves, elves, humans - why they followed him right up to the edge of the breach. A Qunari who doesn’t even believe in the Maker, with his heart pinned to his sleeve for all the world to see. It’s a strange sort of purity that Adaar has. It’s alien in barbaric Ferelden. It would be even more alien in Orlais and he’d be made tranquil just for stepping on Tevinter soil, Dorian is sure. The fact that Adaar seems entirely unaware that his emotional honesty is as rare as royal elfroot just makes it all the more compelling. “So you support free mages, then? Well that will make the southern mages a little more like the ones back home.”
“As long as the ones back home are like you.” Adaar grins at him again.
“No one is quite like me,” Dorian flings back, covering the melting of his heart with bravado. Adaar asks him some more questions, largely about Tevinter and his place in it. Dorian lets his smart mouth go on autopilot. Adaar asks his questions gently and flirts wildly. Dorian tries not to be smitten.