Little But Not Less | ✓

Wicked Minds, Warm Hearts

The deceivingly merry music wafted through the thin glass of the Winter palace, spilling out into the outdoor courtyard. The carefully clipped hedges and sculpted foliage stirred in the wind, which carried the scent of gossip and scandal and a hint of death. Gael cursed under his breath when his unnecessarily gaudy attire snagged on a jagged protrusion of ivy as he nimbly climbed up the arrangement, his boots light as he flipped over the edge of the overlying banister. High and obscured from the view of partygoers below, Gael peered down with glowing green eyes, scanning the grounds carefully.

The people were little blobs of colour; Orlesian tastes meant that the ladies were a sea of eye-catching reds, pinks and greens, the gold and silver accents glimmering like faux stars. Masked obscured the face of most guests, though the flirty, sinister and provocative smiles peeking out from beneath them made Gael's pale skin crawl. Some ladies swayed to the music as they sipped on their fine wine while some men tried to woo them. Others, already wooed, were tucked away in dark, shadowy corners of the Winter Palace engaging in some obscene activities, much to the delight of the gossiping nobility. 

Gael's eyes trailed over the courtyard, before resting on a familiar, comforting sight. Gael's own mouth quirked up as he saw Dorian chatting away with some Orlesian nobility, his back effortlessly poised and his moustache gelled to perfection above his plump, teasing lips. Dorian looked infinitely dashing in the painfully hideous Inquisition attire, at least in Lavellan's eyes; Dorian had disagreed, and said that the red did not do anything for his complexion. He had smiled at Lavellan's straightforward assurance, but had pouted anyway. Gael had quickly indulged him with a quick kiss, immediately wiping away Dorian's pout and replacing it with a smug grin.

As if sensing Gael's warm, impassioned thoughts about him, Dorian's head turned towards Gael's location in the sky, eyes glinting. 

"What is he talking about with those dithering ladies that has him smirking like a rat?" Gael thought, head tilting to the side curiously. Gael gave his vhenan a small nod, before drifting backwards into the darkness. As much as he would like to watch Dorian play with foolish nobles all evening, he had a job to do.

~~~

Dorian almost laughed aloud when he saw Gael creep back into the ballroom like he hadn't been sneaking around in every crevice of the Winter Palace, likely leaving many dead bodies in his wake. Dorian could feel his lover's hands tingle with magic, but his appearance was still immaculate as ever; not one crinkle, not even a drop of blood. Even his hair was still perfectly tied behind his neck in an elaborate braid threaded with gold. How Gael managed to look so beautiful after killing people was always something Dorian teased him about on their adventures, but only when he ran out of things to say about the elf's height (or lack thereof).

Dorian watched with the eyes of a ravenous hawk as Gael, back straight and a nonchalant, ghostly smile on his face, stalked across the ballroom. Dorian could not lie; he had been nervous about this mission, since Gael had grown up in fields and streams, and not in courts and ballrooms. For someone who belonged under the sun, Dorian did not want to see him sullied by the filth of the nobility, for his light to be snuffed out by the Game. However, as always, Gael had proved that once again, he did not need Dorian to worry about him, no matter how easy it was to do so.

Gael chatted with the thick-faced nobles like he was born from the very foundations that they stood upon now, his face neutral but with a hint of tantalising arrogance and mystery. When they had first entered, his elven heritage had garnered quite a lukewarm response. But once the Inquisitor began talking in that surprisingly deep and velvety voice, his otherworldly good-looks and wild charm soon came into the spotlight. Now, the entire court was laying itself at his tiny little feet.