Mending Bruises, But Not the Heart

Deyran drapes an arm over the back of the chair, the other resting lazy but deliberate on the bar’s scarred surface.

The day’s young, he says, voice low and crooked with charm. And trouble’s got a habit of showing up on time.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just raps his knuckles once against the wood and nods to the barkeep, eyes never leaving Alaric.

He wants something stronger. Put it on my tab. He leans in slightly, tone dropping to something husky and dangerous.

Then, a slow lift of the brow—half amusement, half challenge.

So tell me… His eyes scan Alaric like he’s reading a confession inked on skin. How does someone so— a pause, a smirk, a drag of the eyes— capable—ends up in Denerim?

He shifts, crosses his legs with a practiced grace, posture sharp now—interested, but not eager. Just enough stillness to show he’s listening.