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I'm a nervous wreck, oh hell yes [Jul 31]
Krem texted Dorian on his way to the Iron Bull's apartment. He'd looked him up in the directory, and he was, frankly, tired of waiting to see if Dorian was going to drag his feet and arrange this meeting himself, or if he was going to have to wait for the Bull to start nosing in on his personal life as if that wasn't invasive and unnecessary and, frankly, a bit mad. The text was concise. You wanted to chaperone. I am going to meet him.
The Iron Bull lived in the same building as Dorian and Biffy. As Lito, and as Tris. As Thomas. There was too much there, and Krem was not the least bit pleased about it. He wasn't sure if there was any better arrangement. There probably wasn't. There definitely wasn't, he knew. Not if the Bull was going to be here in Darrow.
He didn't even know what he was going to say. But doing this, making the decision himself, put the control momentarily in his hands.
And, maybe, carrying his sword with him--in scabbard, he wasn't stupid--was making him feel a little more comfortable about the meeting. Not much, but enough that he hadn't felt the need for some liquid courage beforehand. That was a step in the right direction.
He stood in front of the door, pacing, for a couple moments, before he finally braced himself and slammed his fist on the door, a loud, heavy thump to announce himself. It was something that would have barely registered a knock on a sturdy inn door back in Orlais or Fereldan; here, it rattled the door in its frame.
The Iron Bull lived in the same building as Dorian and Biffy. As Lito, and as Tris. As Thomas. There was too much there, and Krem was not the least bit pleased about it. He wasn't sure if there was any better arrangement. There probably wasn't. There definitely wasn't, he knew. Not if the Bull was going to be here in Darrow.
He didn't even know what he was going to say. But doing this, making the decision himself, put the control momentarily in his hands.
And, maybe, carrying his sword with him--in scabbard, he wasn't stupid--was making him feel a little more comfortable about the meeting. Not much, but enough that he hadn't felt the need for some liquid courage beforehand. That was a step in the right direction.
He stood in front of the door, pacing, for a couple moments, before he finally braced himself and slammed his fist on the door, a loud, heavy thump to announce himself. It was something that would have barely registered a knock on a sturdy inn door back in Orlais or Fereldan; here, it rattled the door in its frame.