#☼*・ﾟ Interaction — ↳ maverick blackstone

[exandriaborn]

@ofandrastes | cont.

The air genasi’s eyes widen as Maverick leans in closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The ranger's warm breath ghosts across his lips, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still. The soft glow of the bioluminescent fungi casts a mesmerizing light across Maverick's handsome features, highlighting the flecks of gold in his eyes.

Dorian has no time to think whether he’s ready for this or not, he thinks he might be. But just as their lips are about to meet, Scratch's enthusiastic barking shatters the spell. Dorian blinks rapidly as Maverick pulls away, some strange mixture of relief and disappointment washing over him. He watches as the ranger inspects the soggy pair of boots, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself.

As Maverick turns back to him, a sheepish grin on his face, the bard feels a hot flush creeping up his neck. He knows his sky blue skin must be turning a vivid shade of lavender, the color spreading across his cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears. He’s a mess, he knows he’s a mess and it’s a vulnerable and mortifying feeling.

So Dorian tries to gather his thoughts, to make sense of the swirling emotions inside him. This is all so new, so unexpected. In all his months of wandering the realms, or even the years at home, he's never felt this way before. He’s kissed a few people before, sure; local boys and girls, diplomats visiting his home, and the daughter of an ambassador at one point. But the nervousness, the excitement, the undeniable pull towards the ruggedly charming ranger is new.

Dorian opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything to break the tension that hangs heavy in the air between them. But instead of a witty quip or a flirtatious remark, the words that tumble from his lips are entirely unexpected.

"Dorian isn't my real name," he blurts out, surprising even himself. Internally, he cringes. Of all the things to say right now… But it's too late to take it back now. The confession hangs in the air between them, as delicate and luminous as the glowing mushrooms surrounding their camp.

[exandriaborn]

Dorian's fingers still on the strings, and he turns to meet Maverick's gaze, eyes glimmering with pensive depth. "I'm… still figuring that out, I think. What my path looks like." His voice is soft, almost wistful. He absently plucks a gentle chord, the notes lingering in the cool night air before setting the mandolin aside entirely. His fingers are growing tired, or he’s had far too much wine.

"But it was a little lonely at times, before…" Dorian pauses, lips curving into a small, warm smile. "Before meeting all of you." Even if the circumstances bringing them together are less than ideal (which is an understatement, they are actually terrible,) Dorian has never really had friends before. For that much, he’s genuinely grateful. The genasi's gaze drifts back to Maverick and then the implication of the ranger's words suddenly click, the bard’s brain finally catching up.

"Oh! You meant… I, uh," Dorian sputters, sky blue skin flushing an even darker shade of purple. He nearly fumbles his mandolin sitting beside him, fingers slipping clumsily on the strings. "That's not really… I mean, I haven't… It's complicated?" The normally eloquent bard is thoroughly tongue-tied, grasping for words that seem to flutter just out of reach.

Flustered, Dorian ducks his head, he takes a shaky breath, trying to gather the scattered shreds of his composure and what’s left of his pride. "Romance and… physical intimacy… It's not really something I have much experience with." The admission is barely louder than a whisper, and logically, he knows there’s nothing to be embarrassed of. Regardless, it feels mortifying. If he wasn't tipsy, he would have lied.

"No, no, I very much am that terrible. Please take my word for it, I don't want to have to prove it to you," Maverick assures, grinning fondly. Seeing the bard so at ease, seemingly enjoying his company -- well, it's hard not to have something to smile about. Though, perhaps the wine is making him far more bubbly than usual. "Or enticing them. One mongrel's war cry is another's mating call."

He leans back slightly, propping himself up on his elbows as Dorian speaks. "That sounds --" Maverick narrows his brow, considering, "-- unfair." Putting it simply, of course. "And a rather wasteful use of your talents." And he isn't just saying that, truly. Dorian has proven to be an invaluable ally thus far, and he can't imagine they would have gotten half as far in their journey had it not been for his aid.

"And did you? Find your own path, that is." He questions, gaze never leaving the bard's face even as he looks out to the water. "Aside from...whatever the path we're on now, is. I mean -- are you happy with the life you've made for yourself?" A smirk casts over his expression then, teeth lightly grazing his lower lip. "I imagine the life of a traveling bard hardly gets lonely. If you, um, catch my drift."

[exandriaborn]

Dorian chuckles softly at Maverick's self-deprecating humor, the sound from the bard warm and rich in the night air. "Oh, I'm sure you're not that bad," he says, his eyes twinkling with something of genuine amusement. "But if you are, perhaps we should keep you away from any passing gnoll packs. Wouldn't want them to think we're mocking them."

He strums a few more chords, the melody shifting to something a bit more melancholic. "As for why it's shocking…" The air genasi pauses, considering his words very, very carefully. He hates talking about himself, about his home. "Let's just say that back home, I wasn't exactly… valued for my opinions. Or much of anything else, really." His voice carries a hint of bitterness, quickly masked by a forced lightness. "But that's all in the past now." And now he’s here.

"But my mother taught me the basics, yes. But most of what I know, I picked up on my own. Traveling, listening, learning. It was my way of… I don't know, finding my own path, I guess." Something that made him different from his older brother, Cyrus couldn’t play any instruments or sing or recite a poem. Dorian's gaze drifts back to the lake, watching the moonlight dance on the water's surface.

Mav keeps his gaze steady on the bard, brows still arched with amused interest. "Why is that?" He asks, unable to help himself. Though the naturally curious sort, Maverick has learned over time that sometimes it's best to keep his questions to himself, to not prod or pry less it gets him closer to his next mark, his next bounty -- but they've been traveling for some time together, yes? And Dorian doesn't seem particularly perturbed by him. In fact, he'd wager to say the opposite, so what's the harm in trying?

"I see." He nods, eyes flickering from lithe fingers plucking at the mandolin to the water genasi's face, lingering for a long moment before returning. "So, talent runs in the family." The goblet's brought to his lips once more, finishing off the last drops of wine before it's placed down beside him. Maverick isn't much of a drinker normally -- after witnessing his father's demise down a bottle, his indulgence in the stuff is fewer and father between, but that night it felt like a rather well-deserved treat.

"She sounds lovely. She taught you everything you know, then?" He asks, head tilted slightly. "Oh, Gods, no. I'm sure people would pay me to keep it that way, too." A laugh bubbles from his lips. "My mother had a lovely singing voice, though I -- for the life of me, I can't completely remember what she sounded like." The woman had died over a decade ago, and it strikes him how much he's been able to forget during that time. "All that to say, I surely did not inherit any of that skill from her. I sound a lot like a dying gnoll. when I try."

[exandriaborn]

Dorian's fingers still on the strings, a contemplative look crossing his face as he meets Maverick's gaze. "Yes, it is shocking to me," he admits quietly, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore below. His lips twist into a wry smile, memories of his childhood flitting through his mind like the shadows cast by the flickering campfire behind them. Back home, Brontë’s opinion rarely mattered, but here, Dorian is someone impressive. Someone who attempts to stand strong and boldly on his own, rather than the less-than-important shadow of his older brother. Whether or not he’s successful in pretending to know what he’s doing is anyone’s guess.

The bard remembers the way his mother would sing to him when he was young, her voice soft and lilting as she wove tales of far-off lands and grand adventures. But as he grew older, those dreams of something more had been slowly snuffed out by the weight of responsibility and the expectations placed upon him. "Not quite an original. It's something my mother used to sing to me when I was a child," Dorian says softly, his fingers absently plucking at the strings once more. "I've altered it a bit over the years, made it my own. But the essence of it… that's all her." Dorian doesn’t usually talk about himself, not like this at least, he actively avoids it when questioned. Must be the wine getting to him, or the company. "Do you play anything?"

Music has always been an afterthought for him -- because when, after all, has he ever had the luxury of stopping long enough to enjoy the sounds of any city, any town he's passed though? He’s always been on the move, his focus consumed by the next contract, the next target, the next task that demanded his attention. Somewhere along the way, he stopped noticing the world around him, the beauty hidden in the mundane. Dorian's mandolin is a welcome accompaniment to their journey, a quiet companion, a sense of comfort at this point.

"What, is something about that shocking to you? That I would care about your opinion?" His voice is light, teasing, but the question underneath is genuine. He places his goblet down on the slate stone overlook, inching a bit closer. Is it the wine making him feel bolder, the celebration in the air? Or perhaps it's simply the solace that they're not usually afforded, the scenery. Either way, it feels nice to sit by Dorian's side. "Yeah, I don't think I've seen so many people so happy. So relieved." A breath escapes him, and his gaze darts towards the genasi. "You sure aren't playing like you've had too much wine. That tune -- is it an original?" Maverick asks, adding then, "it sounds beautiful."

[exandriaborn]

Dorian's fingers pluck gently at the strings of his mandolin, the notes soft and melodic as they drift on the night breeze. A moment of quiet, of reprieve. It's a familiar tune, one that reminds him of home and the people he left behind. "My faith?" For a moment, he simply stares, mandolin forgotten in his lap as he tries to process what was just said. Maverick values his opinion that much? It's a surprising revelation, really, that anyone could value his input. "No one has ever said that to me before, but you��re doing fine, promise." The genasi says at least, his voice quiet but firm with a hint of a smile. "Born leader."

He shifts slightly, making room for Maverick to join him on the rocky outcropping. The lake below shimmers in the moonlight, its surface like a mirror reflecting the stars above. It's a breathtaking sight, one that Dorian never tires of, no matter how many times they make camp here. He enjoys coming out here to play on occasion, away from everything else. And Dorian's gaze lingers on Maverick for a moment longer before he drops his eyes back to the mandolin. Blue fingers resume their gentle plucking, the notes twining with the soft sounds of the night around them. "Some party out there, isn't it? I think I’ve had more wine tonight than I know how to handle."

@exandriaborn (dorian) said; " i believe i can work with that. "

Maverick tossed Dorian a crooked grin, his feet swinging lazily over the edge of the tall cliffs overlooking the vast lake below. "With me leading our merry band of misfits you mean? How sweet of you to put your pride aside to allow me to ascend," he quips, unable to help the faintest roll of his eyes accompanying the jest. The sounds of laughter and revelry have begun to fade, with the youngest of the tieflings curling up in scattered spots to sleep while the adults settle into quieter conversations and reflection. And then there’s just the two of them--alone on the cliffside--a rare occurrence considering how often their lot is on the move.

Admittedly, Maverick has been hoping for more of these moments.

A brief silence passes between them, and the ranger shakes his head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I've never been a leader before. Not really. Back home -- back in Daggerford -- I'd been a soldier, happily and blindly following orders. Since then I've been on my own, alone, and..." He pauses, the words hanging unfinished for a moment before he lifts the goblet of wine to his lips, letting the taste fill the space where words may falter. "I suppose that I hope everyone's faith in me isn't vastly misplaced," Eyes quickly dart to his companion. "Especially yours."