My thanks, amatus.

[Dorian offers him a thin smile and a nod of thanks as he slides into the offered chair, reaching for the tankard Brennan had set in front of him. Were the circumstances different, there may have been some performative complaining about low-brow drink options, but there are much more important things to focus on at the moment, and Brennan knows his preferences full well— the concern that it might get around that he's developed a taste for Ferelden ale and mead has been used against him in jest on more than one occasion.

He waits until Brennan is also settled until he says anything more, and when he does, he keeps his voice relatively low despite the fact that they had managed to find a place without much of a crowd. The situation is one that deserves to be treated with some care, given the gravity of it.]

I suppose we ought to sort out what we both last remember, first off. On my end, it's been quite a while since the fall of Corypheus— years, long enough that I was forced to go back to Tevinter for some time.