• Closed • Sister Wives... or Brother Husbands?

[Doran Cooney]

On the 91st trial of Ashan during the 718th arc...

Though the night before had been one of wine, his morning was surprising pleasant and bright. He'd stayed, at Alistair's behest, in one of the many rooms that Kaelserad had to offer. More appropriate clothes had been found for him and sat folded neatly on a table beside his bed - unbeknownst to him, borrowed from Kleine, whom he had yet to meet. As he dressed, he did so by the room's sole window, admiring the pleasant view and soft breeze that eased its way through the open fenestra. It carried upon it the scents of grasses and blooming things both familiar and foreign.

It was a strange thought that he was so far from him home of Venora, made all the more difficult to consider as Kaelserad and the immediate surrounding area were decidedly reminiscent of his homeland. Still, he was in entirely alien company, not that he particularly minded. Both Damien and Jonathan had been welcome acquaintances. As he absently poured out the pitcher of cool water into the basin that sat atop the same table he'd taken his clothes from, he mused over his scattered reflection that jumped and jittered over the liquid's surface. Alistair had made mention he wouldn't be around for most of that morning, and he assumed the man had implied with his absence that it was a good time for him to get to know Jonathan better. After all, Doran had noticed the way Jonathan looked at Alistair with such warmth and longing - a true conversation between the two of them was, perhaps, only possible if their mutual object of desire was no longer there to distract them.

Dipping his hands into the basin, Doran set about washing his face and wetting his hair. Though still in borrowed clothes, they fit much better than those he'd found in the cabin. In fact, the only real differences between what he usually wore and that which he wore currently was in the quality of the fabrics and snug, attractive fit of the cut. He wasn't certain how fond he was of the way the shirt accentuated the subtle curve of his chest and slope of his torso into his hips. It all seemed a bit much, as far as he was concerned, but he couldn't deny the silks did feel much more comfortable against his skin that the rougher, cheaper fabrics he was accustomed to. Drying his face with a clean towel and using it to pat away the dampness from his hair, Doran, bootless but socked, padding his way out of the room, his trousers making a soft swishing noise as his thighs brushed together. He decidedly did not like that.

From what he remembered of the building, Doran wandered for a short while before he felt rather confident he'd found the door he'd seen Jonathan disappear behind the night before. With a soft rap of his knuckles upon the sturdy wood, his airy, quiet voice inquired, "Jonathan?"

[Jonathan Burr]

Jonathan had a good sleep. After their lovely night, and the subsequent news that Alistair would be away for a few trials, Jon had submitted to Hob again. He woke up with that satisfied ache spreading across his hips. He was on his stomach on the bed, knees propped up. They'd gotten a little creative with their lovemaking, even if Jon was dead asleep in Idalos when they did so. He smiled lazily and rested his cheek on the pillow. He lifted his hips, stretching his back out a little. It was not the sort of position someone needed to be sleeping in. He flopped onto his side, stretching out his legs and kicking the blankets onto the floor. Hob was still asleep. The Harvester, at his request, was laying in the bed. Or rather, half off of it. His legs hung grotesquely over the side of it as did half of his limbs. It looked like someone had tried to stuff a rabbit into a box far too small for it and ended up leaving the limbs splayed all over the sides.

Jon looked back at the Harvester affectionately, and went to pour fresh water into a basin. Ah, the PTA bath. Under both pits, around the tits, and the ass area. Not exactly the most thorough job but it got rid of the stink of a wild masturbation period. Well, off of him at least. The bed was becoming quite the casualty even with regular washing. Jon was fairly sure he was the bane of the maid's existence. He was just giving himself a satisfying face wash when he heard a knock on the door. He grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around his waist. He was fairly sure that was Doran's voice. Hob was still asleep; just a little flick of the rabbit ear to signify he'd heard.

Jon cracked the door a bit. Well, Doran was fighting dirty. Those clothes hugged that slender dancer's frame perfectly. It drew attention to his narrow hips and the long, elegant legs that sprouted from them. He cleared his throat and propped the door with his knee to prevent the rude half-mast he was now sporting from showing itself to Doran. The man was probably a virgin and wouldn't appreciate the bald come-on. Then again, he had knocked on Jon's door...not the other way around. "Alistair picked that outfit, didn't he?" he smirked. "You look entirely too sexy and too uncomfortable in it. What can I do for you? Or do you want to come in?" The trailing eyes up and down Doran's figure was a clear communication of what offer number two meant.

"Talkin"

[Doran Cooney]

It seemed he'd caught Jonathan in a state of undress. Having been raised in the farming barony of Furdan, early mornings had been a natural part of his routine. Though he knew Jonathan had been born to a lapidary, he didn't know much about the craft - apparently it was not one that required one to be risen before dawn. Or, if it were, it was apparent Jonathan had moved on from the past to embrace a more laid-back schedule. The morning had been incredibly mild thus far, and Doran imagined Jonathan had been merely enjoying it in his own way. Though his suppositions stopped there and, by no means, did he think to imagine just how much the other man had been enjoying himself.

"Erm... yes. I believe so." Though he couldn't be certain. The clothes hadn't been there when he'd gone to bed; as far as he knew it could have been anyone with a key to his room. It was unlikely it had been anyone else, but Doran had no qualms with sharing his polite conjecture. The statement after received a slight tilt of his head, eyes only just clouded with confusion and voice dubious. "Sexy?" Of the two, one was accurate enough. He'd never imagined himself much of an object for others' desire, but neither had he crossed paths with so lascivious and open a man as Jonathan. The idea that he might find him attractive hardly crossed his mind, and he more assumed the man poking fun. "It would be nice if they weren't so... close-fitting." He offered a soft smile at that, unclear what it was Jonathan was getting at.

Shaking his head, his light laughter slipped from his lips. "Oh no, that's quite alright." Bedrooms were places of privacy, and while Jonathan had extended the invitation, Doran had known the other man for a matter of breaks. While perhaps Jonathan might have been comfortable allowing Doran into what was, essentially, his domain, Doran didn't want to trouble him. After all, the man wasn't even dressed - he'd need to leave for Jonathan to put on something decent anyway. "I was wondering if you would be willing to walk with me, take in the morning, so to speak."

Most of the time he'd spent at Kaelserad had been in the garden. Though the grounds weren't extensive, he wanted to know a bit more about where he'd be staying for the next handful of trials. He was a bit disappointed Alistair had to go away, and he wasn't sure for how long he might stay, but he was glad for Jonathan's company. There were many questions he'd wanted to ask the night before, and they still wandered through his mind even then. "I'll be waiting outside, please take however long you need to dress." His words were both gentle and genuine, not a hint of a suggestion he'd noticed Jonathan's aroused state nor provocative allusions. He hesitated for a moment, unsure. "Will that be alright?"

[Jonathan Burr]

Jon laughed. "Sexy is putting it lightly. You really have no idea how hot you are, do you?" he smiled, bemused. That was probably Doran's most attractive quality. Most other men knew exactly where they sat on the attractiveness scale, but with Doran it was entirely natural. Even that little discomfort at the clothes being so fitted was sweet. If this husbands thing worked out, he wouldn't mind having Doran's company at all. Especially if he could ever convince the innocent little thing into bed with him. Doran had that quality that both brought out the predatory want to fuck him, and the need to protect him. Jon smiled and shook his head a bit. "And shy too." he teased gently. "Give me a few seconds and I'll be out. I wanted to show you something anyway."

Jon shut the door, and went to get his trousers. He yanked them up over his hips, not bothering with a shirt or shoes. Hob cracked open an eye.

'Come dream again with me. I want to be lazy.'The Harvester purred. Jon laughed at him and ran a quick comb through his hair.

"You got enough last night." he told the Harvester. "I'm not going to be able to keep up if we keep dreaming like that. I'm going for a walk with Doran. Just try not to manifest. Go ahead and curl up. We're not going to be training or hunting today."

Hob grunted and vanished. The only evidence the Harvester was there were a few little white worms, which writhed into the bed and disappeared themselves after a few moments. Jon opened the door and slipped out, looking at Doran. "If we hurry we can get there at a perfect time." he urged. "It's the prettiest place in Kaelserad." He jerked his head toward the exit, and forged on ahead. He seemed unconcerned as to whether Doran could keep up with him, taking it for granted that the other man could walk at a semi-brisk pace. Jon was full of energy from dawn until dusk, but there was one place that calmed him.

He'd been slowly transforming the river where he trained, in the woods behind Kaelserad. The river here ran shallowly, dipping down into pockets of water. Up, over large ledges and spillways of stone before trickling between the rocks and surging forth. It was a cacophony of noise and music, but here Jon had started to work his art as well. Here and there, large boulders had been carved in the rosette shape of succulents. Sometimes Jon selected stones just under the water, so the 'leaves' of the succulent directed the water into pleasant little tinkles of sound. Another rose out of the water in a cluster of sharp, thick, spiny leaves. Smaller succulents, his idle creations, dotted the landscape. Jon climbed up onto a boulder he hadn't yet Transmuted. It made for a good viewpoint, and there was a reason he'd left it untouched. Standing here, one could see daylight filter through the trees, strike the river, and stain it gold and pink.

Jon closed his eyes and basked a bit in the morning sun, looking back at Doran. "Come on." he offered a hand to steady Doran if he felt like picking his way into the shallow water. "It's getting warmer this time of year...and it feels nice in the morning. You're welcome to bathe here. The water's clean and it's safe."

[Doran Cooney]

Unable to do much more than blink blankly at Jonathan's forward commentary, he half nodded as the man agreed to their outing, adding that it had been on his own mind as well. Doran couldn't decide if he should be excited or worried; Jonathan was most certainly eccentric, not quite the image he'd held of mages, but far closer to them than Alistair had been. There was a danger about him for that very reason, but he couldn't imagine Alistair would leave him alone with someone who was too much of a threat. Or, at least, he hoped.

There had been an odd mark on Jonathan's chest, something twisting and writhing. It was unnerving to look at, and though the man as a whole was certainly attractive, Doran had found the wound or scar or whatever it was in actuality to be entirely distracting. There was a decidedly alien nature about it that set his teeth on edge. Once clothed, he imagined it wouldn't be nearly so much of an issue.

As he waited, he heard Jonathan speaking to someone, though through the wood and without his ear pressed nosily to the door, he couldn't tell if there was a reply or not. It seemed a bit odd, to keep a lover or companion, but Doran supposed that might have been why Jonathan had not been so entirely opposed to the concept of Ryn polygamy - he was partaking himself. He doubted Alistair was unaware, and it came as a bit of surprise he might allow it. Though the man was many things, they were not all so grand; his hypocrisy had been displayed many times over already, and he'd even admitted to such on several occasions. His jealousy, then, seemed not to extend to Jonathan. A curious thought, to be sure.

When he emerged from his room, Doran couldn't help but uneasily eye the man's still bare, still wriggling chest. Though most of the skin was normal, flecked with freckles and the occasional childhood scar, the large, gray streak that sat so prominently across his collarbones stood out so starkly, it couldn't be ignored. It was difficult to imagine it was anything but a magically related marking - though of what and for what reason, Doran had little knowledge to speculate with.

Jonathan was exuberant - lively and filled with youthful energy, in spite of Doran's suspicions the man was at least a handful of arcs his elder. It was enough, and with Jonathan in the lead, for Doran to set aside his misgivings for the time being. After all, whatever the unearthly scar upon his chest actually was, there didn't seem to be anything inherently dangerous about it, especially given the man's apparent disregard for the need of clothing beyond a pair of trousers. He broke off at a brisk pace, his long legs carrying him far, but Doran was used to matching the stride of those taller than him, and fell into place a step or two behind him and to his left.

He quickly stuffed his feet into his boots as Jonathan strode out of the door, feet bare and seemingly unbothered by the change in terrain. Though he lagged behind momentarily, when he had finished with his laces, Doran set out in a light jog, wight over his toes and breath steady, as he hurried to catch up. They walked for a time, silent as Jonathan led and Doran observed. The trees, the grasses, the wildflowers, and the lichen... it was all so familiar and so strange. Though there were clear similarities, Na'Haer's climate allowed for plants and trees Doran had never seen before. They were not so drastically foreign as to give him start, but the smell of the air was decidedly changed. It was, for the first time, he felt as though he really had traveled half way around the world, and in a matter of trills. Magic truly was a terrifyingly powerful thing - though... perhaps not entirely without its benefits.

There as nothing that needed to be said - it was clear when they had arrived. The scenery had taken a decidedly artistic turn, no longer one of wild beauty but something far more calculated, careful and meticulous. His own pace slowed as he stared at the various sculptures, the delicate details carved into the stone made them seem as if they had grown that way: plants of granite and slate and shale, froze in a single moment wherein they might forever emulate the images of the life around them. There gentle trickling sounds of the creek nearby helped to cast the entire scene in a gentle, almost mesmerising atmosphere, and Doran's face had lit up with keen interesting and appreciative appraisal as he stooped over one of the larger sculptures, eyes squinting as he drank in the impossible details.

When Jonathan beckoned him, he turned with a grin, clearly pleased by the pleasant surprise, though some of the expression found itself lost as he was reminded of the unnatural... things that shifted just beneath the man's scar. Light of step, he hopped over several sturdy stones that dotted the water's surface, alighting on the boulder with graceful leap. He took Jonathan's hand more out of polite gesture than a true need for support, and gently squeezed the other man's hand in warm thanks before letting go. "It's beautiful. Did you carve of all these yourself?" There was the clear tone of admiration in his voice, the idea that everything had been formed with the transformative magic of transmutation they'd discussed only briefly before not once slipping into his mind. "I can't imagine how much time you must have spent."

The suggestion of a bath was met with a dismissive though pleasant enough chuckle. The cool air that drifted from the lazily flowing water below was more than enough to suggest it was a bit too chilly for his pale, sensitive skin. The entire scene was like something out of a dream - Jonathan's dream. He much liked the aesthetic, and though he had posited his questions in earnest, while his ears were tuned to listen for the reply, his eyes still scanned their surroundings, taking in the careful details and grinning at the clever redirections of the water with the artfully crafted leafs - or petals? - of the odd plants Jonathan had emulated in his work.

[Jonathan Burr]

Jon did notice that Doran kept staring at his chest. Well, let him stare. The mark wasn't for him. It was for the other strange relationship he'd entered into this arc. Sleeping with Hob was probably one of the more dangerous things a mortal could do, but Jon still had a lot of adrenaline-chaser left in him from his younger years. In Alistair's absence, he had to satisfy himself somehow. He had already resolved never to tell Alistair. If the man had flown into a jealous rage over a close friendship with Daeva, what would he do if he learned about his midnight trysts with Hob? Jon shuddered to think about it. "It's just a mage mark. Doesn't hurt." he told Doran cheerfully. "It's just a little weird."

Jon saw Doran's face light up when they reached the river, and he returned it with a wide smile of his own. He was immensely proud of his ongoing project. The stone here would last for centuries before erosion wiped away his creations. He squeezed Doran's hand in return, looking out over the river. The sound always gave him a sense of peace. It drowned out everything, even Hob's voice if he wanted it to. "There were these little plants in the Ne'Haer gardens. Not anything big or fancy, only about the size of your fist. Chunky leaves, weird little rosettes and no branches to speak of. Some of them looked like little rocks. That's where I got the idea. According to Alistair's library they're tough little shits that take everything Ymiden has to offer. Where other plants burn and dehydrate they flower." he explained. "It does take a little bit of effort, but it's worth it."

Jon knelt and picked up a smaller stone. Around the size of a palm. He held his hand flat so Doran could watch him, and the stone began to change. Submersed in ether, its surface shivered and rippled. The ripples froze at Jon's will, and began to spike up into the shape of the petals. A little more Corrosion and Sculpting pinched and shaped the petals. Flattened them out a little bit to rest against their fellows. The way Jon unfolded them, it appeared as though they sprouted from the center folded around one another, then unfolded from the center and spread wide. After a few minutes he allowed the stone to keep its shape, and return back to a solid. He pulled his ether away from it, pulling it out of the little forge he'd made with his magic. He knelt, and settled the new sculpture just under the water, tucked up against a larger one.

When he came back up again he noticed the little bit of gooseflesh over Doran's shoulders. The water was pretty but it did send a wave of cold air over the morning. "Here. You don't need to freeze. I promise I won't do anything." he raised an arm a bit to offer it to Doran. Jon was a naturally warm creature; he went shirtless and typically shoeless in most seasons.

"Talkin"

[Doran Cooney]

A mage mark?

Doran had never heard the term, but he remembered Alistair telling him that his eyes appeared such due to his magic. If it were a natural part of being a mage, a specific marking that denoted one's containment of the spark, Doran could only imagine what sort of power was attached to the pale grey, writhing skin. Certainly nothing he wanted to see, of that he was sure. At the very least, he assured him he wasn't in any pain or discomfort, which had been a slight worry. Mage marks. He found himself wondering what made them so different from one another and if each magic had the same or if they were personally tailored to every mage.

If he remembered correctly, Jonathan had said his magic was transmutation - though he'd alluded to something else. For a transformative magic, Doran couldn't imagine it would leave so menacing a claim to the other man's body - which meant whatever the secret Jonathan held, it was one Doran hoped would remain as such. He didn't say anything on the matter. Magic and he still had a timorous relationship, and though Jonathan seemed kind enough, Doran struggled to breach the subject with Alistair - let alone a man who was little more than an acquaintance.

He nodded along as Jonathan explained, imagining what sort of colors the actual plants might be. Greens and purples, maybe, or a blushing crimson tinged with pink? He liked the idea that the many scattered sculptures were fashioned off of reality, their scale a reflection of Jonathan's artistry, but their nature true and grounded. From the description Jonathan gave, they seemed quite hardy. He wondered if that was what had drawn the man to them; a mirror of his self.

As Jonathan picked up the stone, Doran leaned in curiously. From what he could tell, there were no tools nearby, but before he could come to the correct conclusion, his answer was given to him in the form of a hazy aura about the small rock. As it began to shift, Doran took an uncertain step backward. He didn't know much about magic, but he did know that Alistair had very clearly explained to him that if things went wrong, they went wrong very quickly. Though he understood overstepping was more of an affliction that affected the mage himself, he didn't want to push his own luck. He only had so much of it, after all.

While perhaps Jonathan thought the process beautiful, Doran found it alarming. Stone certainly wasn't meant to move as it did in the mage's hand - it wasn't mean to move at all. There wasn't anything particularly malevolent about the energies that warped and twisted and folded and peeled the stone like so much putty, but still, he took another step back, uncertain of how he felt about the whole situation. Jonathan, like Alistair, held a tender expression in his face: clearly he felt much the same about magic as the rupturer did.

Doran only felt the sudden rush of air whipping through his hair as he realised there was no more boulder for him to retreat towards left. With a shockingly cold splash, he tumbled into the water behind him, too startled to shout or yelp, bashing his elbow against one of the nearby transmuted sculptures. As his entire body dipped down below the surface, slipping over the slick stone into one of the deeper pools that dotted the creek bed, Doran's legs reflexively began to kick as his arms frantically pumped through the water. When he broke the surface, he did so with a loud, spluttering gasp, eyes wide and blinking in confusion.

When he was better able to get a handle on his jumbled thoughts, Doran waded over to the bank, hoisting himself out of the water, his hair dripping and clothes clinging to his body far more snugly than before. Shaking his head side to side, droplets casting off in every direction, he wiped his face, the chill of the water drawing the soft tan of his skin into a pale shiver. "I-" He cleared his through with a rough cough. "I'm s-so sorry; I d-didn't expect-" He paused, not sure of what to say next.

He understood well enough what he'd done was rude. He knew enough about magic that it shouldn't have been so worrying, but he'd been unable to rationalize his fear. Portals he understood - to some extent. Knowing what the mage was doing, how they were doing it, helped to detract from the mysticism and uncertainty that came with it. Transmutation could change the very nature of a thing - an external, forced shift of shape. If Jonathan were to turn such things upon, even accidentally, Doran couldn't help but find himself experiencing a shiver that was decidedly not in response to the cold.

Running a hand though his still dripping hair to push it out of his face, he gathered his legs beneath him and stood. He wrapped his arms around his torso bracing against the breeze that had been so pleasantly cool only trills before, now a chilling hiss that nipped at his ears and nose. "My... erm... my understanding of magic is... limited." There was a tinge of fear in his voice, but it was heavily tempered with a genuinely contrite tone that gave an odd weight to his usually airy voice. "I realise... I realise this is not the case for you... and Alistair. But..." His words, like his now bedraggled form, sounded pitifully helpless. "But it's all still a bit... frighting."

He wasn't a complete fool. He knew that the stone had been harmless, the act one of creation, not destruction, and as he looked at Jonathan, he knew as well the man had had no intention of turning on him. The particulars weren't what had driven him off the boulder's edge - it was what Jonathan could have done. Doran knew he looked silly - at best - from the other man's perspective, if not entirely mad. With a clear display of effort on his part, Doran tried to smile. "S-so, you created all these with... magic?" He couldn't think of anything better to say, and there was the vaguest of hopes Jonathan would just ignore everything that had just happened - save, perhaps, to abstain from any further displays of his power, least not without an explanation first.

[Jonathan Burr]

The poor man was still looking a little chilly even as he leaned in to examine the stone, and Jon wanted to tuck him against his side. He felt...protective over Doran. He still wanted him in bed, but he was willing to temper that given Doran's naivete. He had expected him to react the same way he would have. He wanted to see Doran's face light up in wonder and amazement at what magic could do. He lifted an arm to tuck Doran to his side. He loved the idea of transmuting with one hand, and holding his newfound friend with the other. That wasn't exactly what happened. Doran backed up and away from his offering arm until he had nothing left to back onto. He slipped and fell backwards. Jon dropped the stone he was transmuting, and made a wild grab for Doran's arms. He missed. The man cracked an elbow painfully on one of the sculptures and Jon winced. They weren't exactly as soft as succulents, even if they looked like it.

Poor Doran pinwheeled into one of the deeper pools and seemed to struggle. Jon was giving serious thought to plunging in after him when Doran's head broke the surface and he managed to get back up. Jon's face was a mask of concern. He went to meet him on the shore and took Doran's hands in his own. He rubbed them between his palms, trying to get them to warm up. Gods, the man's skin had turned white temporarily in the freezing water. He chuckled a little bit at the apology. "What are you apologizing for? I scared YOU." he laughed. "You poor thing. It's harmless. Even if I get distracted, and I do, I pull my ether back and it stops. I'm not doing something dangerous. Believe me if I wanted it to be, it could, but ether is only as dangerous as you are. If you overstep yourself, of course it's going to go insane. It's like fire. Respect it and it will smelt you glass and metal. Disrespect it and it will burn you to the ground."

Jon nodded at the sculptures. "Every single one." he said, pulling Doran close and tucking him against his side. He shivered. "Hoo, you are cold. Come on, let's get you out of those wet clothes. Kick your shoes off or you're going to make blisters. Cuddle up against me, you'll get warm. I don't want you catching something; Alistair would kill me." He wished he had a blanket to wrap Doran up in.

He was absolutely grateful he hadn't led with Hob. If this was his violent reaction to so tame a Transmutation what the hell would he do when faced with the Harvester? Dear gods the man would faint dead away and never speak to him again. Jon resolved not to show Hob to him, though he had little control over what the spirit did at the end of the day. He rubbed Doran's shoulders. "Here now, just warm up." he said soothingly. "I'm sorry, if I knew you were scared of magic I never would have done something like that. I just wanted to make you a little gift. Sort of uh...welcome to the relationship thing."

"Talkin"

[Doran Cooney]

Jonathan was many things, but in that moment, the greatest of them was that he was warm. Though uncomfortable, Doran didn't pull away from the man's hands. Instead, he nodded, his body involuntarily shivering in the open air, as Jonathan offered him a short lesson. If what Jonathan said was true, it seemed that transmutation was a magic of control, one that he claimed to be competent enough at that there had been no need for worry. The comparison to fire was not entirely reassuring, though there was a flicker of comprehension in his eyes; like Alistair, Jonathan believed magic was a tool - dangerous if misused but then, wasn't everything?

He was confident if nothing else. That he could so casually speak of the consequences of his overstepping as "insanity" spoke volumes about his faith in his capabilities as a mage. Doran wasn't sure whether it were impressive or foolish; but as Jonathan continued, he found that, at least, the fact he had spent so much time crafting each of the sculptures was admirable - regardless of his methods used. There was an undeniable beauty that could be produced my the transformative magic of transmutation, but from what Jonathan had so briskly explained, it seemed it was not the only thing it was capable of. Just like Alistair's portals, there were thorns that hugged tight to the flower's stem.

Hesitation was clear in Doran's eyes and expression as he was bid to disrobe, but the air had yet to warm from the sun that had just begun to peak over the horizon, its light still weak and grey. With some reluctance, Doran began to unbutton his shirt, his chilled fingers fumbling but able. Though perhaps not the brightest of grins, Doran did chuckle some at Jonathan's comment about Alistair. Had the bear of a man been there with them, he'd have swept Doran up into his arms in an instant - the fewer clothes the better, he had no doubt.

With some difficulty, he managed to extricate himself from the clinging, clammy cloth, the garment turning itself inside-out in the process. Though bare of skin, without the cloying presence of the sopping fabric, he already felt a good degree warmer, though some of that was due to the soft blush of his cheeks. He preferred to be clothed, with the exception of being in the privacy of his own home. Though he held no particular shame about it body, his uncle had beat into him that it was not decent from his to run about half clothed when Lily could not do the same. Those scars gleamed all the paler in the morning light, made more apparent by the pale, shivering white of his skin. They lined his arms and hands, kicks and cuts and gashes from his past dotting the smooth skin of his chest and back, which were, in turn broken up by small dots, reminiscent of freckles, that starkly contrasted with his marble-like skin.

Depositing his dripping shirt into Jonathan's outstretched hand, Doran using the man as a temporary support as he wiggling his feet free of his boots, a wet, slopping pop sounded once they were finally free. His socks were next and, finally, his trousers, which peeled off of his legs like the yellow skin of a banana. Shivering in his small clothes, his slender but surprisingly well defined muscular frame on clear - though ever clearer unwanted - display, Doran wrapped his arms around his body once more.

Jonathan offered his arm again, and, for the time being, Doren acquiesced to the man's ministrations. He didn't like being cold, and though his clothes now rested limply on the boulder he'd fallen off of at the start, on the side that would first meet the rays of the sun's soothing light, it would be a time before they were dried enough to offer even a fraction of the heat Jonathan was willing to share free of cost. Though his shoulders remained rigid, even with the gentle, rhythmic pressure Jonathan applied, he leaned into the man's body enough that the full left side of his torso was pressed up against the man's skin, leeching the warmth away as he shivered quietly. "Thank you..." His voice was subdued, but there was genuine appreciation in his voice, however hesitant.

He winced at the next words. "In truth, I had thought myself a bit b-better prepared t-than that." This time, when his smiled up at the larger man, there was an honest gratitude in his smile - though it shared space with a fair amount of chagrin. "W-well, I do appreciate the gest-ture." It was certainly a kind thought, though Doran would have much preferred to share a mundane sunrise together in celebration of their meeting rather than a trinket forged by magic.

"You're... different, from Alistair." Doran's quiet voice took a turn for thoughtful, uncomfortable in silence with their bodies so close together. He made certain to keep his face away from the grey, writhing skin of Jonathan's mage mark - though he was glad for the heat, he was wary enough not to want anything to do with that particular area of the other man's chest. More relaxed, that was for certain. "You are his s-student, yes? What is he like, as a t-teacher?" Though he more so wanted there to be conversation of any kind until he felt warm enough to stand on his own, Doran was curious about Alistair's role in Jonathan's life. He was, it seemed, one of the only things Jonathan and he truly had in common.

[Jonathan Burr]

Jonathan couldn't help but watch Doran undress. He really was beautiful, though all those little scars and scratches interested him. How did he get that way? Jon knew every scar on his own body had been the product of something unspeakably violent. He did enjoy the freckles...they were so cute and sweet. He wanted to kiss them, but he was pretty sure Doran would react just as violently. He was gaining affection for the man, much more than a simple tolerance of his presence. He genuinely liked Doran. He rubbed up and down Doran's arm, tucking him in against his ribs. He wished he would make himself warmer. He smiled down at Doran as they cuddled. "Relax, I'm not going to bite you. It's alright to have someone touch you, you know." he said. "It's just me, being me. I'm not going to try and hurt you, or magick you, or force you into something. You're just cold, and I'm warm. Okay?"

Jon continued rubbing Doran's shoulder, trying to get the skin a little warmer. If he knew Doran wouldn't completely and utterly panick he would have brought in Hob on the other side. He could hold a conjunction long enough for the Harvester to provide at least a little warmth. "I'm his student, but it doesn't feel that way most of the time. Alistair can't help me. He's a rupturer and a necromancer. He doesn't understand my sparks. Transmutation is about creation. Even in destruction, it carves and reforms things. It's beautiful." he explained. "The other spark makes him angry. He wants to destroy it, even though he claims to want to find a place for me in the world he's building. Our relationship is strained on that front. He seems to flit around. I don't even know how long he's gone..."

He breathed in deeply and looked over the river. The sun was coming up now. The light was turning amber, and the color was fading away as the sun rose up. Hopefully they'd start to get a little warmer soon. "Would you mind if I kissed you?" he asked quietly. His hold wasn't firm, and if Doran wanted to he could easily duck away from Jon's welcoming arm. For some reason seeing Doran's helpless self curled up against his ribs was just...perfection. He wanted to be closer to him. Given the embarrassed reaction Doran had to his first attempt at hugging, he wanted to be more gentle with him. This wasn't Alistair, where he could drag the man over and hungrily kiss him. No. Doran needed gentility. He needed this to develop slowly and Jon was more than willing to pace him.
"Talkin"