[video] Nowadays it is only the unreadable that occurs

[depicted]

[Dorian posts from his Fire Sector suite, a transcription of some pages of books he found in the Emperor's library in hand. The transcription is, of course, in the local language, and that is why he speaks]

In the interest of actually being able to read anything useful we might come across, rather than puzzling over it like it's the Voynich manuscript, I thought it might be prudent to attempt to gather together the work of those of us who have been trying to crack the language. I know there are at least a few—if there are resources to be shared, then we may all make a bit more progress. [He has been working on this for some time, and it is audible in every stubborn syllable.] At the very least, it can't possibly hurt.

Comments

[depicted]

[He laughs it off.] Neither of the above. Toby simply has certain needs and I have a—regenerative nature to sate them. He's a vampire, you see, and I'm immortal.

[But wait. Dorian gives Toby a bit of a disbelieving look.] You really want to drink his blood? Is it a vampire thing to have bad taste, or is that just you?

Then again, there would be a high alcohol content. [He sees an appeal.]

[cynisme]

[He wants to blame the alcohol, but he's no poet. He's no fanciful creature who creates stories like these in the bright of day, nor some child who brings them to life in the dead of night. He found Poe's works interesting in theory and completely whiny in practice, found Frankenstein to be more interesting philosophically than Gothicly, and the rest of the Gothic paperback market to be worthy of a quick read but not much less. It had promise but lacked practice, and had never quite sucked him in.

So he can't blame the alcohol, of his own mind, because it would never concoct something like this. He listens, he watches, sipping at his wine with an unsure, highly disbelieving look.]

If you're not joking, I should probably be running.

[monstrous]

[Offended, he stands up abruptly, startling the carpet, who goes to nudge at Dorian's ankles] I have fantastic taste. Mostly. I suppose there are some exceptions. [meaningful stare to Dorian.] And besides that, I'm mostly concerned with compensation for -

[At Grantaire's voice, the domestics are forgotten. He smiles at Grantaire, something between predatory and condescending] If he's not joking, it would be pointless to run because I could stop you before you reached the door. If he's not, of course. Then again, even if he was joking I would outrun you. [Toby tilts his head, a mocking sort of sympathetic and concerned expression on his face as he frowns at Grantaire] How much have you had to drink tonight?

[depicted]

[Dorian smiles, fondly remembering when Toby first caught him before he could escape. He hadn't felt so terrified, so alive in years, and Toby had only brought him new heights since. Like the one he is in right now, making every expression and feature on Grantaire's face all the more visible. And blinding him to any empathy he might have for the situation.]

Of course I'm joking. [He is trying to be good, remember?] Anyway, no need for that. I offered Grantaire a drink, not the other way around.

[Dorian, accompanied by his carpet, goes to the table and pours everyone a glass of the wine.]

[cynisme]

[The wonderful thing about Alcohol is that it dulls the senses. Where Dorian and Toby are heightened, he's soft, slow. Where it normally keeps him jovial, it only serves to weaken his natural reflex to freak out and run.

And then there's his natural doubt creeping in, telling him that, yes, it's a weird joke, and he's being stupid. Naive even.

Maybe.

He licks his tongue to the top of the roof of his mouth and motions to Toby with his glass with a little too much force, and it drips down his fingers. His eyes don't leave Toby's though, as the smart realist fights with the nonchalant hedonist in his head. It's the alpha male and the wandering newcomer, as the newcomer assesses the situation, even when his eyes are focusing, unfocusing, focusing on their own.]

I've had enough to drink that I can keep having plenty more, and you, Toby?

[monstrous]

[Toby cracks a smile as he sees Grantaire try to stare him down, his gaze flickering to Dorian in amusement before returning to Grantaire. Finally he laughs, clapping a hand on Grantaire's shoulder before ushering him towards the wine]

I always have room to drink more. Right, Dorian?

[depicted]

[Dorian drops onto the sofa (the carpet settles over his feet), his wine in hand.] A history of blood loss and emptied bottles would seem to support your story. Is there anything you don't drain me of?

[cynisme]

[It's in that moment that his alcohol laden mind needs to decide. He could leave, wash his hands of this weirdness, or he could follow the siren song of drink and company. There were pros and cons to each, danger and thrill versus the real fact that he's already dead, already drunk, already here. After a moment he sighs and drops down next to Dorian--but not before grabbing the bottle to carry with him.]

You are the strangest english shits I've ever met, and I've met my share.

[monstrous]

Nothing you don't willingly give. [Toby returns to Ali, stroking his dragon design]

And you are an exquisite representation of the French, so we will consider ourselves star-crossed testaments to our motherlands. [Toby raises his glass to that, because everything is worth toasting when you plan on getting wasted] Cheers. [And with that he downs his drink]

[depicted]

[Three self-destructive addicts relax on a sofa...]

[Dorian immediately refills Toby's drink. As for him, the high from bloodloss is starting to fade, and he can feel the effects of siring begin to disappear. Somewhere, his painting must be having a fit. So he pours more wine for himself, intent on being as drunk as everyone else for as long as possible.] We make up for it all by being very charming. Or at least I do.

[cynisme]

I'll drink to that. Hell, I'll drink to anything even if you didn't wrap it up so nicely. Santé.

[and a toast it is, as he downs his glass too with a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh.]

Charming only works for you because you've got the pretty face to match it. The devil's in your skin.

[monstrous]

[Toby sputters, spitting out some of his drink as he laughs, then using his sleeve to wipe his face] The devil's in your skin! [Toby is highly amused as he comes over to Dorian, rolling up Dorian's sleeve, pulling Dorian's arm to his eye level, inspecting said arm and skin with fingers and eyes.

Toby is a jackass.

When he's finished, Toby drops the arm. The prop served its use. Toby makes a comical face as he smiles broadly at Grantaire] So it is, you were right! Well done! Now the question is what's in your skin, besides an dangerously and enviously high percentage of alcohol.

[depicted]

He damn well better not be. [Toby is very lucky that Dorian didn't hit him.

Well, 'very lucky' in the sense that it's absolutely guaranteed that he would. But oh how he wants to.]

I think our friend has under his skin only alcohol and love.

[cynisme]

[Toby may be a jackass but Grantaire is too, and a smarmy, sarcastic, drunkenly playful one at that, so his commentary rolls right off of him. It even gets a laugh from him. The farce continues.]

What I have under my skin is alcohol, true, infused into my pores, but you won't find any love there. Rather, puss and whatever else causes skin to crawl like gooseflesh. You should count yourself lucky, better to stick with the devil.

[monstrous]

[Toby can't help but smirk and give Dorian a sideways look at Dorian's outburst, before looking back at Grantaire]

You're right, that doesn't sound entirely pleasant. All right, you've sold me, I'm sticking to the boy with the devil in his skin.