On the ninetieth trial of Ashan during the 718th arc...
Time alone, soaking in the bath, had done Doran well. He had not realised how tense he'd allowed himself to become during his earlier conversation with Alistair, and while the information he'd shared with him was, in and of itself, both interesting and well-received, Doran still found himself a bit frustrated with Alistair's state of mind. He understood they were different, raised worlds apart, but at some point, one of them was going to have to give - and Doran wasn't certain which one of them it would be. He wasn't particularly stubborn, but neither did he care much for changing his views on the world, especially on matters of love.
His perception had been shaped by Lily, and though Alistair had shown him new avenues and shed light where there had only been the darkness of ignorance before, it didn't replace what Doran already knew and believed, merely allowed him to apply such things to new knowledge and act accordingly. That Alistair was so worried Doran might betray his trust was the worst part of all they had discussed; and Doran understood it was not something the man could simply say he wouldn't do any more and behave thusly. It was going to be a journey - an exhausting one, especially if he was going to keep worrying about what he should and shouldn't tell him.
Sighing, Doran sank a bit lower into the bathwater, the heady scent of oils and spices rising with the steam that drifted up for the water's surface. He'd found a mix of salts, something familiar in that Venorans were quite fond of smelling sweet and would often add such things to their baths, but foreign in that he'd never smelled the scents before. They were earthy and reminiscent of resins and far more savory fragrances. He quite liked them, and had accidentally added a bit more than he perhaps should have. It didn't particularly bother him, as his nose quickly became accustomed, but to any who had not been settled in the washroom for a time, the aroma was quite overpowering. To Doran, it mostly made him hungry.
Drawing his head beneath the water, he scrubbed at his hair for the last time, before he surfaced, drawing in a deep breath and pressing his hands against his head, wringing out the hair caught between them as they moved from hie forehead to the nape of his neck. Alistair had been kind enough to provide him a towel, but whether it had skipped his mind or been intentional, there was no change of clothes anywhere within the washroom, and he'd been asked to leave his dirtied clothes in a small hamper outside of the door. Whether ploy or harmless forgetfulness, Doran found himself standing quite naked, legs submerged up to just below his knees, and brows knit over a perplexed expression.
The towel was entirely too small.
He hadn't really noticed when Alistair had handed it to him, but Doran imagined that things were becoming far too deliberate to be accidental. Rolling his eyes, he shook what water he could from his dripping body and stepped carefully onto the rug at his feet. The towel was just large enough to cover both his front and back when wrapped about his waist with a solid inch or two of bare skin on the side. Patting himself dry, Doran paced about the room as he gently began drying his hair, his bare feet moving quietly over the smooth wood. Though the room was well furnished, there were no other fabrics about he might further guard himself with, though there was a mirror, in which he could see the silvery markings of his scars scattered across his pearly, sun-shy skin.
Chewing on his lower lip, hair about dry, he drew the plug from the tubs base, and watched as the water slowly drained. Rolling his shoulders, Doran wrapped the towel about his waist. He did find the situation a bit amusing, but mostly he just wanted to get dressed. The bedroom wasn't too far down the hall to his left, but in the space between, the hall opened up into the main room: wherein there were windows aplenty gazing out onto the veranda. Uncertain whether Damien had yet arrived or not, Doran took a slow, steadying breath as he squared his shoulders. In the next moment, the door was flung open and he dashed madly across the hall, his eyes catching a red glint in the sunlight outside as he hurtled by, feet only thudding gently as he did his very best not to make a ruckus.
Gripping the bedroom handle, Doran quickly darted inside, glancing once around the familiar, tubular room before shutting the door behind him and letting the near useless towel fall to the floor. As he headed over to the wardrobe, heart racing from both effort and mild embarrassment, Doran made a mental note to always double check what Alistair gave him - especially when it came to baths or clothing.
After some time, he finally settled with a sigh on a pair of surprisingly well fitted pants - though, clearly the clothes were meant from someone of Alistair's size or bigger, meaning the pants were, supposedly, designed to be quite tight. It was a bit odd to wear another's smallclothes, but Doran didn't have many options. Over his unders, Doran found a pair of trousers that were only two sizes too big, held up like a baggy skirt with an old belt he'd managed to stab a hole through to create a notch that would actually fit him. His shirt was essentially a blanket, the arms far too long and the hem riding just above his knee. It was the only one he could find with a drawstring high enough that, when tied, didn't expose the greater half of his torso the to the world. He'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, the fabric awkwardly bulging in uneven rolls.
Though clean, he smelled strongly of exotic spices and looked very much like a child playing make-believe in his father's clothes. It was hardly the appearance he wanted while first meeting Damien, but as the old adage went, Doran was a beggar and thus, had very little in the way of choice. He chose to forgo socks, deciding if he absolutely needed them for later, he could always come back, and headed back out into the common room. Though he had managed to conceal most of his body, the shirt's neck was wide to begin with and exposed his collar bones. With a another sigh, Doran opened the door and lightly padded his way towards the patio, where he could clearly see the two men seated, awaiting his arrival.
From his vantage point, both Alistair and his guest were turned away, looking out into the green wilderness that surrounded the cabin in a verdant, beautiful embrace. He hadn't noticed it much when he'd first arrived, taken with Alistair as he had been, but he did find his spirits rise some as he was greeted with the sweeping greenery that extended out into the distance, a sea of trees and grasses and other bushy plants. But his attention was quickly arrested by the red glint of Damien's crystals. Though he could not see the man's face, Doran paused in his advance as he examined him from behind, through the window.
Whatever he had been expecting when Alistair had described the man's ailment the evening before, it paled in comparison to seeing the jagged protrusions in person. It was not so much a matter of growths as it was a seemingly reconstructive process, interrupted partially through, though not before claiming the man's entire left arm, all the way up to his shoulder. Though alarming and - admittedly - a bit grotesque, Doran drew a steadying breath. He could already see Alistair's face as he spoke with the other man, no hint of revulsion or fear in his features. If Alistair was unafraid, Doran resolved he would try to be much the same. After all, he claimed Damien was a good man, and Doran had met plenty of men far more charming and noble seeming that were little more than rats in a man suit.
Quietly pushing the door that led to the porch open, Doran stepped out. His gaze immediately flicked towards Damien's face, and he found the man's eyes surprisingly soft - or... perhaps the better word was vacant. His entire demeanor, in fact, seemed a bit disjointed, but Doran smiled in spite of himself. It was clear he was not wholly comfortable, but as he could do little to hide his emotions, there was also the firm gleam of determination in his eyes, one that was mixed with genuine curiosity and warm greeting. "You must be Damien. Hello." He bowed toward the man, rising with a warm smile, though he did not move to join them immediately. "I'm Doran Cooney; it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Alistair spoke quite highly of you." Here, he let his gaze flick towards the far less disfigured face of the man who claimed to love him. "Though, I pictured you with... darker hair." He let his focus settle on Damien as he offed his genuine surprise at the man's blonde hair and, aside from the crystalline structures that jutted out from his cheek, fair features.
