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Halward knew he was being punished. Dorian had always had inclinations, but back in the day they’d always run along similar lines. Fashionable, trim, conventionally attractive…
His current friend was none of these, and that was how Halward knew Dorian was fucking with him. It was his own fault for not printing a separate invitation without a ‘plus one’ on it. Wait, no. Aquinea printed the invitations, so it was her mistake, not his.
“This is my friend The Iron Bull,” Dorian said, flicking his hand up to gesture at the frankly enormous man behind him.
He looked to be a good five, ten years older than Dorian, probably in his late twenties. He had scars, and an eye patch, and arms like steel girders, none of which were great, particularly, but they paled in comparison to the horns. The great, big, steer-like horns that sat on top of the man’s head.
Halward was staring. He couldn’t stop. When he finally had enough strength to drop his gaze he saw that the man was wearing crocs. Crocs.
“Lovely to meet you,” Halward said. “Iron Bull, was it?”
“The,” Both men said, in unison.
“I like having an article,” The Iron Bull said. “It depersonalizes me.”
“The Iron Bull sometimes works security,” Dorian said.
The Iron Bull smiled, and his canines were very, very big.
“Do come inside,” Halward said, waving them in.
“Very post-modern Orlesian,” The Iron Bull said, looking at the foyer.
“Quite fashionable fifteen years ago!” The Iron Bull said.
“Mmm,” Dorian replied. “It was.”
Dorian smiled at him, and butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth. That was his son, though. His Magnum fucking Opus. Knew better than to bite the hand that fed him. He got somebody else to do it, instead.
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