Armand's eyes are arresting: like a low-slung moon eclipsed by the sun. Dorian's never seen quite that color in a human, which is what he presumes Armand to be, lacking the pointed ears of an elf or horns of a qunari.

Still, they snag Dorian as he holds Armand's gaze, intrigued despite his self-preserving intention of maintaining an easy distance. Here, Dorian is a stranger in a strange land, and based on his handful of polite conversations, most everyone else he's met has been here a while. Better not to be caught on the back foot.

"I would love nothing more." He means this, too: conversation is always better over a bottle or two. "I don't suppose you have any Tevinter vintages stashed away somewhere?"