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The Worst Thing About The Fallow Mire Is Everything About The Fallow Mire

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The Fallow Mire makes his teeth itch. Not so much the Mire part, although that's not that much fun, as all the demon-y bits. At least in Seheron, if the dead were coming back to life that meant a bas saarebas somewhere nearby, and if you dealt with that problem then it would stop.

Dorian slips into the tent at this point, and Bull carefully carves off that line of thought and pushes it into a back corner of his mind. He looks surprisingly cheerful considering how much he's been complaining about the Mire part of their adventures these last few days. “The Inquisitor has decided we're going to go find those Avvar tomorrow. You should enjoy that-- it ought to involve plenty of hitting things and slightly fewer walking corpses and demons than usual, rumours about their mages notwithstanding.”

“You seem pretty happy about it as well. Thought walking corpses would be right up your alley.” He's gone on about necromancy before. At some length. Bull could have really done without knowing any of those creepy, creepy details.

Dorian flops, inelegantly, onto his bedroll. “My interest in necromancy is a lofty, intellectual one, Bull. Intellectual, from the ancient Tevene for without mud. The sooner we find those lost soldiers and can leave this place behind, the better. It's noisy, and it's giving me a headache.”

“Noisy?”

“I'm not explaining that comment. You'd hate the answer.” He reaches behind him blindly with one hand for his pack. “The headache I have an answer for-- aha!” What emerges from Dorian's pack is a bottle of wine. “Drink?”

He honestly doesn't know why he is surprised. His own pack is carefully arranged to carry every necessity and nothing more. Dorian probably considers the phrase the bare essentials some sort of offence against his person. “You carried a bottle of red wine--”

“A bottle of terrible red wine, thank you. Josephine has taken to hiding all the good stuff. Shockingly selfish of her.”

“--a bottle of terrible red wine, fine, all the way through this bog, and now you're willing to share?”

“Terrible wine should always be drunk in good company.” Dorian declares, doing something definitely magic and probably wasteful of his mana with his fingers that makes the cork pop out into his hands. He takes a long swig from the bottle. “Oh, that is foul. Your turn.”

He's certainly had worse. “It's not so bad.” he says, and goes for a second mouthful.

“Don't hog it.” Dorian complains, practically climbing into his lap to retrieve the bottle. For a moment his hand rests on Bull's thigh and his breath is warm against Bull's cheek, but as soon as he has the wine in hand he retreats to his own side of the tent. “There are rules, Bull.”

“There are rules for drinking terrible wine out of the bottle in a tent in a bog?”

“Of course there are.” Dorian says, taking another long drink. “Tevene society excels at inventing complex social rules to take the fun out of any situation, but for now we'll stick with the basics, like not hogging my wine.”

He looks pointedly over Dorian's shoulder. “That's my spare blanket on your bedroll, isn't it?”

“You kick everything off in the night anyway.” Dorian says, not denying the theft for a moment, and also, Bull might point out, not handing back the wine, either. “It's like your chest knows when it's not on display.”

“Been looking, have you?”

Dorian arches one eyebrow, a look that Bull always imagines he spent a lot of time practising in the mirror as a teenager. It's quite impressively scornful, all the same. “If you imagine that I am having sex with you in the middle of anything called the Fallow Mire, you greatly overestimate the charms of the aforementioned ridiculous chest.”

Oh, he's definitely been looking. At this point, when he's got Dorian to set things on fire, he doesn't really need to fish for compliments, but still. Nice to know. “How about a cuddle? You know, for warmth.”

“For warmth.” Dorian echoes. “Indeed. A purely practical arrangement.”

“For the good of your footsies, and all that.” They are as freezing as complaints would make out, which Bull mostly knows because Dorian likes to shove his cold toes against Bull's legs, seeking warmth, and then to refuse to apologise.

Dorian snorts. “If anyone asks, I'm telling them you insisted because you're scared of all the undead.” he says, but pulls his bedroll over to Bull's side of the tent. He even hands over the bottle.

He doesn't give the blanket back, but Bull figures that by morning Dorian'll be sprawled all over him like a warm prickly blanket of mage anyway, so it more or less evens out.