Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 9

Rain sleets against the windows, Cullen left with the other male refugees as the thunder continues to batter past the afternoon into the night. While some of the party guests took their leave as the first drops fell, others remained. And now they are all trapped together in the drawing-room eyeing up the Count's brandy.

Despite his age, the Count is a spry man, his hair more snow than pepper, with a long mustache curled at the ends twitching with every sip. Cullen had to bite his lip to keep from slipping and calling the Count "Old Man." Doubtful the landlubber would appreciate the term, even if it is meant with no offense.

Another thunderclap rattles the roof, all the heads clouded in smoke tipping up to watch the candelabra's flames tremble in the storm. "A good thing we retired to indoors," the Count chuffs to the rest, most his close friends, before the milky eyes drift over to the Duke in residence. "And how is his newest Lordship handling a storm on land?"

"Easier than if at sea," Cullen admits, "less need to tie someone to the mast."

"Give it a few more drinks, and I suspect Master Blackwall here will require such medicine," Tethras crowed, to the delight of all save Master Blackwall.

The chill creeping over the floor twists about Cullen's calves, his knee once again cramping from the pressure of the storm. Weary from the long ride and even knowing he will not sleep well, he rises to his feet. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I shall retire."

A few bow their heads, others narrow their eyes at the early-to-bed Duke. The Count moves to rise as if the elder man must stand in deference to the younger, but Cullen waves his hand. "Did my wife show you where your shall bed for the night?" he asks seriously.

Cullen shakes his head, "No."

"Surprising," the Count muses to himself before whipping out, "The guest quarters are the third door on the left up the stairs. I trust you can find them on your own."

Bowing his head while tasting venom in the air, Cullen turns towards the door. On his escape, he hears Master Tethras begin to spin another yarn. "Word is that Honnleath's estates are draining coin faster than..."

The words fade with the door shut, those men free to drink themselves into a stupor and wake in their waistcoats the next morn. Cullen had enough of that in his younger days where people judged you less on the deck of a ship. And he only really drank to forget twice -- once when learning from his sister of Caroline's marriage, and then the news of his brother. He'd been on the road when the death of his father hit him, the new Duke of Honnleath officially bestowed such a title while he vomited in a ditch. That was unlikely to make it into the family's annals or history or upon a crest.

Shaking off the dour thoughts no doubt turning his flesh a discomforting yellow, Cullen slips into the guest quarters. The room is lavish, unsurprising for a guest with ties to royalty, and darkened even with a fire struggling to catch courtesy of the winds whipping down the chimney. Cullen begins to unbutton his vest, his coat slipping off his shoulders, when a shadow moves off the bed.

Light strikes a candle illuminating a pile of gold hair. As she places the candle next to the bed, Caroline stands to her full height. And she is nearly naked!

In naught but a pale chemise cut at the knee, Caroline glides one leg before the other, drawing Cullen's eyes to the shapely and fully nude bottom half. "What are you...?" he sputters, partially trapped by the panic and also yes the lust he thought buried at sea all those years hence.

Caroline's warm fingers curl over his arm, her lips parted as she whispers, "Cullen, I've missed you. Tell me you missed me."

He shudders at the old game she played when they were children, his would-be fiancé always demanding that he tell her he missed her. And he did. Often. Caroline was a source of calm in his turbulent life, until he castoff every thread of the world she wanted to be in. Still...