He is not entirely supposed to be outside, not after dark, not after Samantha had forbidden him from it and yet the fae woman had gone to the place she called 'Work' and Dorian had found himself bored within their shared apartment. His books could entertain him only so long, the man slowly moving his way through the hundreds of years of history he had missed in his long, yet secluded life. More often then not however he found the pages of history decorated with grief, horror, wars and battles so long and bloody he hardly found he minded the fact that he was spared the pain of them, that his own small kingdom, lost to history and time as he himself had been- were left out of these moments. He takes some pleasure in having not been accountable for them. The Spanish Inquisition was the last true event he remembered, one brought about by his own Uncle, shortly before the death of most of his immediate family and his own sudden inheritance of the crown of Naples. His history books so far however, had not reached his own homeland and perhaps he was glad for that, to spare himself the knowledge for just a little longer of events he might rather never have known. He had never taken pleasure in death of his father and mother or siblings and yet in some sense it had been almost...liberating. How else would a bastard-born Prince climb so high as he had? It would never have been achieved without the swing of the French sword across his Father's head, lopping it from his shoulders, or his older brother Alphonso having had the life beaten out of him in much the same manner. It...haunted him, sometimes, perhaps he should have stopped them, perhaps he should have done something to save them and yet what he could have done he hardly knew. He survived only by chance himself, luck and that very bastard status that afforded him the fae blood that kept him alive.

It has been years since these thoughts have plagued him, why tonight, of all nights, he finds himself considering them he hardly knows, his book having been tossed aside with ease before he moved to stride out and onto street. After all, the only other thing within the house to entertain him was the television, the Fae King petrified of it in most instances and as such he hardly dares to turn it on. It is by chance alone perhaps that he finds himself wandering into the small, upmarket bar, the man attracted by nature alone to the finer things in life- that very attraction having seen him end up between Sebastian's sheets, much to Samantha's utter horror and her command that he stay indoors at night. The puncture marks in his neck having been a little too much for the woman perhaps and yet Dorian is assured he had made the vampire work for it all the same. It would hardly be becoming of him to allow such things for free, after all.

Such thoughts however, hardly linger in his mind tonight, the eternally youthful man instead captivated by the very room itself. He has never been within a bar before, this a far cry from any peasant-run tavern the likes of which he had seen only once or twice before and never lingered within. One hand reaches upward near absentmindedly, running through the dark brunette of his hair before he moves to simply stride forward once more. He had been berated by his Father as a child, constantly so, always too gentle, always to soft, lacking the drive or desire of his older brothers to wage war on any and everything and yet he was bold in his own way. Dorian far more adapt at working a room then a battlefield, the fae unashamedly moving to seat himself beside another man, oblivious to any power at play that may well have driven him closer to him then he might otherwise have chosen. He watches with clear intrigue as the man commands the servant to 'start a tab', Dorian frowning ever so slightly.

"Che cosa è un ....er"

He catches himself. His native Italian words halted upon his tongue- so few in this kingdom seeming to understand, much less appreciate such a dialect that had so long ago faded into antiquity as Dorian himself surely should have. His words this time, repeated in English to the gentleman beside him.

"Ah, forgive me. Sometimes I forget my words. What is this tab you asked the servant for? I do not know that term."

There is a distinct delicacy to his words, a perfect annunciation of each despite his accent, as was expected of any ruler surely. His sharp, storm grey gaze held expectantly upon the man beside him before his handsome head tilts ever so slightly with a languid ease.

"You are a man, yet you wear your hair very long for one, this is unusual. Hmmm."

Such a thing, after all, was decidedly rare in Dorian's day, the man clearly intrigued though he offers no further comment. The fae oblivious as to how unusual his questions may be- Dorian unashamed to ask them all the same as his lip quirks upward ever so briefly.