"He ought to run if he knows what's good for him, but we seldom do," Mac mumbled, sighing softly and relaxing under the Prince's hands. His cock was rigid behind the tight fabrics and armors of his breeches, but even the best tailors in the tower hadn't quite figured out how to fully contain and erection and Uldren's fingers found the Warlock easily enough. The man had Mac turned to putty in moments, those dazzling green eyes that hazy, half-focused way they got when he switched off Guardian-mode and slithered into another skin reserved for Uldren.

Ilormael watched it all in horrified fascination, curious that there seemed to be no magic in use, no mind-control in place and yet Mac was losing himself effortlessly in the moment. Was that what it was like? All his time spent in the clan and camp had been extraordinarily chaste. It wasn't encouraged to seek relations where matches hadn't been made. Dalish elves were so few, they couldn't really waste time on couplings that wouldn't produce young, which meant when you had tastes leaning away from the women of the tribe, you weren't in good company.

He wondered, certainly. But was it madness to reach out to strangers? Other people did it. Camp mates for a night, people sharing their own heat by the fire, chance meetings. He'd heard of and read about such things. Was it exclusive to certain kinds of people or was a Dalish allowed a secret in a rainstorm?

A pity he couldn't speak the Awoken tongue, or that the prince couldn't understand his own. Maybe Uldren would have understood the mumbled words lost in a sigh, "I don't imagine an untried Dalish would appeal, I'm afraid."

Of course, he didn't know about the little creature translating everything, speaking up and making clear his words to the predatory prince.