When Cyril saw the mage he felt his stomach flop. He could remember, dimly, that when he first arrived he had had the fleeting thought that it would be nice to have Dorian around to explain all of the time magic, but actually seeing him was something entirely different. He didn't want Dorian trapped here and didn't know how to begin to explain all of the oddity in the city.

"Dorian!" he called, and then came up to him. For Dorian this was a strange Dalish elf with half of one arm missing. His neat shirt the sleeve of that arm pinned up to avoid the cloth from just hanging. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he spoke with a smirk. It was always easier to lead with flirting when it came to Dorian. It eased the tension in his body and nearly always made Dorian take on that tone of voice he loved to hear.