Dorian had been surprised, perhaps, to learn that the roaring flames before him were somehow the product of alcohol, the Fae Princes mind wandering to images of barrels of wine of the sort he was entirely used to indulging in on occasion- oblivious to any of the modern-day equivalents the vampire perhaps bemoaned having lost. It had been some time even, since he had lasted enjoyed the wine of his own century, dates and years having become near liquid to him in the never ending stream with which they seemed to come, much of his knowledge of the significant events of those years, the events that would make any one year significant, were non-existent. He offers little more than a subtle murmur of agreement, far more intrigued by the manner in which his French lyrics had been returned to him near flawlessly. It was a different dialect to be sure, the man holding an accented tone himself and yet in his entire time in this city so far none had managed to answer him in any of the languages he spoke outside of English. Perhaps they were not all the heathens he had believed them to be, else perhaps the man beside him was old enough to have appreciated a culture others seemed to have forgotten and cared little to indulge in. It is the ease with which the vampire so readily gives himself away however that seems to please Dorian the most, the barest touch seeming to coax from him a momentary gleam of the fangs beneath.

Before this city he had seen only one vampire, he knew of their existence, something of their behaviour and yet for the better part of a few hundred years he had been content to forget about them- until now. This place was thick with them, at least, more so then any place Dorian had ever been. His first encounter several nights ago having made him distinctly aware that vampires seemed to desire one thing entirely- a meal Dorian was unwilling to provide. At least not so freely. He does not begrudge a creature, any creature, in its search for a meal, he merely begrudges the fashion in which both of them had attempted to take it from him. They had, however, been easy to escape, Dorian expecting little else from this encounter save the momentary pleasure that exists in having called this creature out so early on in his game. Fae are cunning are they not? Dorian content to take some pride in that though he had not anticipated so entirely the other man may well be....responsive to his presence beyond the mere thought of a meal. Men, after all, were far more fickle then women in his experience, women were easy in the end. Men were....far more of a gamble when it came to seeing as to where there interest lay in a more intimate nature. Not that a Prince was very often refused regardless. Even so, the vampire's words are perhaps unexpected, Dorian content to examine him again from beneath the length of his lashes. He is intrigued to be sure, the vampire's words resulting in a fluttering of curiosity within the fae and yet his wariness remains all the same as the slate grey of his gaze meets the man's own again.

"You mean to tell me then, you do not merely seek a meal as they did? For centuries they speak only of the vampires hunger, your camarade..."

He pauses, briefly, rolling the French word for companions upon his tongue with fluent ease.

"...have done little to prove otherwise. I am not opposed to sharing my blood, my attention, my affection or even your bed, though I care little to die for it, for what pleasure is there in that? Vous comprenez, mon ami?" (You understand, my friend?)

It is his turn to allow a simper to dance so teasingly upon his youthful features now, unaware of the subtle change in pheromones underway before him, Dorian holding some intention of simply leaving the vampire to his evening alone and yet he finds himself momentarily compelled to linger. He was a terribly pretty thing- this man. The fae shifts slightly once more, closer now, within reach of the other man in the least as he dares to suggest that he might see to it that the evening is not yet wasted. A subtle challenge touching the fae's words now, though there is a willingness to them all the same, one encouraged perhaps by that touch of Sebastians power that so soothes the wariness Dorian had displayed more readily before.

"What do you offer then, if not my death at your fangs?"