How assuredly the Fae King did not expect that near sudden proclamation from his new companion. A flag, she insisted, was a perfect tattoo for him. It did, after all, represent his country in all those ways he had deemed those other tattoo's might not. An image of his country, in turn, might be equally agreeable. Dorian's own eyes raised in a glimpse of momentary surprise at such astute thinking, the young woman's bright grin prompting a simper to his own before a soft chuckle so easily hummed within the depths of his throat. His head bobbed softly.

"I do think, perhaps, were I ever to adorn myself in a tattoo, that a flag would be the most appropriate option, you are right. Yet- while such a thing might please my country it would surely irritate my Father to the point it would not be worth my doing. He is a terribly.....trying individual when he is displeased. He is French, you see. I do not know what you know of the French but they are an awfully bizarre people who are utterly convinced of the superiority of France in all things. I should never hear the end of it."

A warm, equally teasing grin seemed to find the Monarch's features then, Dorian offering the young woman the barest of glimpses into what was, perhaps, a home life as tumultuous as his working life so often appeared to be. Royalty or not, after all, he was still prone to argue with his Father. The pair hardly saw eye to eye when it came to the vast majority of the world. It was that very manner of art, however, that so seemed to captivate the Monarch as he offered the young woman a chance to peruse the sketchbook within his hands. It was rare, in anysense, for the Fae King to indulge another with an insight into his more personal art and yet- those few he often chose to reveal those artworks to so tended to afford him boundless praise. Regardless of whether he was deserving of such a thing. It was far better to afford a stranger that chance to view his art. A stranger, after all, unhampered by any sense of misguided duty, might offer him some form of criticism- else the praise they offered would, in turn, be equally deserved with no ulterior motive. This woman did not work for him, she had no reason to flatter him, the Monarch near curious of her impressions. Dorian unable to hide that genuine simper that found his lips at her insistence she enjoyed his work,the woman taking time to flick through each page and detailed portrait. Each one adorned with a unique aura all its own. The young Were's insistence she had expected something more 'abstract' from him however coaxed the faintest tilt of the Monarch's head.

"Really? I do not enjoy abstract art terribly much. I like to draw what I see, just as it appears."

Such a thing was, perhaps, decidedly traditional and yet the Fae King found a distinct sort of....comfort in drawing the world just as it looked. Those auras, visible to his sight alone, the only true touch of 'abstractness' he was inclined to indulge. The woman's sudden query on whether or not her aura was visible was met with a prompt nod. Dorian insisted that he had been able to see her aura since the moment he had arrived and yet, for now at least, he offered little more upon the topic. The Monarch instead gestured toward one of those portraits within his book and the aura that surrounded it, Dorian attempting to offer some explanation for that veritable kaleidoscope of colour that seemed to encompass the drawing. Some peoples' auras were difficult to draw, others were simple, some remained only half finished like Matteo's and Alexanders, their auras far too complex to attempt in merely one sitting. Yet was such a thing truly surprising for beings whose ages exceed two thousand years? It was that notion of exactly how tattoos were made, however, that seemed to capture the Monarch's attention. That query of whether or not he might just...paint those portraits on skin with some sort of permanent ink seemed to coax a veritable bark of laughter from his companion. Dorian's gaze rose in clear surprise, the Fae king oblivious to just hw humorous his question had apparently been as the violet-eyed woman asked if he was serious.

"I am often serious, yes. Is....that your question?"

That distinctly baffled look upon his features, it seemed, at last prompted the woman to offer a far more detailed explanation. Matteo had, to some extent, explained the process and yet Dorian was quite certain the woman before him afforded a far more tangible explanation. Her words prompted his features to frown in consideration. The idea that some of her clients might bleed suggested that the artistic process was more detailed than he had believed. That offer to show him her tattooing gun however was met with a ready nod.

"I should like to see that, yes, thank you."

His very curiosity for learning about that new medium so surely outweighed any concern the Monarch felt for the possibility of blood. It was that sudden image of Matteo within his sketchbook, however, that suddenly seemed to grasp the young woman's attention as she declared that man could well be Dorian's own brother. A soft, warm simper so readily found the Monarch's features in response. Dorian was quick to assure her that Matteo was, in fact, his Father, despite the Frenchmans decidedly youthful appearance. Her declaration that they looked incredibly alike prompted another soft nod of his head. There looks however, were where that similarity ended, Dorian was certain. The pair decidedly different in....far more ways than one. The Were woman seemed content to eye that picture for several moments longer as she mused upon the notion that such tended to be the same between most children and their parents- before declaring that, much as he might be loath to hear it, his Father was hot. How readily the Monarch's features shifted into a frown! Dorian's head shook softly before a sigh fell from his lips in a sound of soft exasperation.

"I fear you are not the first person to inform me of this. I have heard stories of women having traffic accidents when he walks by. I am sure he would be most flattered by your compliment though, so flattered indeed that I shan't be able to tell him. I fear if I were to do so his impossibly large head might not fit through the doorway of his home any longer. Such is the state of his ego."

Dorian's lips quirked slightly upward in the faintest display of a genuine tease. The Monarch, it seemed, entirely capable of humour even if it was layered beneath that proper language. His companions further queries on those auras, however, prompted his efforts to further explain the why and how of those colours. The young Were determined that one day she too might bewilder others with the colours of her soul- only to suddenly point with curiosity towards the black flecks that marked the aura around Matteo within the drawing

"Black is a rare colour in an aura. In fact, I almost never see it. Black is very different to darkness you see. A dark or...murky aura is not the same thing as black. Blackness, even in flecks is.....voidness. It is irreparable damage."

It, too, spoke of mental instability and yet Dorian so hardly chose to voice such things aloud. Not when he had hardly been given to research such a thing entirely as he might like. Matteo too- might surely take offence to such a notion as that. Dorian, within near that same breath, sought to return that conversation to the young woman's own work, lest she seek to ask for more information upon Matteo. The Frenchman undoubtedly bound to disapprove of his giving out such things so freely and oh- how he was loath to have that lecture again! The young woman seemed only too willing to talk about her own work, even if it seemed her more personal works remained within the back- and too, to offer her name Harley Middlename Westward.

"Did you parents truly assign you Middlename as your middle name?"

How utterly taken aback the Monarch appeared! Dorian inclined to eye Harley near skeptically then. Surely her parents did not dare curse her with such a middle name as that! How terribly unfortunate! And he had been given to think his own was poorly chosen! Perhaps her parents had been...obscure. It was,however, Harley's query upon his inspiration that prompted him to insist that his delight in drawing auras was simple. They were beautiful-and he adored to draw beautiful things. That offer to draw the young woman's own so readily seemed to catch her off guard. Harley insisted that it had been a terribly 'smooth' line. Dorian's own silver gaze so merely blinked, the Monarch evidently surprised in turn before that simper once more found his lips in response. Her agreement to allow him to draw her aura however was an opportunity Dorian so hardly intended to waste.
"Thank you, I am pleased you approve of both my art and my, how you say 'smooth lines'. Sebastian thinks I am rather hopeless at it but I am inclined to agree. I think I am rather good with the lines when I choose to be. Artistic and otherwise."

How readily that momentary, impish simper so seemed to reflect Matteo in that moment! Dorian so hardly missed that shift in Harley's own language in turn, the woman attempting that formal tongue in a fashion he found rather pleasing.

"Yes, I should like that very much and yes, let us use this backroom. Lucas will accompany us. The rest of my guards shall remain here. Lorenzo, avrò bisogno di tè, per favore, e qualcosa per il mio compagno. Magari portare una selezione."

How effortlessly the Monarchs words shifted from English to Italian, that unmistakable command uttered to his guards as Lucas stepped forward to accompany Harley and himself to that 'back room' while the rest of his guards so readily took up positions about that space and outside it. All save for one. A singular guard sent running from the room and down the street at great speed, Dorian so merely inclined to watch him go before gesturing for Harley to lead the way into that back room she had mentioned. The Monarch decidedly keen to see her on work as he moved to follow her.

"Where would you like me to sit?"

Harley, after all, had made no directive on where might be best for him to work from, the monarch eyeing that space with a clear curiosity before turning to a clean, blank page within his sketchbook. One entirely prepared to capture that image of Harley herself. The sudden ringing of that shop door echoed softly once more. The guard who had been sent running from the room only moments ago abruptly returned- only to place a saucer and tea cup filled with tea neatly upon the desk beside the monarch, a plate and a selection of pastries were pulled from the paper bag he was carrying a moment later. Each pastry neatly arranged on that plate before the guard offered a respectful bow, several words uttered softly in Italian to his King before he stepped from the room. Dorian, seemingly oblivious to the obscurity of that very thing, so merely reached for that tea cup before lifting it to his lips, his free hand gesturing to that plate of pastry.

"I enjoy tea when I draw. I did not know what you might wish to partake off. My guard informs me this is a selection of everything available on this street. Please, feel free to help yourself."

Dorian Aragona