The notion that she allowed her male lover to wander freely in and out of her home, much less seemed to keep his clothing here was so utterly absurd to the fae that he found himself afflicted with far more question then he had so far held on any of the nuances of this ridiculous kingdom. It was decidedly improper- if nothing else. Lovers were allowed of course, even actively encouraged in youth and yet they were hardly something to be publicly acknowledge. Her future husband would surely take great displeasure from this notion of her affairs. Men, to an extent, were almost expected to have lovers, mistresses, affairs- it was not commonly addressed and yet well-known all the same- for a women to openly admit to it was scandalous. Had he not been so entirely distracted by the shower and her instructions on it he would surely have questioned her on exactly how she planned to explain to her future betrothed that she was no, in fact, pure. Yet she assured him she was no prostitute. How blurred the lines of this place where. It is fortunate perhaps, that the shower takes up much of his thoughts in the moments that follow. It was, he has decided, a nasty contraption that did little more than fling water at him in violent bursts. The heat was pleasant and yet soaking in a scented bath with servants to do most of the washing work was by far his preferred method of bathing. What to do with the soap was evidently outside his knowledge- its liquid form far to baffling, along with the shampoo, the man settling instead for merely rinsing his hair and wiping away at the dirt and blood with his hands. This, he is sure, is how peasants must live.

The used clothing of her male lover was equally as baffling, the shirt was a little long, the pants equally so, this man evidently taller then himself as he attempted to shuffle from the room all the same- the outbreak of laughter of Samantha hardly seeming to please the Prince. Surely he would not be expected to wear such atrocious outfits for long? The scarf she attempts to actually fit around him is met with an equally blank stare before she bends down to roll up the pant legs, Dorian assured he looks ridiculous all the same.

"Is this a common outfit?"

Even despite his own inability to understand much of this land he is assured that what he has been dressed in is not a highly standard, her notion that she would find him clothes that fit hardly improved by her assurance they would be used. Did new clothing to exist? In what realm was he, Prince of Naples, not entitled to wear the clothing first? The bed she had set up upon the floor is ignored, the man unable to identify it as anything other than a pile of blankets and pillows laid there for reasons he cannot fathom as her mention of his ethnicity and pizza sees those stormy grey eyes return to her own, wet hair brushed absentmindedly aside from the length of his lashes as he does.

"In truth my Mother was Spanish by descent though with much Italian influence, the man I called Father was Italian and I was born in Naples myself though my actual sire was French."

He is neither embarrassed by nor reluctant to admit his illegitimacy, after all, his last name spoke of it all the same, Dorian having failed to consider Sam was surely oblivious to such a thing.

"We do not know if we like pizza, we have never had it."

Pizza, at least in the modern sense, had not been invented well after Dorians time. His countries perhaps most signature dish largely unknown to him, the man moving to make himself comfortable upon the couch. It was, at least, more comfortable than it actually appeared, Dorian pausing to place his sword within reach beside him- still entirely unwilling to be parted from it even despite his assured safety within this room.
"How do you light the fire in the ceiling candle?"


One hand gestures abruptly upward to the light bulb above his head, the man only just now having come to notice it, eyes narrowed slightly. How on earth it did not drip down onto her unfashionably ugly floor he hardly knew and yet any attempt to discover it is ceased by the sudden appearance of a single moth. The small, winged creature flaps rather unthreateningly about the light bulb and yet the appearance of the insect has readily seen every muscle in the fae man tense. He loathes insects of any kind, his fear of them nearly paralysing as he scrambles hurriedly further back along the couch.

"Samantha....."

His voice has taken on an entirely new tone, wavering with the fear within it, the man very near attempting to press himself back into the wall, flinching as the moth flutters even barely within his direction before flying harmlessly towards the far wall, fluttering about near the window. At close range he cares to do little more then get away from it, at distance however the insect is far more of a target. Dorian reaches effortlessly for the rapier beside him, obviously entirely to how a can of bug spray or merely opening the window would have ridded them of this problem, the sword flicked with ease in his hand before he rather abruptly launches it at the far wall. That he has managed, from such a distance, to spear a fluttering moth to the wall with a sword perhaps indicates some level of rather remarkably swordsmanship if not accuracy- that he has surely voided Samantha's security deposit by throwing a sword into the wall at all remains to be seen- the weapon impaled perfectly through a rather noticeable hole.

"I dislike insects."