Dorian's mind swirled as his mind was drawn into the dreamscape that Lamia had forced his mind into.  As things began to show themselves to his dreaming mind he shifted slightly in the bed, muscles tensing slightly as he pulled his arms down, as if to resist bonds that were not there.  In his dream he found himself in a dark grave yard, gazing up at the statue of some dark shadowed angelic figure.  His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked up at it and then at his wrists, which seemed to be bound in darkness.<br/><br/>His arms pulled, muscles rippling slightly for he'd appeared in the dream as he'd gone to bed, wearing nothing but a pair of crimson and black shorts.  His skin was a healthy golden brown, which seemed to accentuate the lines that were chiseled away to reveal his muscle.  He grunted in the dream, the sound seeming to carry through the darkness, the sound a result of his failed attempt to pull free from the shadowy ropes that kept him bound to the shadow.<br/><br/>Then he heard the click of approaching boots, the sound utterly feminine in the way the heel clicked on the ground.  His eyes leveled on the approaching form and he arched an eyebrow as he watched her draw closer.  It was strange that such a beautiful figure would appear in such a dismal place he thought.  He glanced back up at the statue and then back at the woman, watching her as she drew closer, her beauty actually stunning him.<br/><br/>When she spoke he felt a chill run through him at how utterly perfect the voice of the woman matched the lucious beauty that seemed too good to be real.  Too good to be real?  A dream?  Well that was surely enough of an explination, but Dorian couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamed, so some part of him seemed to utterly disregard the idea that this could be a dream.<br/><br/>He remained silent, eyes locked on hers, his own radiant blue eyes unwavering as he looked at the woman and gave a single nod.  His tongue danced over his lips, wetting them before he glanced around, no fear really seeming to be in him, just confusion at his circumstances.  When he looked back at her he finally spoke, his deep voice soft and confident as he adressed the woman.  "Good evening."  He glanced back at his bonds and then back at her, eyes narrowing in distrust for a moment.  "Who are you, and what the hell am I doing here?"  He questioned her, tone commanding, though in this place his voice seemed frail and weak, as if some other power washed away the very timber and courage of his being.