Avidkadabra
New Member
Tranquil Inquisitor Lavellan / Dorian Pavus
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
Dragon Age Inquiz/Dorian w/Elemental Son
- Thread starter Avidkadabra
- Start date
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
Dorian had always accounted himself a talented gambler. Like most things in life, it came to him naturally; after all, wagering on the odds simply required a sound, tactical mind to make an appreciation of chance, a bit of luck, and coin. He had been blessed with all three – and he’d had years of carousing to practice.
Recent days had not been kind to him, however. Since the incident at home, as he privately thought of it, and what had happened to Alexius and his family, and his inquiries into these so-called ‘Venatori’… Dorian’s luck seemed to have deserted him, and he’d literally walked away from his plentiful access to coin. Thankfully his wits remained intact, although even they had had been strained after spending several nights sleeping in a copse of trees or concealed beneath a hedge, burning through his reserves of magical energy to keep from freezing. How southerners so cheerfully tolerated the bloody cold, he could not imagine. Perhaps it went hand in hand with their plebeian approach to culture and education?
Regardless, Dorian had endured these discomforts and continued, making his way through the Free Marches and down to Val Royeaux. Critical lack of funds had led him to part with the Pavus Birthright there, and the coin it had fetched had been burning a hole of pride and rage in his pockets ever since. Well, the coin which remained after he’d indulged in a much needed bout of alcoholism. It was reason enough for him to continue south, despising himself more than a little. Crossing the Waking Sea was perhaps the worst ordeal, seasickness plaguing him without cessation. Dorian very narrowly resisted kissing dry ground when they finally landed in the Dales. Finally, he had crossed into the Fereldan Hinterlands. He’d traced rumours of the Venatori to a small holding, Redcliffe – a sordid town with a history of demonic interference – and it was less than a day before Dorian had all the evidence he needed to justify intervening personally. The confluence of arcane energy in the area felt like a noose, and Felix confirmed that Alexius was at the source.
Then the rifts began to appear. The gamble of chasing the Venatori down had had the highest stakes of any he’d ever taken, and Dorian wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated the odds.
Like something out of legend or nightmare, the skies tore and demons rushed to the floodgates. Being demons, naturally, they began possessing or devouring everyone in sight. For a moment, it felt like almost like home.
And then Dorian got to work.
The cold weather had honed his fire magic to great effect, and Dorian burnt through swathes of demons until he felt his mana running low. Then he settled into using his staff as a martial weapon, cracking horned skulls and dispelling the last of the hellish throng.
Just in time to witness him polish off the last few, a group arrived, led by what he reasoned must be a Dalish elf, with a blazing light affixed to one palm. The more nuanced details did not escape Dorian’s appreciation either – hair like burnished bronze, some form of tribal scarring or perhaps ink just visibly etched into fair skin - and striking eyes. Yes, the man was elven, but not as Dorian had ever seen one.
Ah – this must be the one Felix mentioned. The last demon fell to a parry, and with a smile, Dorian set to finding out whether the rumours were true.
“Good, you’re finally here. Now, help me close this, would you?”
Recent days had not been kind to him, however. Since the incident at home, as he privately thought of it, and what had happened to Alexius and his family, and his inquiries into these so-called ‘Venatori’… Dorian’s luck seemed to have deserted him, and he’d literally walked away from his plentiful access to coin. Thankfully his wits remained intact, although even they had had been strained after spending several nights sleeping in a copse of trees or concealed beneath a hedge, burning through his reserves of magical energy to keep from freezing. How southerners so cheerfully tolerated the bloody cold, he could not imagine. Perhaps it went hand in hand with their plebeian approach to culture and education?
Regardless, Dorian had endured these discomforts and continued, making his way through the Free Marches and down to Val Royeaux. Critical lack of funds had led him to part with the Pavus Birthright there, and the coin it had fetched had been burning a hole of pride and rage in his pockets ever since. Well, the coin which remained after he’d indulged in a much needed bout of alcoholism. It was reason enough for him to continue south, despising himself more than a little. Crossing the Waking Sea was perhaps the worst ordeal, seasickness plaguing him without cessation. Dorian very narrowly resisted kissing dry ground when they finally landed in the Dales. Finally, he had crossed into the Fereldan Hinterlands. He’d traced rumours of the Venatori to a small holding, Redcliffe – a sordid town with a history of demonic interference – and it was less than a day before Dorian had all the evidence he needed to justify intervening personally. The confluence of arcane energy in the area felt like a noose, and Felix confirmed that Alexius was at the source.
Then the rifts began to appear. The gamble of chasing the Venatori down had had the highest stakes of any he’d ever taken, and Dorian wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated the odds.
Like something out of legend or nightmare, the skies tore and demons rushed to the floodgates. Being demons, naturally, they began possessing or devouring everyone in sight. For a moment, it felt like almost like home.
And then Dorian got to work.
The cold weather had honed his fire magic to great effect, and Dorian burnt through swathes of demons until he felt his mana running low. Then he settled into using his staff as a martial weapon, cracking horned skulls and dispelling the last of the hellish throng.
Just in time to witness him polish off the last few, a group arrived, led by what he reasoned must be a Dalish elf, with a blazing light affixed to one palm. The more nuanced details did not escape Dorian’s appreciation either – hair like burnished bronze, some form of tribal scarring or perhaps ink just visibly etched into fair skin - and striking eyes. Yes, the man was elven, but not as Dorian had ever seen one.
Ah – this must be the one Felix mentioned. The last demon fell to a parry, and with a smile, Dorian set to finding out whether the rumours were true.
“Good, you’re finally here. Now, help me close this, would you?”
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
Mahanon couldn’t help but think that he was horribly unprepared for what was to come. Only a few weeks ago it had seemed like all of Thedas had wanted him dead and now he was The Herald of Andraste. It was such a ridiculous idea, Herald of Andraste, he was Dalish for Mythal’s sake, he didn’t even believe in the Maker and his Bride.
The mark on Mahanon’s hand however was hard to ignore, he had know memory of how the mark had even gotten there. The fragments of memory retrieved from the breach hadn’t help at all. It had given the Seeker proof that Mahanon had not been the one to cause the explosion, that had to be enough. For now, there was other things to worry about. Like meeting Felix at his mysterious randevú.
If Cassandra had come along she’d surely appose Mahanon attending this meeting. He’d left her in Haven because she made the mages..twitchy. The Seeker had been extremely helpful since Mahanon had been proven innocent but she was a Seeker and that meant Templar beliefs and Mahanon didn’t much like Templars.
The brand on his forehead, the mark that had sealed his fate all those moons ago, was gone, thanks to the new mark on his hand. But the impact it had had on Mahanon’s spirt was still there, it was a scar across his very being unescapable even now that the brand was gone. At least one good thing and come out of the destruction of the conclave, at least for Mahanon.
“This feels like a trap, Boss” The Iron Bull tells Mahanon as the elf leads his party towards the Redcliffe Chantry.
“I doubt they’d go through all the trouble” Mahanon replies quietly. Despite his words he shifts his hold on his staff, anxious. As the near the Chantry door the mark flares up, Mahanon hisses at the all too familiar burn, his steps falter.
“Always assume the worst, my dear” Vivienne says fondly, although Mahanon isn’t entirely shore if the statement is being directed at him or if she’s just speaking generally. Blackwall grumbles something incoherent to Mahanon’s right and just like that he and Vivienne are bickering… again.
He lets Iron Bull enter the chantry first, the Qunari is large enough and capable of taking a hit, should this be a ‘surprise’ attack. The party steps into the chantry to the sound of a demon hitting the ground, dead. It’s an all too familiar sound for them all at this point. He steps around Bull for a better look.
There is a single man, twirling his staff as if it were a might spear and not an implement to channel magic. Mahanon observes the man patiently, he’s handsome enough, obviously someone of Vivienne’s status and human. Well groomed, Mahanon delights in the interesting facial hair the man has, a strange interest to have but elves only have the hair atop their heads and Mahanon doesn’t have much experience with humans. Not that he can remember anyway. The mark on his hand flares even brighter casting the elf in a green light.
At the strangers words, Mahanon simply raises his hand, the spidering wisps of light that shoot out from the mark lick at his forearm hungrily before the beam of light shoots out, feeding the marks magic, Mahanon’s magic into the rift until it closes.
Mahanon drops his arm back to his side slowly, closing the rifts hasn’t gotten any easier, any less painful, any less exhausting, he leans against his staff a bit more heavily than he intends too. “Andaran atish’an” He greets the stranger with a formal Dalish greeting and a small smile.
The mark on Mahanon’s hand however was hard to ignore, he had know memory of how the mark had even gotten there. The fragments of memory retrieved from the breach hadn’t help at all. It had given the Seeker proof that Mahanon had not been the one to cause the explosion, that had to be enough. For now, there was other things to worry about. Like meeting Felix at his mysterious randevú.
If Cassandra had come along she’d surely appose Mahanon attending this meeting. He’d left her in Haven because she made the mages..twitchy. The Seeker had been extremely helpful since Mahanon had been proven innocent but she was a Seeker and that meant Templar beliefs and Mahanon didn’t much like Templars.
The brand on his forehead, the mark that had sealed his fate all those moons ago, was gone, thanks to the new mark on his hand. But the impact it had had on Mahanon’s spirt was still there, it was a scar across his very being unescapable even now that the brand was gone. At least one good thing and come out of the destruction of the conclave, at least for Mahanon.
“This feels like a trap, Boss” The Iron Bull tells Mahanon as the elf leads his party towards the Redcliffe Chantry.
“I doubt they’d go through all the trouble” Mahanon replies quietly. Despite his words he shifts his hold on his staff, anxious. As the near the Chantry door the mark flares up, Mahanon hisses at the all too familiar burn, his steps falter.
“Always assume the worst, my dear” Vivienne says fondly, although Mahanon isn’t entirely shore if the statement is being directed at him or if she’s just speaking generally. Blackwall grumbles something incoherent to Mahanon’s right and just like that he and Vivienne are bickering… again.
He lets Iron Bull enter the chantry first, the Qunari is large enough and capable of taking a hit, should this be a ‘surprise’ attack. The party steps into the chantry to the sound of a demon hitting the ground, dead. It’s an all too familiar sound for them all at this point. He steps around Bull for a better look.
There is a single man, twirling his staff as if it were a might spear and not an implement to channel magic. Mahanon observes the man patiently, he’s handsome enough, obviously someone of Vivienne’s status and human. Well groomed, Mahanon delights in the interesting facial hair the man has, a strange interest to have but elves only have the hair atop their heads and Mahanon doesn’t have much experience with humans. Not that he can remember anyway. The mark on his hand flares even brighter casting the elf in a green light.
At the strangers words, Mahanon simply raises his hand, the spidering wisps of light that shoot out from the mark lick at his forearm hungrily before the beam of light shoots out, feeding the marks magic, Mahanon’s magic into the rift until it closes.
Mahanon drops his arm back to his side slowly, closing the rifts hasn’t gotten any easier, any less painful, any less exhausting, he leans against his staff a bit more heavily than he intends too. “Andaran atish’an” He greets the stranger with a formal Dalish greeting and a small smile.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
Casting an evaluating eye over the group before him, Dorian was inescapably reminded of a menagerie - one which probably harboured a desire to kill him, or would once they learned of his origins. A qunari so large and scarred it was astounding that the elf had captured his attention first, a female mage who wore the ostentatious, gaudy accoutrements of Orlais and the kind of wealth Dorian had abandoned, and a bear of a man who smelled like the fouler elements of a stable. Charming. Not to discredit the Herald, for that matter - the Imperium and the Dalish did not have the healthiest history.
Well, if needs must. At least I should remain entertained.
The elf obliged his prior request, raising a hand and causing the rift to implode back into the fade. Dorian watched the process with a ruthless curiosity; he'd never seen anything like it. Fascinating - and dangerous.
Before he could inquire into how the magic worked, the Herald said something which he only scarcely recognised as elven, and a greeting at that; the accents of those elves in Tevinter was somehow less coarse, and as most of them were slaves, conversing in their native tongue was largely frowned upon. Still, things were different here, and the man was polite enough. Dorian returned the courtesy in kind, with a curled smile and a slight bow. It helped that the man was attractive, in his way - a wilder variation of handsome than Dorian's tastes typically ran to, but it never hurt to show one's appreciation.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. Felix said you were likely to turn up, and here you are - and none too soon." The note of gravity in his voice at the last finally reflected the concern which had been steadily building beneath Dorian's courteous veneer. Time magic. Somehow, Alexius had done it - and it was distorting the world.
"You'll have to forgive me for cutting short the pleasantries, but we're at risk of having time get away from us - literally. You saw the temporal disturbance around that rift, yes? Magister Alexius has warped the veil to allow him to bend time itself to his advantage, and this is likely how he stole control of the rebel mages from under your Inquisition. If we don't put a stop to that, he may destroy time itself." Dorian saw the female mage narrow her eyes at the mention of a Magister - must he spend the entirety of his journey south defending his homeland? - and a picture of disgruntled confusion on the face of the human warrior. These led him to add "Which, in case I've not made clear, would be bad," with just a hint of levity. He did enjoy gentle mockery of those who took themselves too seriously, after all. The qunari grinned openly - and hefted his axe. Perhaps it would pay to make the mockery just a tad more gentle - at least while he recovered his mana.
Dorian had spoken reasonably quickly, detailing the problem as he saw it. Eyes on the burning green ones across from him - and Maker, did the elf look tired in that moment - he followed up with a characteristic, sharp riposte.
"I presume you have questions."
Well, if needs must. At least I should remain entertained.
The elf obliged his prior request, raising a hand and causing the rift to implode back into the fade. Dorian watched the process with a ruthless curiosity; he'd never seen anything like it. Fascinating - and dangerous.
Before he could inquire into how the magic worked, the Herald said something which he only scarcely recognised as elven, and a greeting at that; the accents of those elves in Tevinter was somehow less coarse, and as most of them were slaves, conversing in their native tongue was largely frowned upon. Still, things were different here, and the man was polite enough. Dorian returned the courtesy in kind, with a curled smile and a slight bow. It helped that the man was attractive, in his way - a wilder variation of handsome than Dorian's tastes typically ran to, but it never hurt to show one's appreciation.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. Felix said you were likely to turn up, and here you are - and none too soon." The note of gravity in his voice at the last finally reflected the concern which had been steadily building beneath Dorian's courteous veneer. Time magic. Somehow, Alexius had done it - and it was distorting the world.
"You'll have to forgive me for cutting short the pleasantries, but we're at risk of having time get away from us - literally. You saw the temporal disturbance around that rift, yes? Magister Alexius has warped the veil to allow him to bend time itself to his advantage, and this is likely how he stole control of the rebel mages from under your Inquisition. If we don't put a stop to that, he may destroy time itself." Dorian saw the female mage narrow her eyes at the mention of a Magister - must he spend the entirety of his journey south defending his homeland? - and a picture of disgruntled confusion on the face of the human warrior. These led him to add "Which, in case I've not made clear, would be bad," with just a hint of levity. He did enjoy gentle mockery of those who took themselves too seriously, after all. The qunari grinned openly - and hefted his axe. Perhaps it would pay to make the mockery just a tad more gentle - at least while he recovered his mana.
Dorian had spoken reasonably quickly, detailing the problem as he saw it. Eyes on the burning green ones across from him - and Maker, did the elf look tired in that moment - he followed up with a characteristic, sharp riposte.
"I presume you have questions."
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
The rift had been rather odd compared to the others Mahanon had previously dispatched, he hadn't really noticed why or maybe he had and hadn’t been able to place it. He only vaguely understands the information the stranger - Dorian- is relaying to him but thankfully the man hasn’t filled his speech with a bunch of long pretty words to explain what he’s getting at.
“I agree” Mahanon tells Dorian politely, “If the Venatori gain control of time magic they’ll be able to tip the scales in their favor” He straightens up with a little extra effort, he makes a little startled noise when suddenly Iron Bull is holding an uncork vial of healing potion under his nose. The smell of it is vile and Mahanon recoils from it, taking a tentative step back and shooting the large Qunari a dirty look.
“Drink” It’s a simple command, leaving no room for the argument Mahanon clearly has at the tip of his tongue.
With a scowl he takes the vial from the Qunari large hand, he brings the vial to his lips and tilts his head back. When the vial is empty, Mahanon licks his lips, catching the droplets left there and drops the glass to the floor. He shoots the Qunari another look, an eyebrow arch up as if to say, Happy?
“We’ll have to bring this information back to the Inquisition before we can decide what to do with it.” Mahanon informs Dorian. “The leaders of the Inquisition will need to discuss it and build a strategy”
“My dear if I may,” Vivienne interrupts Mahanon smoothly stepping up beside him, eyeing the Tevinter suspiciously. “Although I hate to point this out, we could just go to the Templars instead.” Mahanon visibly stiffens at the word. “Uncultured creatures though they are, surely it would be less trouble then to play around with time magic and..” She looks pointedly at Dorian. “and Magisters”
“No” Mahanon says quickly, far to quickly. The very thought of asking Templars for help makes his stomach twist into knots. “I refuse to ask Temp,” He struggles over the word, shaking his head furiously, “Templars for help.”
‘Mahanon this prejudice is very unbecoming of the Inquisitions leader” Vivienne chastise him as if he were a youngling in the circle. He scoffs loudly in response.
“I am not the Inquisitions leader!” He snaps at her, he refuses to even look at her, eyes stubbornly fixed on Dorian. “You speak of prejudice when humans are filled with the most prejudice of any creature ever seen. Elves, Qunari, Magic, Tevinter, each other, anything you do not understand you are prejudice towards.” He’s seething, even Bull has taken a side step away from him, his magic crackles with his anger, a clear sign he doesn't have complete control over it. “You’ll allow me my prejudices Vivienne as I allow you yours”
He pauses for a moment to collect himself, bright green eyes clamp close and slowly the magic crackling around him fades to a meer hiss. Once he’s calmed himself he speaks again, to Dorian this time. “We will bring this information to the Inquisition and we will help you with Alexius” He pauses again.
“Should you have need of us before then however, I am Mahanon Lavellan of Clan Lavellan, Agent of the Inquisition.”
“I agree” Mahanon tells Dorian politely, “If the Venatori gain control of time magic they’ll be able to tip the scales in their favor” He straightens up with a little extra effort, he makes a little startled noise when suddenly Iron Bull is holding an uncork vial of healing potion under his nose. The smell of it is vile and Mahanon recoils from it, taking a tentative step back and shooting the large Qunari a dirty look.
“Drink” It’s a simple command, leaving no room for the argument Mahanon clearly has at the tip of his tongue.
With a scowl he takes the vial from the Qunari large hand, he brings the vial to his lips and tilts his head back. When the vial is empty, Mahanon licks his lips, catching the droplets left there and drops the glass to the floor. He shoots the Qunari another look, an eyebrow arch up as if to say, Happy?
“We’ll have to bring this information back to the Inquisition before we can decide what to do with it.” Mahanon informs Dorian. “The leaders of the Inquisition will need to discuss it and build a strategy”
“My dear if I may,” Vivienne interrupts Mahanon smoothly stepping up beside him, eyeing the Tevinter suspiciously. “Although I hate to point this out, we could just go to the Templars instead.” Mahanon visibly stiffens at the word. “Uncultured creatures though they are, surely it would be less trouble then to play around with time magic and..” She looks pointedly at Dorian. “and Magisters”
“No” Mahanon says quickly, far to quickly. The very thought of asking Templars for help makes his stomach twist into knots. “I refuse to ask Temp,” He struggles over the word, shaking his head furiously, “Templars for help.”
‘Mahanon this prejudice is very unbecoming of the Inquisitions leader” Vivienne chastise him as if he were a youngling in the circle. He scoffs loudly in response.
“I am not the Inquisitions leader!” He snaps at her, he refuses to even look at her, eyes stubbornly fixed on Dorian. “You speak of prejudice when humans are filled with the most prejudice of any creature ever seen. Elves, Qunari, Magic, Tevinter, each other, anything you do not understand you are prejudice towards.” He’s seething, even Bull has taken a side step away from him, his magic crackles with his anger, a clear sign he doesn't have complete control over it. “You’ll allow me my prejudices Vivienne as I allow you yours”
He pauses for a moment to collect himself, bright green eyes clamp close and slowly the magic crackling around him fades to a meer hiss. Once he’s calmed himself he speaks again, to Dorian this time. “We will bring this information to the Inquisition and we will help you with Alexius” He pauses again.
“Should you have need of us before then however, I am Mahanon Lavellan of Clan Lavellan, Agent of the Inquisition.”
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
The elf seemed to pick up the gist of it, which was a refreshing change; it would have gone over the heads of a great number of the southern mages he'd met so far, possibly because manipulating time almost mandated blood magic to achieve. Their fear of blood mages was understandable, and while Dorian was no fan, the hysteria around maleficars in the south beggared belief. They were so common back home.
About to make the minor correction that the scales were at presently firmly already in the Venatori's favour, a quick movement from the qunari gave him pause. The behemoth was not reaching for a weapon - quite the opposite. Without hesitation, without instruction, the giant had passed a vial to the Herald. Lyrium? No, no hue. Must be restorative. The potions that were best for you usually smelled the foulest. The qunari was looking after the man like a comrade, a friend. There was no illusion in the protective concern on display. Dorian felt an eyebrow rise despite himself. Unusual dynamic.
Whatever the case, the tonic seemed to do the trick - the elf looked a little more stable on his feet, although his tone faltered not once. The matter became more strange by the moment, however. The female mage interceded, clear disapproval on her face, the word Magister almost an accusation. Before Dorian could explain that no, that title did not belong to him, the Herald flat out refused her request. Well, he certainly doesn't let status undermine his authority. Curiouser and curiouser. Still, the exchange led to the elf briefly losing his composure, or perhaps merely loosening the reign he kept on it. Clearly he was under immense stress, not all of it attributable to the present circumstance. That tidbit about Templars was worth noting - so too was his refusal of the mantle of leadership.
Keeping his demeanor pleasantly neutral, Dorian did not reference the Herald's ill-health as he addressed him once more. Proprietary could be so inconvenient when it barred him from asking questions - but for now, social graces were worth maintaining. His questions could be answered when they were at less risk of having the time-space continuum ripped to tiny pieces.
A broader smile as the Herald made his offer and introduction - a name to put to the face, at last.
"Again, a pleasure, and I thank you. I would suggest that confronting Alexius may be your best course of action, southern templars or no. They might be able to cancel spells, or whatever it is they do here, but I highly doubt they could reverse ambient damage to the structure of time itself. Put plainly? If this is not resolved, the hole in the sky will be the last of our concerns." That was for the female mage's benefit - and Dorian could not resist adding one more matter on that point. "Also, a point of clarification, best resolved now - I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium." The south was barbaric enough without the terms being bandied about inaccurately. Dorian was about to comment as much when Felix arrived.
"Is now really the time to play separatist, Dorian?"
The quip was said with a smile - they were old friends. Dorian shot back without hesitation, a taunting smile of his own on his lips. "You know I'll always take the opportunity, Felix - it makes me stand out. Is he getting suspicious?"
Felix assuaged Dorian's concerns; Alexius would never see them coming.
"Well, that's that then. If you'll do me the courtesy, Herald, I'll accompany your group for now. Alexius doesn't know I'm here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way, for now. Felix will keep me informed, and I will render what assistance I can to the Inquisition. The sooner we put a stop to this, the better - for all of us."
About to make the minor correction that the scales were at presently firmly already in the Venatori's favour, a quick movement from the qunari gave him pause. The behemoth was not reaching for a weapon - quite the opposite. Without hesitation, without instruction, the giant had passed a vial to the Herald. Lyrium? No, no hue. Must be restorative. The potions that were best for you usually smelled the foulest. The qunari was looking after the man like a comrade, a friend. There was no illusion in the protective concern on display. Dorian felt an eyebrow rise despite himself. Unusual dynamic.
Whatever the case, the tonic seemed to do the trick - the elf looked a little more stable on his feet, although his tone faltered not once. The matter became more strange by the moment, however. The female mage interceded, clear disapproval on her face, the word Magister almost an accusation. Before Dorian could explain that no, that title did not belong to him, the Herald flat out refused her request. Well, he certainly doesn't let status undermine his authority. Curiouser and curiouser. Still, the exchange led to the elf briefly losing his composure, or perhaps merely loosening the reign he kept on it. Clearly he was under immense stress, not all of it attributable to the present circumstance. That tidbit about Templars was worth noting - so too was his refusal of the mantle of leadership.
Keeping his demeanor pleasantly neutral, Dorian did not reference the Herald's ill-health as he addressed him once more. Proprietary could be so inconvenient when it barred him from asking questions - but for now, social graces were worth maintaining. His questions could be answered when they were at less risk of having the time-space continuum ripped to tiny pieces.
A broader smile as the Herald made his offer and introduction - a name to put to the face, at last.
"Again, a pleasure, and I thank you. I would suggest that confronting Alexius may be your best course of action, southern templars or no. They might be able to cancel spells, or whatever it is they do here, but I highly doubt they could reverse ambient damage to the structure of time itself. Put plainly? If this is not resolved, the hole in the sky will be the last of our concerns." That was for the female mage's benefit - and Dorian could not resist adding one more matter on that point. "Also, a point of clarification, best resolved now - I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium." The south was barbaric enough without the terms being bandied about inaccurately. Dorian was about to comment as much when Felix arrived.
"Is now really the time to play separatist, Dorian?"
The quip was said with a smile - they were old friends. Dorian shot back without hesitation, a taunting smile of his own on his lips. "You know I'll always take the opportunity, Felix - it makes me stand out. Is he getting suspicious?"
Felix assuaged Dorian's concerns; Alexius would never see them coming.
"Well, that's that then. If you'll do me the courtesy, Herald, I'll accompany your group for now. Alexius doesn't know I'm here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way, for now. Felix will keep me informed, and I will render what assistance I can to the Inquisition. The sooner we put a stop to this, the better - for all of us."
Avidkadabra
New Member
The arrival of Felix doesn’t faze Mahanon in the slightest, he’d been expecting to meet the other Tevinter in the chantry, obviously it was a little trick to get him to meet Dorian and Felix had to show up sometime. Mahanon wasn’t bothered by it, although he probably should have been a little more upset about being deceived. Dorian would be of valuable assistance to the Inquisition and Mahanon had acquired people for the Inquisition before, even if some of them were present more for him then the Inquisition itself.
“We’d be grateful to have your assistance,” Mahanon replies politely, behind him Vivienne scoffs and Blackwall looks anything but grateful. Mahanon sighs. At least Iron Bull is wise enough to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, out of any of the three Mahanon would think the Qunari would have the biggest issue with a Tevinter joining their party. But then again Bull’s second was from Tevinter and he seemed to get on with Krem just fine. “You’ll have to excuse my companions, they seem to have forgotten their manners”
Mahanon approaches Dorian but then moves past him, crouching to survey the demons the other mage had previously dispatched. He pulls a small knife for the pack attached to his hip and makes quick work of removing a few claws. Reaching into the pack again he takes out an empty vial and carefully fills it with the demons venom.
“Honestly Mahanon,” Vivienne says sharply, obviously disgusted by the elf’s actions. “Let the vagabond do that if you really must collect that garbage, digging around in the gut of corpses is more suited to him” She makes a sweeping motion with her hand indicating that she’s talking about Blackwall. The bearded man growls at her and she tuts has if surprised the comment offended him. They’re bickering again by the time Mahanon finishes his task.
“Enough. I’ve finished anyway,” He re-situates his pack, wiping his hands off on his pants and rises. “We have to go know. I doubt our presence in Redcliffe will be welcome for much longer” He steps closer to Dorian, probably closer than is polite or ‘proper’ but he’s Dalish they don’t tend to have a sense of personal space or propriety. “We have a few potions if you need any, the lyrium is rather sparse unfortunately so I can only give you one” He pulls two vials from his belt, one healing potion and one lyrium potion. Having to share lyrium with the templars who joined the Inquisition so far was.. stressful to say the least.
He passes the vials to Dorian, not giving the other mage much of a choice, even if he didn’t use them at least he’d have the potions on him if they ran into trouble on the way back to Haven. “We’ll stop at the camp outside Redcliffe for the night and continue on to Haven in the morning.”
——————————
Haven is bustling when they arrive, it’s always busy so this isn’t anything knew. Mahanon dismisses his party so they can freshen up and go about their own business. He takes his time getting to the Haven chantry. Stopping to talk to his other companions along the way.
By the gate he talks to Cullen and Cassandra, far away from the training soldier and former Templars as he can be without being rude. Inside the gate and up the steps he sits at the fire and listens to one of Varric’s many tales and has a small snack, a mixture of wild berries and nuts that he’d collected on the way back to the Inquisitions ‘stronghold’.
He spends the most time with Solas, he practices his magic, shows the bald elf what Vivienne has taught him and talks about the Dalish. Solas is very knowledgable and Mahanon finds him to be quite interesting, however it’s when Solas starts talking about the Dalish as though Mahanon hasn’t lived in a clan nearly his whole life that the younger elf finally wanders away.
He enters the chantry, listens to Roderick complaining loudly to Josephine before wisking her away for a meeting. Cassandra, Cullen and Leliana are already inside when he and Josephine arrive. They gather around the war table and Mahanon debriefs them on the events at Redcliffe.
“We’d be grateful to have your assistance,” Mahanon replies politely, behind him Vivienne scoffs and Blackwall looks anything but grateful. Mahanon sighs. At least Iron Bull is wise enough to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, out of any of the three Mahanon would think the Qunari would have the biggest issue with a Tevinter joining their party. But then again Bull’s second was from Tevinter and he seemed to get on with Krem just fine. “You’ll have to excuse my companions, they seem to have forgotten their manners”
Mahanon approaches Dorian but then moves past him, crouching to survey the demons the other mage had previously dispatched. He pulls a small knife for the pack attached to his hip and makes quick work of removing a few claws. Reaching into the pack again he takes out an empty vial and carefully fills it with the demons venom.
“Honestly Mahanon,” Vivienne says sharply, obviously disgusted by the elf’s actions. “Let the vagabond do that if you really must collect that garbage, digging around in the gut of corpses is more suited to him” She makes a sweeping motion with her hand indicating that she’s talking about Blackwall. The bearded man growls at her and she tuts has if surprised the comment offended him. They’re bickering again by the time Mahanon finishes his task.
“Enough. I’ve finished anyway,” He re-situates his pack, wiping his hands off on his pants and rises. “We have to go know. I doubt our presence in Redcliffe will be welcome for much longer” He steps closer to Dorian, probably closer than is polite or ‘proper’ but he’s Dalish they don’t tend to have a sense of personal space or propriety. “We have a few potions if you need any, the lyrium is rather sparse unfortunately so I can only give you one” He pulls two vials from his belt, one healing potion and one lyrium potion. Having to share lyrium with the templars who joined the Inquisition so far was.. stressful to say the least.
He passes the vials to Dorian, not giving the other mage much of a choice, even if he didn’t use them at least he’d have the potions on him if they ran into trouble on the way back to Haven. “We’ll stop at the camp outside Redcliffe for the night and continue on to Haven in the morning.”
——————————
Haven is bustling when they arrive, it’s always busy so this isn’t anything knew. Mahanon dismisses his party so they can freshen up and go about their own business. He takes his time getting to the Haven chantry. Stopping to talk to his other companions along the way.
By the gate he talks to Cullen and Cassandra, far away from the training soldier and former Templars as he can be without being rude. Inside the gate and up the steps he sits at the fire and listens to one of Varric’s many tales and has a small snack, a mixture of wild berries and nuts that he’d collected on the way back to the Inquisitions ‘stronghold’.
He spends the most time with Solas, he practices his magic, shows the bald elf what Vivienne has taught him and talks about the Dalish. Solas is very knowledgable and Mahanon finds him to be quite interesting, however it’s when Solas starts talking about the Dalish as though Mahanon hasn’t lived in a clan nearly his whole life that the younger elf finally wanders away.
He enters the chantry, listens to Roderick complaining loudly to Josephine before wisking her away for a meeting. Cassandra, Cullen and Leliana are already inside when he and Josephine arrive. They gather around the war table and Mahanon debriefs them on the events at Redcliffe.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
“Then I am glad to join you.” Dorian replied with a broad smile, more in amusement at the gentle chiding Mahanon had given his followers than much else. The qunari was quiet though – potentially a concern. Still, his main concern had seemed to be protecting the elf, so Dorian reasoned that if he did not endanger their illustrious leader, the qunari would have no reason to heft that axe any closer. Hopefully.
Without pause or explanation, the Herald strode past him and drew a knife. What is he?- Ah, field research. Interesting. Dorian watched with a familiar eye – he had conducted his own studies into demons, of course. The Herald had some knowledge of what he was doing, that much was clear. The other mage – Vivienne, was it? – made her displeasure clear, as she had done with Dorian’s presence. A difficult woman. Reminds me of mother a little, actually. She and the bear-man, as Dorian had privately dubbed him, began to argue. Again it was Mahanon’s word that silenced them.
He may refute his leadership, but apparently no one else does. Very curious.
In the moment Dorian was considering their reactions, the Herald himself had stepped close – very close. About to quip that that was moving fast, even by his own standards, Mahanon interrupted by handing Dorian a few potions; Dorian carried a few of his own, but the elf’s manner brooked no disagreement. Dorian was beginning to understand why the others followed his word. Instead of protesting, Dorian inclined his head briefly and murmured a jovial “thank you.” It would do.
From there, the party left Redcliffe with haste – almost fast enough for Dorian’s tastes. Something about that town felt abjectly wrong. They set off, with Vivienne and the warrior – Blackwall, Dorian learned – trading insults to pass the time.
---
Upon arriving at Haven, Dorian met the Herald’s other companions, most greeting him with wearying but unsurprising suspicion and dislike. He was ‘the Tevinter’ by the end of the first day. The blacksmith even spat at him.
So nice to be quartered among friends. Dorian fought back a sigh, and set about trying to make himself useful while the Herald and his commanders deliberated. After even the alchemist refused his help – and the man knew almost nothing about the alchemical value of some of those herbs he’d offered – Dorian tracked the rumour-mill to the Chantry.
He argued with the guards to be let in, and when they refused, Dorian simply shielded himself and walked in anyway. A war meeting was underway, with a heated discussion occurring between a large, boyishly attractive man in plate armour, a woman with a scarred face who was similarly dressed and armed, an Antivan who had to be a diplomat, dressed as she was, and the Herald.
“If you’re going after Alexius, you’ll need my help to get inside. He’s highly skilled at alteration and detection magic.” On this, at least, Dorian could speak with authority. Hated Tevinter or not, he was their best chance of getting in without being killed.
At that moment Dorian realized there was a knife at his throat. A fifth person had been in the room, and whoever it was, they were a head shorter than him, and more than willing to spill his blood over the intrusion.
Luck was on Dorian’s side, however – a scout had trailed him inside, and spoke: “My lord Herald – this man claims to have information about the Mage Alexius.” Magister, Dorian’s mind supplied. Alexius is a Magister, you simian. Thankfully, the scout’s words were enough to have the blade kissing his neck withdrawn. A small, strong woman with strawberry blonde hair stepped from behind him and towards the war table. Dorian hadn’t even realized she was there, prior to the threat she’d been to his continued existence. Moves like a shadow, that one.
“So nice to meet you as well,” he said to the woman, audibly sarcastic. She regarded him with cool eyes and a small smile. Dorian was left with no doubt that she would have killed him without hesitation, had she felt the need had arisen. A dangerous ally, that one.
“Leliana, please do not frighten our potential allies.” That was the diplomat – definitely Antivan, with that accent. Lovely speaking voice – and a welcome voice of reason. Dorian schooled his features to pleasantry once more. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d had a knife to his throat.
The female warrior cut in with an inquiry to the Herald in a thick Nevarran drawl. “Is this the mage you spoke of, Herald? Can he do as he claims?”
Without pause or explanation, the Herald strode past him and drew a knife. What is he?- Ah, field research. Interesting. Dorian watched with a familiar eye – he had conducted his own studies into demons, of course. The Herald had some knowledge of what he was doing, that much was clear. The other mage – Vivienne, was it? – made her displeasure clear, as she had done with Dorian’s presence. A difficult woman. Reminds me of mother a little, actually. She and the bear-man, as Dorian had privately dubbed him, began to argue. Again it was Mahanon’s word that silenced them.
He may refute his leadership, but apparently no one else does. Very curious.
In the moment Dorian was considering their reactions, the Herald himself had stepped close – very close. About to quip that that was moving fast, even by his own standards, Mahanon interrupted by handing Dorian a few potions; Dorian carried a few of his own, but the elf’s manner brooked no disagreement. Dorian was beginning to understand why the others followed his word. Instead of protesting, Dorian inclined his head briefly and murmured a jovial “thank you.” It would do.
From there, the party left Redcliffe with haste – almost fast enough for Dorian’s tastes. Something about that town felt abjectly wrong. They set off, with Vivienne and the warrior – Blackwall, Dorian learned – trading insults to pass the time.
---
Upon arriving at Haven, Dorian met the Herald’s other companions, most greeting him with wearying but unsurprising suspicion and dislike. He was ‘the Tevinter’ by the end of the first day. The blacksmith even spat at him.
So nice to be quartered among friends. Dorian fought back a sigh, and set about trying to make himself useful while the Herald and his commanders deliberated. After even the alchemist refused his help – and the man knew almost nothing about the alchemical value of some of those herbs he’d offered – Dorian tracked the rumour-mill to the Chantry.
He argued with the guards to be let in, and when they refused, Dorian simply shielded himself and walked in anyway. A war meeting was underway, with a heated discussion occurring between a large, boyishly attractive man in plate armour, a woman with a scarred face who was similarly dressed and armed, an Antivan who had to be a diplomat, dressed as she was, and the Herald.
“If you’re going after Alexius, you’ll need my help to get inside. He’s highly skilled at alteration and detection magic.” On this, at least, Dorian could speak with authority. Hated Tevinter or not, he was their best chance of getting in without being killed.
At that moment Dorian realized there was a knife at his throat. A fifth person had been in the room, and whoever it was, they were a head shorter than him, and more than willing to spill his blood over the intrusion.
Luck was on Dorian’s side, however – a scout had trailed him inside, and spoke: “My lord Herald – this man claims to have information about the Mage Alexius.” Magister, Dorian’s mind supplied. Alexius is a Magister, you simian. Thankfully, the scout’s words were enough to have the blade kissing his neck withdrawn. A small, strong woman with strawberry blonde hair stepped from behind him and towards the war table. Dorian hadn’t even realized she was there, prior to the threat she’d been to his continued existence. Moves like a shadow, that one.
“So nice to meet you as well,” he said to the woman, audibly sarcastic. She regarded him with cool eyes and a small smile. Dorian was left with no doubt that she would have killed him without hesitation, had she felt the need had arisen. A dangerous ally, that one.
“Leliana, please do not frighten our potential allies.” That was the diplomat – definitely Antivan, with that accent. Lovely speaking voice – and a welcome voice of reason. Dorian schooled his features to pleasantry once more. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d had a knife to his throat.
The female warrior cut in with an inquiry to the Herald in a thick Nevarran drawl. “Is this the mage you spoke of, Herald? Can he do as he claims?”
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
Mahanon leans against the war table watching Cassandra and Cullen argue, Josephine is trying to placate them to no avail and Leliana isn’t helping the situation at all. For a moment he wonders how they ever got anything done before him, there are four of them and nearly ever decision that needs to be made is turned into a die and he the tie breaker. It hardly helps that either situation could end in his death, that seems to slip their minds when it doesn't suit their argument.
“Whatever Alexius has done to the mages, he’s done it to get to the Herald. The letter asks for the Herald of Andraste by name,” Josephine interrupts Cullen and Cassandra’s bickering. “It’s an obvious trap.”
Mahanon raises a brow in confusion, he hadn’t realized Alexius knew his name. Everything he’d ever heard about Tevinter pointed to the magister simply disregarding the fact that Mahanon actually had a name at all. “A nice surprise.. What does he say about me?” Mahanon asks more out of curiosity then actual concern.
“He’s so complimentary that we are certain he plans to kill you.” Leliana responds in a flat tone that Mahanon has grown used to. The answer of course causes the elf to sigh quite loudly because, of course they want to kill him. Honestly he should be used to people wanting him dead at this point.
Not a moment later Dorian strides into the room, with all the grace of something graceful, Mahanon thinks a small smile parting his lips, he can see the scout fumbling after the other mage from his position against the war table. Leliana gets to Dorian faster, naturally, she’s a spy master for a reason.
The elf doesn’t have time to worry about the sudden danger to Dorian’s life because the scout has chosen now to quicken his pace and give an explanation before The Nightingale can spill Dorian’s blood all over the carpet.
“Maybe I should have introduced you all beforehand” Mahanon muses mostly to himself. “This is Dorian of House…Pavus,” He hesitates over the name, glancing at Dorian briefly for any sign that he may have messed that up. Josephine would have his head if he accidentally insult an ally with his poor decorum. “To answer your question Cassandra, yes, he is the mage I mentioned.”
“Redcliffe castle is one of the most fortified strongholds in all of Fereldan, it’d be impossible to take the castle even if we did have the forces too” Cullen starts up again, straight from where he was before the interruption. “You’d be killed and then we’d loose our only means to closing the rifts” Cullen reaches across the table and takes hold of Mahanon’s wrist as if the elf doesn’t remember that the mark is permanently stuck to him.
They’re all arguing again but it sounds muted to his ears and then it’s like he isn’t in the war room anymore but somewhere else. Somewhere he really doesn’t want to be.
He’s exhausted being pulled along by one of the hunters sent to retrieve him for the Keeper, his mana drained after the Templars land a handful of smites against him. They’re backed into a corner, no where to go, he turns the bladed end of his staff up, he might not have his magic but he isn’t completely useless. He can see the lyrium rod in one of the Templars hands, knows that if he doesn’t get away from them it will all be over.
The memory skips. The hunter is dead and his staff is no longer in his hand, he watches horrified as one of the Templars, a large human with a face he is likely never to forget, snaps it over his knee. Like a twig snapping underfoot. Despite this Mahanon fights them till he can’t any longer and then he keeps fighting. Common tongue gives way to Elven, in an act of desperation Mahanon pleads with his gods, something he hasn’t done since he was a child and for a moment it crosses his mind that this is them protesting to his apprenticeship with a Keeper. They couldn’t let the Elf with no real faith become second to a Keeper. It’s that thought that stills his fighting, held between two Templars, he gives up.
Mahanon yanks his arm from Cullen’s hold with a distressed shout, knocking mission markers off the map as he reels back. He trips over his own feet as he backs up and stumbles into one of the bookcases, hitting it so hard some of it’s contents fall to the floor, before letting himself slide to the floor.
The advisors are shocked silent, their arguing ceases as there Herald curls up in the small corner muttering to himself in Elven. Josephine breaks the silence, approaching Mahanon cautiously as if he were a frightened animal. She crouches before him, reaches out, stops when he flinches waits a moment and then cups her hands over his cheeks. “Perhaps it is time for a little break.” It’s not a question.
“I… I’m fine” Mahanon tells her lamely. He can see the others from over he shoulder and suddenly he’s very embarrassed. “The longer we take to decide the more time the Magister has to-“ Josephine interrupts, hushing him with a quiet ‘shh’.
“We can resume this meeting after you’ve rested, Alexius is not going anywhere and nothing will be decided without you” She reassures, Mahanon is not entirely convinced. He presses his lips together petulantly and makes no move to rise.
“Whatever Alexius has done to the mages, he’s done it to get to the Herald. The letter asks for the Herald of Andraste by name,” Josephine interrupts Cullen and Cassandra’s bickering. “It’s an obvious trap.”
Mahanon raises a brow in confusion, he hadn’t realized Alexius knew his name. Everything he’d ever heard about Tevinter pointed to the magister simply disregarding the fact that Mahanon actually had a name at all. “A nice surprise.. What does he say about me?” Mahanon asks more out of curiosity then actual concern.
“He’s so complimentary that we are certain he plans to kill you.” Leliana responds in a flat tone that Mahanon has grown used to. The answer of course causes the elf to sigh quite loudly because, of course they want to kill him. Honestly he should be used to people wanting him dead at this point.
Not a moment later Dorian strides into the room, with all the grace of something graceful, Mahanon thinks a small smile parting his lips, he can see the scout fumbling after the other mage from his position against the war table. Leliana gets to Dorian faster, naturally, she’s a spy master for a reason.
The elf doesn’t have time to worry about the sudden danger to Dorian’s life because the scout has chosen now to quicken his pace and give an explanation before The Nightingale can spill Dorian’s blood all over the carpet.
“Maybe I should have introduced you all beforehand” Mahanon muses mostly to himself. “This is Dorian of House…Pavus,” He hesitates over the name, glancing at Dorian briefly for any sign that he may have messed that up. Josephine would have his head if he accidentally insult an ally with his poor decorum. “To answer your question Cassandra, yes, he is the mage I mentioned.”
“Redcliffe castle is one of the most fortified strongholds in all of Fereldan, it’d be impossible to take the castle even if we did have the forces too” Cullen starts up again, straight from where he was before the interruption. “You’d be killed and then we’d loose our only means to closing the rifts” Cullen reaches across the table and takes hold of Mahanon’s wrist as if the elf doesn’t remember that the mark is permanently stuck to him.
They’re all arguing again but it sounds muted to his ears and then it’s like he isn’t in the war room anymore but somewhere else. Somewhere he really doesn’t want to be.
He’s exhausted being pulled along by one of the hunters sent to retrieve him for the Keeper, his mana drained after the Templars land a handful of smites against him. They’re backed into a corner, no where to go, he turns the bladed end of his staff up, he might not have his magic but he isn’t completely useless. He can see the lyrium rod in one of the Templars hands, knows that if he doesn’t get away from them it will all be over.
The memory skips. The hunter is dead and his staff is no longer in his hand, he watches horrified as one of the Templars, a large human with a face he is likely never to forget, snaps it over his knee. Like a twig snapping underfoot. Despite this Mahanon fights them till he can’t any longer and then he keeps fighting. Common tongue gives way to Elven, in an act of desperation Mahanon pleads with his gods, something he hasn’t done since he was a child and for a moment it crosses his mind that this is them protesting to his apprenticeship with a Keeper. They couldn’t let the Elf with no real faith become second to a Keeper. It’s that thought that stills his fighting, held between two Templars, he gives up.
Mahanon yanks his arm from Cullen’s hold with a distressed shout, knocking mission markers off the map as he reels back. He trips over his own feet as he backs up and stumbles into one of the bookcases, hitting it so hard some of it’s contents fall to the floor, before letting himself slide to the floor.
The advisors are shocked silent, their arguing ceases as there Herald curls up in the small corner muttering to himself in Elven. Josephine breaks the silence, approaching Mahanon cautiously as if he were a frightened animal. She crouches before him, reaches out, stops when he flinches waits a moment and then cups her hands over his cheeks. “Perhaps it is time for a little break.” It’s not a question.
“I… I’m fine” Mahanon tells her lamely. He can see the others from over he shoulder and suddenly he’s very embarrassed. “The longer we take to decide the more time the Magister has to-“ Josephine interrupts, hushing him with a quiet ‘shh’.
“We can resume this meeting after you’ve rested, Alexius is not going anywhere and nothing will be decided without you” She reassures, Mahanon is not entirely convinced. He presses his lips together petulantly and makes no move to rise.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
The Herald vouching for him had an immediate effect on the level of tension in the room. More maiming, less ‘hung, drawn and quartered’. Soft-hearted, these Southerners. Cassandra nodded and seemed to take the capability Dorian provided as a matter of course – just another variable on the war table.
Dorian beamed as Mahanon introduced him, correctly at that. Nice to be remembered. The smile the diplomate – Josephine, he learned – gave the Herald in response almost matched Dorian’s own. He sensed there’d been some coaching there in the art of social graces, there -the Antivan’s pride that of a pleased teacher.
The blond warrior began to speak again, assessing the strategic overlay of the ground on the map, adding what sounds like local knowledge. The voice of experience, then. But for all the man’s apparent competence, he was the one who triggered what happened next. He reached for Mahanon’s wrist, and the elf collapsed.
For a second, his eyes rolled as if seeing something apart from the present, the mark on his hand crackled dangerously, and – perhaps most terrifying of all – for just a moment, the tangible connection to the Fade that any mage (at least, any as skilled as Dorian) could sense in another, simply vanished.
The Herald flung himself backwards with a yell, and hit the floor. His magic returned in a flood. Josephine was the first to regain her composure, and firmly called an adjournment to the planning session. Even though Mahanon resisted, the others acquiesced. The redhead and the male warrior left first, with Cassandra following. “We can afford to wait until you have recovered. I will be in the courtyard; send someone for me when you are ready to resume, and I will find the others.” Her thick accent could not quite cover the concern in her tone. She gave a nod to Josephine, and left also.
By that point in the proceedings, Dorian had recovered somewhat from his utter shock.
“If you’ll allow me, I believe you need magical treatment.” He walked over with all the confidence in the world, certain that he could find some way to assist. “Perhaps it’s that mark, but your magical convergence with the Fade appears unstable, or did.”
The ambassador smiled at him with a politeness which suggested she did not fully trust him – understandable, really – but Dorian approached slowly, and crouched down in front of the elf, bringing them eye to eye, looking for signs of disorientation.
Tattoos after all, then. I doubt he’d scar so darkly. Quite striking. Dorian told himself to focus.
“I’m unsure of how much training you’ve had – if I spoke of sympathetic magics, would you know what I referred to?” He kept his tone as neutral as possible; ideally, he did not want to insult the man who had acted as benefactor enough to stop him from being bled dry minutes earlier.
Dorian beamed as Mahanon introduced him, correctly at that. Nice to be remembered. The smile the diplomate – Josephine, he learned – gave the Herald in response almost matched Dorian’s own. He sensed there’d been some coaching there in the art of social graces, there -the Antivan’s pride that of a pleased teacher.
The blond warrior began to speak again, assessing the strategic overlay of the ground on the map, adding what sounds like local knowledge. The voice of experience, then. But for all the man’s apparent competence, he was the one who triggered what happened next. He reached for Mahanon’s wrist, and the elf collapsed.
For a second, his eyes rolled as if seeing something apart from the present, the mark on his hand crackled dangerously, and – perhaps most terrifying of all – for just a moment, the tangible connection to the Fade that any mage (at least, any as skilled as Dorian) could sense in another, simply vanished.
The Herald flung himself backwards with a yell, and hit the floor. His magic returned in a flood. Josephine was the first to regain her composure, and firmly called an adjournment to the planning session. Even though Mahanon resisted, the others acquiesced. The redhead and the male warrior left first, with Cassandra following. “We can afford to wait until you have recovered. I will be in the courtyard; send someone for me when you are ready to resume, and I will find the others.” Her thick accent could not quite cover the concern in her tone. She gave a nod to Josephine, and left also.
By that point in the proceedings, Dorian had recovered somewhat from his utter shock.
“If you’ll allow me, I believe you need magical treatment.” He walked over with all the confidence in the world, certain that he could find some way to assist. “Perhaps it’s that mark, but your magical convergence with the Fade appears unstable, or did.”
The ambassador smiled at him with a politeness which suggested she did not fully trust him – understandable, really – but Dorian approached slowly, and crouched down in front of the elf, bringing them eye to eye, looking for signs of disorientation.
Tattoos after all, then. I doubt he’d scar so darkly. Quite striking. Dorian told himself to focus.
“I’m unsure of how much training you’ve had – if I spoke of sympathetic magics, would you know what I referred to?” He kept his tone as neutral as possible; ideally, he did not want to insult the man who had acted as benefactor enough to stop him from being bled dry minutes earlier.
Avidkadabra
New Member
Mahanon watches dejectedly the room slowly empties despite his reassurance that he was fine to continue. Leliana and Cullen leave first, Mahanon can hardly hear the former Templars perfuse apologize as he leaves and the elf knows that the man will be beating himself up over this for the next week if he doesn’t go talk to him later. Cassandra’s departure from the meeting relaxes Mahanon just a slight bit, her words confirmation of Josephine’s own.
When Dorian crouches in front of Mahanon, the elf feels his face flush, the tops of his cheeks across the bridge of his nose and all the way up to the tips of his ears. He knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about, what happened to him wasn’t exactly his fault, but for an outsider who doesn't know anything about the situation. Mahanon can only imagine what his little episode must have looked like.
Despite his embarrassment Mahanon forces himself to meet Dorian’s eyes. What an odd color. He thinks, momentarily distracted before Dorian’s question forces him to focus.
“I’m Dalish” He says the short statement with a finality, as if that should be the end of this discussion. He’s Dalish so of course he knows.
Josephine coughs into her fist ever so quietly drawing Mahanon’s attention, he glances at her and the look she’s giving him makes him deflate again. It’s a look that tells him he’s being impolite.
“Should anyone give you any problems, Dorian, come see me immediately, my office is next door. The Inquisition doesn’t stand for prejudice within it’s ranks.” She stands giving a pointed look. “I am going to inform Solas of this incident” She doesn’t give an explanation of why the other Elven Mage might need to be informed and Mahanon is thankful for that, before she rises, straightens out her clothing and departs.
“Fenedhis” Mahanon mutters quietly. “I apologize for being rude, that was not my intention” He watches Josephine leave and then turns his attention back to Dorian. The flush that had once adorned Mahanon’s face has finally dissipated. “Shems, tend to assume things, just because my ears are pointed” He holds out his marked hand, palm up, for Dorian to inspect, despite knowing that the mark has nothing to do with his episode earlier. “Sympathetic magics are used to reveal ‘memories’ from objects or people.” He tells Dorian studiously.
When Dorian crouches in front of Mahanon, the elf feels his face flush, the tops of his cheeks across the bridge of his nose and all the way up to the tips of his ears. He knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about, what happened to him wasn’t exactly his fault, but for an outsider who doesn't know anything about the situation. Mahanon can only imagine what his little episode must have looked like.
Despite his embarrassment Mahanon forces himself to meet Dorian’s eyes. What an odd color. He thinks, momentarily distracted before Dorian’s question forces him to focus.
“I’m Dalish” He says the short statement with a finality, as if that should be the end of this discussion. He’s Dalish so of course he knows.
Josephine coughs into her fist ever so quietly drawing Mahanon’s attention, he glances at her and the look she’s giving him makes him deflate again. It’s a look that tells him he’s being impolite.
“Should anyone give you any problems, Dorian, come see me immediately, my office is next door. The Inquisition doesn’t stand for prejudice within it’s ranks.” She stands giving a pointed look. “I am going to inform Solas of this incident” She doesn’t give an explanation of why the other Elven Mage might need to be informed and Mahanon is thankful for that, before she rises, straightens out her clothing and departs.
“Fenedhis” Mahanon mutters quietly. “I apologize for being rude, that was not my intention” He watches Josephine leave and then turns his attention back to Dorian. The flush that had once adorned Mahanon’s face has finally dissipated. “Shems, tend to assume things, just because my ears are pointed” He holds out his marked hand, palm up, for Dorian to inspect, despite knowing that the mark has nothing to do with his episode earlier. “Sympathetic magics are used to reveal ‘memories’ from objects or people.” He tells Dorian studiously.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
As Josephine left, she made a comment that Dorian suspected was for him as much as it was a genuine offer; 'The Herald of Andraste' being an elf, much less Dalish, must have had tongues wagging. Still, there was earnestness in the offer, and she seemed to have everyone - including the Herald - on a leash to some degree, a taskmistress who was not to be disregarded. Dorian decided at that moment that he very much liked the woman.
He gave her another of his more beaming smiles. "I assume it won't be a problem-" not because it was unlikely to occur, but because Dorian was so used to it. "But I thank you."
Once she'd left, however, Dorian looked at Mahanon and sighed. Only a little theatrically, too.
"Put my foot in it already, have I? I apologise - I didn't ask because you're Dalish and therefore ignorant - I asked because you're Dalish, and therefore I am; completely so of your customs of magical instruction, at any rate. In my homeland, sympathetic magics are considered a niche field of study." Dorian did not bother to hide his displeasure at this, and in fact, expanded upon it. "Largely because if it isn't flashy and doesn't go 'boom', it isn't worth the blood, sweat or tears to master, at least to most mages." Blood in particular. Deliberate ignorance bothered him more than a little.
Still, his expression softened somewhat when Mahanon gave a competent and succinct description of the area. "Intelligent and hospitable. I wasn't aware there were Southerners who possessed an abundance of both, at least not outside of Court. And never mind the pointed ears - they make you stand out, and not in the way the carpet on Blackwall's face makes him do the same - and that is never a bad thing." They had something in common, then, both outcasts in their way.
Mahanon had held up his hand in unspoken invitation, and Dorian inspected it visually. It was astounding to look at, the same warping inward convulsions as the breach above them. Inescapably, it reminded him of the elf's unusual eyes.
"Remarkable. You're tethered to the Fade - physically, this mark appears to be a focus to an object which exists in the Fade, hence the connection. I wasn't aware that this was possible; it shouldn't be possible, for anything less than an eluvian. An eluvian is-" Dorian stopped mid-lecture with another smile. "Well, actually, I suspect you might be able to tell me more about them than I you. Drakon Omvario's magnum opus from the second age contained first-hand description, and some rather detailed study notes, but it was still an outsider's view." Dorian continued, almost speaking more to himself at this point, entrenched in his curiosity. "But why is it affecting your own connection? If it worked in the same way as an eluvian - as I understand it - your own magical ability should be unaffected." There it was - Dorian had said, unthinkingly, that he had noticed the stemming of Mahanon's magic, almost as an after thought.
Leaning back a little on his heels, Dorian's mind ticked through the possibilities. It wasn't possession, so far as he could tell - Mahanon had magic of his own, as natural to him as breathing. Nor was it any kind of interference from lyrium; as an enchanter, Dorian had worked with enough of the toxic mineral to know the signature it left when someone was overdosing. Further, Mahanon's knowledgeable reply convinced Dorian that he had long been able to use magic - this was not a case of a non-mage becoming one through magical interference; thankfully, at that, because that was absurd.
Then he remembered the desperation with which the elf had retreated from his blond general. His own general.
"Ah - could it be trauma? When the body of a mage is attacked, or they cast magic too far beyond their abilities, it's possible for them to suffer a kind of burnout, which no doubt you know. Depletion of mana, physical degradation, loss of consciousness or death in extreme cases." The risk every mage took when they entered battle; the feeding ground for demons and the temptation they held. "But it is possible, if this state of magical exhaustion is maintained for long periods of time, for one's magic to become wildly unstable, like threads coming out of a weave. It usually takes years though - I've only heard of two cases, both enforced as a punishment from the Magisterium. In fact, the only other time I've seen a direct and total magical disconnect from trauma was-" Dorian blinked.
The only other time was when a mage had been made tranquil. The Magisterium had all of its members there to bear witness, and all heir-apparents to the title, like Dorian. It had been horrific - new to the ability to sense magic in others, feeling it cut off from the man chained to the dais in the centre of the forum had been like tearing open a wound in his own mind. He watched Mahanon carefully, but said nothing more on the matter. It took great self-control not to lean back further.
Dorian needed to know.
"If you'll allow me, I'd like to test something - directing the limited sympathetic magic I can conjure at your mark, to see if I can gain any sense of what it might be tethered to. Of course I can understand if you wish to rest, instead."
Before Mahanon was given the opportunity to voice any decision on the matter, however, the door behind them creaked open.
He gave her another of his more beaming smiles. "I assume it won't be a problem-" not because it was unlikely to occur, but because Dorian was so used to it. "But I thank you."
Once she'd left, however, Dorian looked at Mahanon and sighed. Only a little theatrically, too.
"Put my foot in it already, have I? I apologise - I didn't ask because you're Dalish and therefore ignorant - I asked because you're Dalish, and therefore I am; completely so of your customs of magical instruction, at any rate. In my homeland, sympathetic magics are considered a niche field of study." Dorian did not bother to hide his displeasure at this, and in fact, expanded upon it. "Largely because if it isn't flashy and doesn't go 'boom', it isn't worth the blood, sweat or tears to master, at least to most mages." Blood in particular. Deliberate ignorance bothered him more than a little.
Still, his expression softened somewhat when Mahanon gave a competent and succinct description of the area. "Intelligent and hospitable. I wasn't aware there were Southerners who possessed an abundance of both, at least not outside of Court. And never mind the pointed ears - they make you stand out, and not in the way the carpet on Blackwall's face makes him do the same - and that is never a bad thing." They had something in common, then, both outcasts in their way.
Mahanon had held up his hand in unspoken invitation, and Dorian inspected it visually. It was astounding to look at, the same warping inward convulsions as the breach above them. Inescapably, it reminded him of the elf's unusual eyes.
"Remarkable. You're tethered to the Fade - physically, this mark appears to be a focus to an object which exists in the Fade, hence the connection. I wasn't aware that this was possible; it shouldn't be possible, for anything less than an eluvian. An eluvian is-" Dorian stopped mid-lecture with another smile. "Well, actually, I suspect you might be able to tell me more about them than I you. Drakon Omvario's magnum opus from the second age contained first-hand description, and some rather detailed study notes, but it was still an outsider's view." Dorian continued, almost speaking more to himself at this point, entrenched in his curiosity. "But why is it affecting your own connection? If it worked in the same way as an eluvian - as I understand it - your own magical ability should be unaffected." There it was - Dorian had said, unthinkingly, that he had noticed the stemming of Mahanon's magic, almost as an after thought.
Leaning back a little on his heels, Dorian's mind ticked through the possibilities. It wasn't possession, so far as he could tell - Mahanon had magic of his own, as natural to him as breathing. Nor was it any kind of interference from lyrium; as an enchanter, Dorian had worked with enough of the toxic mineral to know the signature it left when someone was overdosing. Further, Mahanon's knowledgeable reply convinced Dorian that he had long been able to use magic - this was not a case of a non-mage becoming one through magical interference; thankfully, at that, because that was absurd.
Then he remembered the desperation with which the elf had retreated from his blond general. His own general.
"Ah - could it be trauma? When the body of a mage is attacked, or they cast magic too far beyond their abilities, it's possible for them to suffer a kind of burnout, which no doubt you know. Depletion of mana, physical degradation, loss of consciousness or death in extreme cases." The risk every mage took when they entered battle; the feeding ground for demons and the temptation they held. "But it is possible, if this state of magical exhaustion is maintained for long periods of time, for one's magic to become wildly unstable, like threads coming out of a weave. It usually takes years though - I've only heard of two cases, both enforced as a punishment from the Magisterium. In fact, the only other time I've seen a direct and total magical disconnect from trauma was-" Dorian blinked.
The only other time was when a mage had been made tranquil. The Magisterium had all of its members there to bear witness, and all heir-apparents to the title, like Dorian. It had been horrific - new to the ability to sense magic in others, feeling it cut off from the man chained to the dais in the centre of the forum had been like tearing open a wound in his own mind. He watched Mahanon carefully, but said nothing more on the matter. It took great self-control not to lean back further.
Dorian needed to know.
"If you'll allow me, I'd like to test something - directing the limited sympathetic magic I can conjure at your mark, to see if I can gain any sense of what it might be tethered to. Of course I can understand if you wish to rest, instead."
Before Mahanon was given the opportunity to voice any decision on the matter, however, the door behind them creaked open.
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
“That’s something at least.” Mahanon says quietly “I’m not a Keeper or a First or anything but should you have any questions in regards to my peoples culture I’d be happy to oblige” He doesn’t mention that the only other person Dorian could ask within the Inquisition would most likely bore him to death with useless information he hadn’t asked about. Mahanon also couldn’t say how willing Solas would be too sharing information about the Dalish with a Tevinter mage.
“Is that why you favor fire spells, elementally I mean? They’re flashy and go boom” He asks bluntly after the statement in regards to Tevinter. “I noticed when we met that most of the corpses were rather cooked.” He says quickly before adding, “Vivienne tends more towards ice.”
“Word of advice don’t dismiss Josephine’s assistance too soon” The elf tells Dorian while the Tevinter mage inspects his hand, he knows he’s probably being a bit distracting but sitting silently while Dorian ‘works’ seems dull. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I was called ‘knife ear’ when first arrived. Chancellor Roderick was telling anyone who’d listen that I should be sent to Val Royeaux to be hanged.”
He’s rambling about anything and everything in an attempt to ease his anxiety over what Dorian might find if he looked too closely. He falls silent as Dorian vocalizes his assessment, he even manages a fond little smile when the Tevinter stops himself from explaining a piece of Elven culture to Mahanon knowing that as an elf, as a Dalish elf in particular that Mahanon would know exactly what an Eluvian was. He can’t help but think that Solas would have just continued with the lecture as if Mahanon wasn’t Dalish and understood in great detail what Eluvians were and what they were used for.
He watches Dorian intently, the human mage is so focused and determined to discover every bit of information he can from the mark. Mahanon is momentarily tempted to just tell him, it’d make everything so much easier but he knows from experience that letting Dorian discover the truth on his own would allow the other mage to accept the answer more willingly.
Solas who’d tended to Mahanon after he’d fallen out of the Fade, who’d stopped the mark from spreading had accepted and understood what had once been much more willingly then Vivienne whom Mahanon had told outright when she’d criticized his technique. Even now Vivienne was unwilling to understand and accept, she frequently forgot and disregarded Mahanon’s suffering, treating his fear of Templars and unwillingness to aid them as prejudice against an Order that had done nothing too him, rather than as an Order that hadn’t hesitated to make him obedient and docile.
No, Dorian had to learn the truth on his own terms no matter how anxious the thought of another knowing made Mahanon feel. Mahanon realizes a little to late that Dorian is asking his permission to investigate further. He goes to respond, the words about to fall from his lips when the door creaks open and one of the Inquisition’s Scouts wanders inside. For a beat Mahanon freezes, his pupils dilate ever so slightly and his ears twitch.
“Ser I have those reports you wanted” The Scout addresses the room, nose buried in the clipboard he’s holding. By the tone of voice, Mahanon knows immediately that the scout isn’t expecting to address the ‘Herald’, he’s speaking far to casually. The Scout finally looks up from the board and freezes.
Mahanon recovers quicker than the Scout, using the bookcase he’s been sitting against and Dorian’s shoulder as crutches, he pushes himself off the floor. Something he should have done some time ago but he’d been rather distracted at the time. He’s aware of how this situation might look and he’s aware of how quickly rumors spread amongst the men and women in the Inquisition.
“I…uh… My apologize Your Worship” The Scout stammers glancing from Mahanon to Dorian and then back quickly. “Commander Cullen wanted these reports…”
“As you can see the Commander isn’t here, you mostly passed him at some point on your way over here” Mahanon tells the Scout evenly. “Have you tried Leliana’s tent? Or perhaps the courtyard? I’m sure those reports are very important” The Scout flushes a deep crimson color stammering out another apology before he quickly spins around and trots away. Mahanon blows out a breath and then sits himself down in one of the neglected chairs just besides the war table.
“It’s only a matter of time now” He says dejectedly. “Soon there will be any number of rumors” He’s certain Dorian is know stranger to rumors, being from Tevinter, being the heir to one of the Magisterium’s families. He runs his fingers through the strip of hair atop his head, causing it to fall askew, smaller pieces sticking up at odd angles as he pulls at it momentarily, a longer section flops over his forehead. “It could go either way really but more likely than not you’ll be needing to seek Josephine out before the end of the night”
Mahanon turns back to Dorian giving the other mage an apologetic look before offering his hand out again. “Returning to the topic at hand before you were interrupted… I cannot always guarantee the time you’d need to take another look so if you’re really this interested it’ll have to be now”
“Is that why you favor fire spells, elementally I mean? They’re flashy and go boom” He asks bluntly after the statement in regards to Tevinter. “I noticed when we met that most of the corpses were rather cooked.” He says quickly before adding, “Vivienne tends more towards ice.”
“Word of advice don’t dismiss Josephine’s assistance too soon” The elf tells Dorian while the Tevinter mage inspects his hand, he knows he’s probably being a bit distracting but sitting silently while Dorian ‘works’ seems dull. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I was called ‘knife ear’ when first arrived. Chancellor Roderick was telling anyone who’d listen that I should be sent to Val Royeaux to be hanged.”
He’s rambling about anything and everything in an attempt to ease his anxiety over what Dorian might find if he looked too closely. He falls silent as Dorian vocalizes his assessment, he even manages a fond little smile when the Tevinter stops himself from explaining a piece of Elven culture to Mahanon knowing that as an elf, as a Dalish elf in particular that Mahanon would know exactly what an Eluvian was. He can’t help but think that Solas would have just continued with the lecture as if Mahanon wasn’t Dalish and understood in great detail what Eluvians were and what they were used for.
He watches Dorian intently, the human mage is so focused and determined to discover every bit of information he can from the mark. Mahanon is momentarily tempted to just tell him, it’d make everything so much easier but he knows from experience that letting Dorian discover the truth on his own would allow the other mage to accept the answer more willingly.
Solas who’d tended to Mahanon after he’d fallen out of the Fade, who’d stopped the mark from spreading had accepted and understood what had once been much more willingly then Vivienne whom Mahanon had told outright when she’d criticized his technique. Even now Vivienne was unwilling to understand and accept, she frequently forgot and disregarded Mahanon’s suffering, treating his fear of Templars and unwillingness to aid them as prejudice against an Order that had done nothing too him, rather than as an Order that hadn’t hesitated to make him obedient and docile.
No, Dorian had to learn the truth on his own terms no matter how anxious the thought of another knowing made Mahanon feel. Mahanon realizes a little to late that Dorian is asking his permission to investigate further. He goes to respond, the words about to fall from his lips when the door creaks open and one of the Inquisition’s Scouts wanders inside. For a beat Mahanon freezes, his pupils dilate ever so slightly and his ears twitch.
“Ser I have those reports you wanted” The Scout addresses the room, nose buried in the clipboard he’s holding. By the tone of voice, Mahanon knows immediately that the scout isn’t expecting to address the ‘Herald’, he’s speaking far to casually. The Scout finally looks up from the board and freezes.
Mahanon recovers quicker than the Scout, using the bookcase he’s been sitting against and Dorian’s shoulder as crutches, he pushes himself off the floor. Something he should have done some time ago but he’d been rather distracted at the time. He’s aware of how this situation might look and he’s aware of how quickly rumors spread amongst the men and women in the Inquisition.
“I…uh… My apologize Your Worship” The Scout stammers glancing from Mahanon to Dorian and then back quickly. “Commander Cullen wanted these reports…”
“As you can see the Commander isn’t here, you mostly passed him at some point on your way over here” Mahanon tells the Scout evenly. “Have you tried Leliana’s tent? Or perhaps the courtyard? I’m sure those reports are very important” The Scout flushes a deep crimson color stammering out another apology before he quickly spins around and trots away. Mahanon blows out a breath and then sits himself down in one of the neglected chairs just besides the war table.
“It’s only a matter of time now” He says dejectedly. “Soon there will be any number of rumors” He’s certain Dorian is know stranger to rumors, being from Tevinter, being the heir to one of the Magisterium’s families. He runs his fingers through the strip of hair atop his head, causing it to fall askew, smaller pieces sticking up at odd angles as he pulls at it momentarily, a longer section flops over his forehead. “It could go either way really but more likely than not you’ll be needing to seek Josephine out before the end of the night”
Mahanon turns back to Dorian giving the other mage an apologetic look before offering his hand out again. “Returning to the topic at hand before you were interrupted… I cannot always guarantee the time you’d need to take another look so if you’re really this interested it’ll have to be now”
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
The titles tickled at the edges of memory, something he’d read once. Dorian had an almost encyclopaedic memory when it came to magical theory – so many helpful little mnemonics – but his base knowledge on the Dalish was scant at best, incorrect at worst. A Keeper, as he recalled, was one who helped Dalish clans retain their connection to the history that had been taken from them – the history the Imperium had taken from them. The sadness he felt at that – in slight, for the loss it may have been for Mahanon personally, but more generally too for the loss of knowledge itself, acquaintances as they remained. The offer to expand what he knew drew a genuine smile; not one borne of the need to grandstand, but from sheer academic pleasure. He also took it for hope that perhaps their divided histories would not be a cause for dislike between them.
Travel broadens the mind, as they say. An unexpected perk of this Inquisition business.
The next comment from Mahanon did make him grandstand however, and drew a contrary laugh. “Hah! That’s exactly why I favour them. Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for one of the Soporati, you see – not that that’s likely. That, and because no one down here seems to understand that your ‘cold weather’ is, in fact, freezing.” That last was said with mock severity, but his eyes shone with playful light. He was enjoying himself in the company of a man who seemed neither to despise him on principle, nor resent his presence. It did not surprise him in the least to learn of Vivienne’s preference.
Dorian waved a hand, miming brushing a need for assistance aside. “Decrying an intention to execute someone when you have not the means is simply impolite. They’re threatened by you, because they know you’re indispensable – the nearest thing to the Maker himself coming down and closing the hole in the sky, and you’re so far removed from the Chantry that you’re an affront. You should be pleased – it sounds as if they’re tying themselves in knots over how inconveniently you fit the narrative of it being a Divine or a priest who ends up saving the world. Assuming it can be saved. I would be.” But there was sadness there, too. Dorian knew a thing or two about being valued only for what was perceived as your function, and reviled for who you actually were. Taking pride in who he was, and the trouble it caused certain people, was the only real defence he – or Mahanon – had. Dorian could not put such sympathy into words – it would show too many cards from his own hand – but that solidarity he had felt towards Mahanon as an outcast only strengthened.
As he talked, Dorian summoned what little sympathetic magic he could. It was not his strongest suit – burning things, enchanting and killing people did not easily lend themselves to playing nicely with other magics. Enchanting was the closest suite of skills by far, and so Dorian intended to thread his power through Mahanon’s system as if enchanting an object. If his suspicions were correct, the mark would react and cull the elf’s native magic momentarily, allowing Dorian’s own to flow through and supplant it. If that occurred, then there would be no way around reaching the conclusion that Mahanon was in fact, tranquil; and terrifyingly enough, that without the mark, he might become so again.
And then, the door opened.
Dorian’s immediate response was to feel overwhelming frustration. He had been careful, since coming south. Although he would not deny it if asked outright, his proclivity for men could be socially inconvenient, and so, it was something he had simply failed to bring up in conversation. Here of all places, where his country of origin alone was enough to spark suspicion, it would just be fuel to a fire. All of that discretion, perhaps now wasted because he’d been too curious to wait for an appropriate chaperone.
He could imagine how it must look: they were in the back corner of the room, almost – but irritatingly not quite – shielded from view everywhere else in the room. Dorian was on the floor before their lauded Herald, holding his hand gently. Mahanon pulling himself to his feet as if caught in the act was hardly going to help.
Oh yes, there will be rumours about this. Dorian was less pleased than he would pretend about being the centre of attention. Not so soon after- well. There was nothing he could do about it now. Still, Dorian had not survived on his own by letting rumour undermine him. His usual defence came to his aid; he played the showman as the Herald sent the messenger on his way.
“I love rumours; fascinating to see what anonymous, sordid minds can imagine, don’t you think? Them devoting all of that time and energy to us. Now – shall we?” He smiled at Mahanon, more an apology than he could put into words; their compromising position was a large portion, his fault.
Rising to join the elf at the table, Dorian refocused his magic and directed it through the mark. His eyes widened in shock, despite finding exactly what he expected.
“Oh.”
It would be like taking a flower out of a vase and reaching inside, only to find that the pool of water had been sucked out with it. One needed a vase to hold the liquid in the first place – Mahanon had to have the capacity to be filled with magic to use it – but in his case, the reservoir of water had been poured out, and could not be refilled permanently without outside intervention. Or so Dorian suspected.
“I…see.” He withdrew his magic – and his hand – slowly and sat back, staring at Mahanon in silence. There was no way the elf could have been unaware of it. Unable to think of a joke appropriate in the circumstances, he settled on asking the direct question.
“How did it happen, exactly?”
Travel broadens the mind, as they say. An unexpected perk of this Inquisition business.
The next comment from Mahanon did make him grandstand however, and drew a contrary laugh. “Hah! That’s exactly why I favour them. Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for one of the Soporati, you see – not that that’s likely. That, and because no one down here seems to understand that your ‘cold weather’ is, in fact, freezing.” That last was said with mock severity, but his eyes shone with playful light. He was enjoying himself in the company of a man who seemed neither to despise him on principle, nor resent his presence. It did not surprise him in the least to learn of Vivienne’s preference.
Dorian waved a hand, miming brushing a need for assistance aside. “Decrying an intention to execute someone when you have not the means is simply impolite. They’re threatened by you, because they know you’re indispensable – the nearest thing to the Maker himself coming down and closing the hole in the sky, and you’re so far removed from the Chantry that you’re an affront. You should be pleased – it sounds as if they’re tying themselves in knots over how inconveniently you fit the narrative of it being a Divine or a priest who ends up saving the world. Assuming it can be saved. I would be.” But there was sadness there, too. Dorian knew a thing or two about being valued only for what was perceived as your function, and reviled for who you actually were. Taking pride in who he was, and the trouble it caused certain people, was the only real defence he – or Mahanon – had. Dorian could not put such sympathy into words – it would show too many cards from his own hand – but that solidarity he had felt towards Mahanon as an outcast only strengthened.
As he talked, Dorian summoned what little sympathetic magic he could. It was not his strongest suit – burning things, enchanting and killing people did not easily lend themselves to playing nicely with other magics. Enchanting was the closest suite of skills by far, and so Dorian intended to thread his power through Mahanon’s system as if enchanting an object. If his suspicions were correct, the mark would react and cull the elf’s native magic momentarily, allowing Dorian’s own to flow through and supplant it. If that occurred, then there would be no way around reaching the conclusion that Mahanon was in fact, tranquil; and terrifyingly enough, that without the mark, he might become so again.
And then, the door opened.
Dorian’s immediate response was to feel overwhelming frustration. He had been careful, since coming south. Although he would not deny it if asked outright, his proclivity for men could be socially inconvenient, and so, it was something he had simply failed to bring up in conversation. Here of all places, where his country of origin alone was enough to spark suspicion, it would just be fuel to a fire. All of that discretion, perhaps now wasted because he’d been too curious to wait for an appropriate chaperone.
He could imagine how it must look: they were in the back corner of the room, almost – but irritatingly not quite – shielded from view everywhere else in the room. Dorian was on the floor before their lauded Herald, holding his hand gently. Mahanon pulling himself to his feet as if caught in the act was hardly going to help.
Oh yes, there will be rumours about this. Dorian was less pleased than he would pretend about being the centre of attention. Not so soon after- well. There was nothing he could do about it now. Still, Dorian had not survived on his own by letting rumour undermine him. His usual defence came to his aid; he played the showman as the Herald sent the messenger on his way.
“I love rumours; fascinating to see what anonymous, sordid minds can imagine, don’t you think? Them devoting all of that time and energy to us. Now – shall we?” He smiled at Mahanon, more an apology than he could put into words; their compromising position was a large portion, his fault.
Rising to join the elf at the table, Dorian refocused his magic and directed it through the mark. His eyes widened in shock, despite finding exactly what he expected.
“Oh.”
It would be like taking a flower out of a vase and reaching inside, only to find that the pool of water had been sucked out with it. One needed a vase to hold the liquid in the first place – Mahanon had to have the capacity to be filled with magic to use it – but in his case, the reservoir of water had been poured out, and could not be refilled permanently without outside intervention. Or so Dorian suspected.
“I…see.” He withdrew his magic – and his hand – slowly and sat back, staring at Mahanon in silence. There was no way the elf could have been unaware of it. Unable to think of a joke appropriate in the circumstances, he settled on asking the direct question.
“How did it happen, exactly?”
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
“I think you’re lying,” Mahanon says raising his eyes from the top of the table to Dorian’s grey ones, even as he says it his lips quirk into a small smile. “I don’t think you like it at all.” He shifts ever so slightly, as much as he can with Dorian holding his hand again. “Rumors are an uncontrolled variable, I've learned recently that those who spend most of their life at court find uncontrolled variables to be very troublesome.” He reaches up with his free hand and pats Dorian's shoulder. "You should speak to Jose when this is finished"
Mahanon trails off as he feels Dorian’s magic working within him, he hisses quietly drawing his lower lip between his teeth and chewing on it anxiously. His eyes don't leave Dorian’s face until the other mages features shift with the realization. He pulls his marked hand away, severing the connection, summons the tiniest bit of veilfire between the fingers of his unmarked hand. It’s one of the first tricks Solas managed to teach him. ‘It’s always good to have a light’ The other elf had told him.
Of course he’d left out the part where the fire revealed things the fade had previously had a strong connection to. Mahanon had figured that part out on his own. Cautiously he raised his hand up careful not to brush them directly against his skin, veilfire burned cold but it still burned. A brief pass over his forehead where his vallaslin intersected revealed the sunburst brand, it’s only for a moment and then Mahanon’s hand drops to his side and the veilfire dissipates.
He refuses to meet Dorian’s eyes again, keeping them fixed on the war table, idly fiddling with one of the military markers. “Dalish clans can’t have more than a few fully trained mages in them, mages inadvertently draw attention to the clan. By the time I came into my magic fully my Keeper already had a First. The Dalish convene in a meeting of clans every ten years and during this meeting should there be more than two mages in one clan they can be transferred to another.”
Mahanon pauses, flicking one of the markers over absently. “The meeting was too far away so my Keeper found a clan that needed a First and sent me. It was all very official as you can imagine, hunters were sent along with me for protection. A lot of good they were against Templars.” He flicks the marker he knocked over again and it skids across the table.
“A lot of it is,” He pauses and taps a finger to the side of his head. “I can’t remember most of it.. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing” He drops his hand again, it hits the table with a soft thunk. “They slaughtered the hunters, my friends, ’The dangers of protecting an Apostate’. One of the Templars, hit me in the back with a smite, so we fled into the woods. The Templars picked us off one by one, until I was the only one left and had nowhere to go”
His eyes fall shut and he blows out a breath. “The mark re-established my connection to the fade but sometimes I get flashes, pieces of what happened that I’ve blocked out, it makes my connection falter and temporarily cut off. That of course isn’t the only side effect, or at least not according to certain people. It’s left me with an ‘unhealthy’ dislike for the Templars. I refuse to assist them, the Inquisition has other agents but they refuse to deal with anyone except the Herald.”
Mahanon stands, straightening his clothing. “If I am in fact Andraste’s Herald as everyone wishes to insist I am then, by this collective belief, that makes my will, Andraste’s will, yes?” He rounds on Dorian, green eyes fierce and bright. He’s not even sure Dorian believes in Andraste, if Tevninters are Andrastian, he assumes it’s a similar version of the South’s beliefs. “I’m Dalish” He says the statement again as if to convince himself and it comes out a bit brokenly, his shoulders shake.
Mahanon trails off as he feels Dorian’s magic working within him, he hisses quietly drawing his lower lip between his teeth and chewing on it anxiously. His eyes don't leave Dorian’s face until the other mages features shift with the realization. He pulls his marked hand away, severing the connection, summons the tiniest bit of veilfire between the fingers of his unmarked hand. It’s one of the first tricks Solas managed to teach him. ‘It’s always good to have a light’ The other elf had told him.
Of course he’d left out the part where the fire revealed things the fade had previously had a strong connection to. Mahanon had figured that part out on his own. Cautiously he raised his hand up careful not to brush them directly against his skin, veilfire burned cold but it still burned. A brief pass over his forehead where his vallaslin intersected revealed the sunburst brand, it’s only for a moment and then Mahanon’s hand drops to his side and the veilfire dissipates.
He refuses to meet Dorian’s eyes again, keeping them fixed on the war table, idly fiddling with one of the military markers. “Dalish clans can’t have more than a few fully trained mages in them, mages inadvertently draw attention to the clan. By the time I came into my magic fully my Keeper already had a First. The Dalish convene in a meeting of clans every ten years and during this meeting should there be more than two mages in one clan they can be transferred to another.”
Mahanon pauses, flicking one of the markers over absently. “The meeting was too far away so my Keeper found a clan that needed a First and sent me. It was all very official as you can imagine, hunters were sent along with me for protection. A lot of good they were against Templars.” He flicks the marker he knocked over again and it skids across the table.
“A lot of it is,” He pauses and taps a finger to the side of his head. “I can’t remember most of it.. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing” He drops his hand again, it hits the table with a soft thunk. “They slaughtered the hunters, my friends, ’The dangers of protecting an Apostate’. One of the Templars, hit me in the back with a smite, so we fled into the woods. The Templars picked us off one by one, until I was the only one left and had nowhere to go”
His eyes fall shut and he blows out a breath. “The mark re-established my connection to the fade but sometimes I get flashes, pieces of what happened that I’ve blocked out, it makes my connection falter and temporarily cut off. That of course isn’t the only side effect, or at least not according to certain people. It’s left me with an ‘unhealthy’ dislike for the Templars. I refuse to assist them, the Inquisition has other agents but they refuse to deal with anyone except the Herald.”
Mahanon stands, straightening his clothing. “If I am in fact Andraste’s Herald as everyone wishes to insist I am then, by this collective belief, that makes my will, Andraste’s will, yes?” He rounds on Dorian, green eyes fierce and bright. He’s not even sure Dorian believes in Andraste, if Tevninters are Andrastian, he assumes it’s a similar version of the South’s beliefs. “I’m Dalish” He says the statement again as if to convince himself and it comes out a bit brokenly, his shoulders shake.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
Mahanon’s first statement hit Dorian like a bucket of cold water. He was not used to being seen through so easily, and far less so to being called out on it. For a moment he felt transparent, exposed. Despite the carefully cultivated self-control Dorian clung to so tightly, his eyes closed for a moment, an additional barrier to tide him past a surge of pain.
It was only a moment of weakness, however, and Dorian pushed it aside before the lapse could attract comment. If he was warier now, well. The elf had earned that, being so dangerously perceptive and choosing not to temper his observations behind the same careful walls that Dorian would. The light touch to his shoulder told Dorian he’d given away too much. He corrected himself accordingly.
“I like trouble.” A line borrowed from Felix. Dorian appreciated it as much now as he had then, during those warm summer evenings labouring over nuances of magical theory. The smile on his face was genuine, now. He did not give any stronger response to Mahanon’s insistence he speak with the Inquisition’s ambassador – so determined was Dorian that he would withstand any opposition to his presence alone.
Dorian was fine with being alone. Mahanon took his hand away – Dorian had forgotten he was still holding it.
Then Mahanon explained how his unique situation had come to be. Dread filled Dorian at the sight of the brand – he’d seen it in books, and could not help the instinctive recoiling which the concept of tranquillity provoked. Thankfully, that withdrawal was entirely internal; physically, Dorian kept still and afforded the elf his complete attention. Who knew that being forced to bear apparently uncaring witness to common atrocities in the Magisterium could have resulted in beneficial skills?
Dread warred with academic interest as Mahanon spoke of the customs of Dalish clans. Soon enough though, both compulsions lost to sadness. Dorian had lost friends before, but to be hunted simply because you possessed magic? To be abhorred for something you could not control – something, moreover, which should be celebrated?
Dorian had crossed half the world to fight the breach because it was the right thing to do. It felt like some divine joke that he should travel such a great distance, only to meet someone who he felt he understood better than he had any of his countrymen. The parallels between them were frightening – but it was another matter Dorian pushed aside, electing to deal now with Mahanon’s hurts, rather than his own.
As if mirroring Dorian’s own thoughts, the elf turned fierce eyes on him, questioning and defiant to the will of the Maker – or perhaps merely to the expectations under which Mahanon was forced to labour under. A divine joke indeed.
For once, Dorian gave a serious answer. A mark, perhaps, of the esteem he was beginning to hold Mahanon in.
“If so, I cannot envy you. But will of Andraste or not, you will always be who you are.” Will of the Magisterium or not. Dorian knew his troubles paled in comparison – what was the edict of a father, against a hole in the sky? – but it was empathy, not sympathy which pulled at him. His usual discretion against physical touch nearly abandoned him. Dorian wanted to grip Mahanon by the shoulders, to hold him together as his world fell apart. But social conditioning snarled in the back of his head, 'thou shalt not,' implacable as stone. Though his hands balled to fists, Dorian kept them to himself.
That he did not look away, did not shield the sorrow visible in his eyes with humour, was as much as a gesture as Dorian could make.
For a long time, there was silence, the two of them, and pain. But perhaps there was comfort, too, in neither of them being alone in what they felt. Comfort, despite the fact that it was not allowed, and could never be enough. Comfort despite the world decaying around them. A weak bastion against all of the things that they fought, but comfort all the same - rumours be damned.
It was only a moment of weakness, however, and Dorian pushed it aside before the lapse could attract comment. If he was warier now, well. The elf had earned that, being so dangerously perceptive and choosing not to temper his observations behind the same careful walls that Dorian would. The light touch to his shoulder told Dorian he’d given away too much. He corrected himself accordingly.
“I like trouble.” A line borrowed from Felix. Dorian appreciated it as much now as he had then, during those warm summer evenings labouring over nuances of magical theory. The smile on his face was genuine, now. He did not give any stronger response to Mahanon’s insistence he speak with the Inquisition’s ambassador – so determined was Dorian that he would withstand any opposition to his presence alone.
Dorian was fine with being alone. Mahanon took his hand away – Dorian had forgotten he was still holding it.
Then Mahanon explained how his unique situation had come to be. Dread filled Dorian at the sight of the brand – he’d seen it in books, and could not help the instinctive recoiling which the concept of tranquillity provoked. Thankfully, that withdrawal was entirely internal; physically, Dorian kept still and afforded the elf his complete attention. Who knew that being forced to bear apparently uncaring witness to common atrocities in the Magisterium could have resulted in beneficial skills?
Dread warred with academic interest as Mahanon spoke of the customs of Dalish clans. Soon enough though, both compulsions lost to sadness. Dorian had lost friends before, but to be hunted simply because you possessed magic? To be abhorred for something you could not control – something, moreover, which should be celebrated?
Dorian had crossed half the world to fight the breach because it was the right thing to do. It felt like some divine joke that he should travel such a great distance, only to meet someone who he felt he understood better than he had any of his countrymen. The parallels between them were frightening – but it was another matter Dorian pushed aside, electing to deal now with Mahanon’s hurts, rather than his own.
As if mirroring Dorian’s own thoughts, the elf turned fierce eyes on him, questioning and defiant to the will of the Maker – or perhaps merely to the expectations under which Mahanon was forced to labour under. A divine joke indeed.
For once, Dorian gave a serious answer. A mark, perhaps, of the esteem he was beginning to hold Mahanon in.
“If so, I cannot envy you. But will of Andraste or not, you will always be who you are.” Will of the Magisterium or not. Dorian knew his troubles paled in comparison – what was the edict of a father, against a hole in the sky? – but it was empathy, not sympathy which pulled at him. His usual discretion against physical touch nearly abandoned him. Dorian wanted to grip Mahanon by the shoulders, to hold him together as his world fell apart. But social conditioning snarled in the back of his head, 'thou shalt not,' implacable as stone. Though his hands balled to fists, Dorian kept them to himself.
That he did not look away, did not shield the sorrow visible in his eyes with humour, was as much as a gesture as Dorian could make.
For a long time, there was silence, the two of them, and pain. But perhaps there was comfort, too, in neither of them being alone in what they felt. Comfort, despite the fact that it was not allowed, and could never be enough. Comfort despite the world decaying around them. A weak bastion against all of the things that they fought, but comfort all the same - rumours be damned.
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
Mahanon keeps his eyes focused on the stones beneath his feet, he stands still, working silently to control his breathing, to stop the tremors that coarse through his body. It takes several minutes but eventually everything evens out and returns to a sort of calm. When he finally raises his gaze his eyes are as green as ever and filled with the sort of fury only those who've been wronged so gravely possess.
He turns his back to Dorian, reaching out and righting one of the fallen mission markers. He moves around the table till he's standing centered with the map. He leans his hip against the table and stares for a moment. It is a rare thing, Mahanon being in this room alone for so long.
The table is littered with reports, requests and demands for the Inquisitions attention. Pages upon pages of them, Josephine has read them to Mahanon numerous times already and he must decide what is a priority for the Inquisition.
He picks up a letter from under a pile of finished reports. The parchment is of poor quality compared to the rest on the table, the ink smeared and it gives off the distinct smell of herbs. It’s a reply from Keeper Istimaethoriel. Mahanon brings the page closer to his face and inhales deeply. He smiles, small and fond and shoves the page into his pocket before he removes one mission marker from the map and replaces it with a different marker.
“You should try and find something to eat before the meeting resumes.” Mahanon addresses Dorian finally after the several minutes of silence. “You do plan on sitting in, correct?” He glances over his shoulder at Dorian before turning his gave back to the map.
Mahanon moves away from the war table after replacing several more markers. He moves swiftly towards the door, shouldering it open roughly, it’s the only way he can manage to get the damn thing to open without a struggle. He steps out just barely and peeks around the corner.
“Josephine” He calls her softly as he can manage but his voice still echoes throughout the chantry.
The ambassador doesn’t respond immediately and Mahanon fidgets, clicking his nails against doorknob. When Josephine finally steps into view she and Mahanon have a hushed discussion that still manages to echo ever so slightly.
“I do not think having him sit in is the best idea” She tells Mahanon quietly. “The Revered Mother…”
“The needs of the Inquisition certainly outweigh the concerns of one Revered Mother” Mahanon interrupts, raising his voice accidentally in his irritation. Mahanon glances back at Dorian and turns back to Josephine. “If he wishes to stay I don’t have any objections.. We are in no position to turn down assistance from the willing”
Josephine sighs but nods in agreement. “I will gather the others,” Mahanon smiles having doubted his ability to make Josephine understand his opinion on the matter. “but I must insist you go speak to Solas first”
Mahanon’s smile quickly fades, shoulders drop and his ears twitch. “Fenedhis” He huffs out followed by a clipped, “Fine”.
Now Josephine wears the smile. “Master Pavus the war meeting will resume after Master Lavellan has spoken with Solas. You’re welcome to wait here, however perhaps you might… introduce yourself to the rest of the inquisition.”
He turns his back to Dorian, reaching out and righting one of the fallen mission markers. He moves around the table till he's standing centered with the map. He leans his hip against the table and stares for a moment. It is a rare thing, Mahanon being in this room alone for so long.
The table is littered with reports, requests and demands for the Inquisitions attention. Pages upon pages of them, Josephine has read them to Mahanon numerous times already and he must decide what is a priority for the Inquisition.
He picks up a letter from under a pile of finished reports. The parchment is of poor quality compared to the rest on the table, the ink smeared and it gives off the distinct smell of herbs. It’s a reply from Keeper Istimaethoriel. Mahanon brings the page closer to his face and inhales deeply. He smiles, small and fond and shoves the page into his pocket before he removes one mission marker from the map and replaces it with a different marker.
“You should try and find something to eat before the meeting resumes.” Mahanon addresses Dorian finally after the several minutes of silence. “You do plan on sitting in, correct?” He glances over his shoulder at Dorian before turning his gave back to the map.
Mahanon moves away from the war table after replacing several more markers. He moves swiftly towards the door, shouldering it open roughly, it’s the only way he can manage to get the damn thing to open without a struggle. He steps out just barely and peeks around the corner.
“Josephine” He calls her softly as he can manage but his voice still echoes throughout the chantry.
The ambassador doesn’t respond immediately and Mahanon fidgets, clicking his nails against doorknob. When Josephine finally steps into view she and Mahanon have a hushed discussion that still manages to echo ever so slightly.
“I do not think having him sit in is the best idea” She tells Mahanon quietly. “The Revered Mother…”
“The needs of the Inquisition certainly outweigh the concerns of one Revered Mother” Mahanon interrupts, raising his voice accidentally in his irritation. Mahanon glances back at Dorian and turns back to Josephine. “If he wishes to stay I don’t have any objections.. We are in no position to turn down assistance from the willing”
Josephine sighs but nods in agreement. “I will gather the others,” Mahanon smiles having doubted his ability to make Josephine understand his opinion on the matter. “but I must insist you go speak to Solas first”
Mahanon’s smile quickly fades, shoulders drop and his ears twitch. “Fenedhis” He huffs out followed by a clipped, “Fine”.
Now Josephine wears the smile. “Master Pavus the war meeting will resume after Master Lavellan has spoken with Solas. You’re welcome to wait here, however perhaps you might… introduce yourself to the rest of the inquisition.”
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
The moment passed, and although Mahanon's anger remained, the elf seemed to retreat from that vulnerable space, turning his back and righting the strategic markers he'd strewn across the board. The closing of a door, of a wound that he had perhaps not meant to allow Dorian to see. A complex man. Mahanon changed topic, forcing them onto safer ground. Ah. Food. The entirely ignored pang of hunger Dorian felt in response told him that the Herald was right. It was something he would deal with when there were less important matters.
"If you'll allow me, yes." An acknowledgement that Dorian knew he was here on the grace of guest-right alone.
The segue was smooth, but the troubled conversation they had had immediately prior felt... unfinished. Dorian could not help but to add one last consolation - perhaps because his upbringing demanded as such, but for once, the words did not feel like empty pleasantries.
"I am...sorry, for your loss." The hunters? His magic? His homeland? His history? What Dorian had meant was anyone's guess; the regret was sincere, regardless of which matter it was directed at. He had spoken softly, however - perhaps so softly that Mahanon had not heard, for a moment later, the elf summoned Josephine and began discussing Inquisition politics. Or perhaps he called her precisely because he had heard.
Pretending not to overhear as they argued over whether Dorian was a fit participant for their war council - although privately delighting in the fact that he apparently had at least one person who appreciated his presence - Dorian studied the map on the table. Only the fringes of the Imperium were shown, but he traced the edge of it with a hand, a fondness he could not hide, even as it pained him. Some day. Dorian would return - some day.
In the background, Josephine directed the Herald to confer with another of his retinue - Solas, as Dorian made a mental note of the name - before calling Dorian himself over. She had a warm, genuinely comforting air about her, tempered with what Dorian anticipated was a razor-sharp mind. Perhaps it was the inescapable dark that came with the revelation of Mahanon's tranquility, or simply a marker of who he was, but Dorian could not resist the opportunity to flirt. Just a little.
"My dear ambassador, please, 'Dorian' is fine. I would take your suggestion, but the Herald seemed adamant I discuss the Imperium with you at the earliest opportunity. Or, more particularly, the challenge a wicked Tevinter mage might pose to some of the Inquisition's followers." The grin which accompanied his own self-effacement made it either entirely a joke, or very, very true. "I don't imagine it will be a problem, for the simple reason that I'm entirely too charming to hate." And failing that, it would take more than a pack of rude, ill-educated southerners to make Dorian uncomfortable. He would revel in the vitriol of those he could not change, and withdraw to a book or a strong ale if they became intolerable. No, Dorian had no need of help, thank you very much.
"But on to more urgent matters - who is your tailor? I haven't seen craftsmanship that fine since I left Val Royeaux."
"If you'll allow me, yes." An acknowledgement that Dorian knew he was here on the grace of guest-right alone.
The segue was smooth, but the troubled conversation they had had immediately prior felt... unfinished. Dorian could not help but to add one last consolation - perhaps because his upbringing demanded as such, but for once, the words did not feel like empty pleasantries.
"I am...sorry, for your loss." The hunters? His magic? His homeland? His history? What Dorian had meant was anyone's guess; the regret was sincere, regardless of which matter it was directed at. He had spoken softly, however - perhaps so softly that Mahanon had not heard, for a moment later, the elf summoned Josephine and began discussing Inquisition politics. Or perhaps he called her precisely because he had heard.
Pretending not to overhear as they argued over whether Dorian was a fit participant for their war council - although privately delighting in the fact that he apparently had at least one person who appreciated his presence - Dorian studied the map on the table. Only the fringes of the Imperium were shown, but he traced the edge of it with a hand, a fondness he could not hide, even as it pained him. Some day. Dorian would return - some day.
In the background, Josephine directed the Herald to confer with another of his retinue - Solas, as Dorian made a mental note of the name - before calling Dorian himself over. She had a warm, genuinely comforting air about her, tempered with what Dorian anticipated was a razor-sharp mind. Perhaps it was the inescapable dark that came with the revelation of Mahanon's tranquility, or simply a marker of who he was, but Dorian could not resist the opportunity to flirt. Just a little.
"My dear ambassador, please, 'Dorian' is fine. I would take your suggestion, but the Herald seemed adamant I discuss the Imperium with you at the earliest opportunity. Or, more particularly, the challenge a wicked Tevinter mage might pose to some of the Inquisition's followers." The grin which accompanied his own self-effacement made it either entirely a joke, or very, very true. "I don't imagine it will be a problem, for the simple reason that I'm entirely too charming to hate." And failing that, it would take more than a pack of rude, ill-educated southerners to make Dorian uncomfortable. He would revel in the vitriol of those he could not change, and withdraw to a book or a strong ale if they became intolerable. No, Dorian had no need of help, thank you very much.
"But on to more urgent matters - who is your tailor? I haven't seen craftsmanship that fine since I left Val Royeaux."
Last edited by a moderator:
Avidkadabra
New Member
Mahanon makes his way towards the infirmary where Solas is known to hang about when he is not needed for missions. Mahanon isn’t entirely sure why Solas insists on staying there when the human healers refuse his assistance.
“Lethallin” The older elf greets Mahanon quietly and Mahanon gives a small smile in response.
The younger glances at the humans nearby, unable to help being suspicious of them even now, before turning back to Solas and speaking to him in Elven. They speak for several hours before finally setting to work on the mark.
It takes hours upon hours for the pair to finally reel the mark’s energy back in. It’s exhausting and leaves Mahanon feeling completely drained, even after slurping down several lyrium potions.
It’s late. The sound of swords clashing has died out and the walkways are lit with firelight, the tavern is now filled with the recruits and scouts all seeking to warm their bellies with some food and mead. The sun set behind the mountains ages ago and whilst all Mahanon wants to do is crawl into his bed and hide under the ratty duvet till morning comes around again, he knows they have to decide what to do about the mages sooner rather than later.
Mahanon eventually decides that it is time to head back towards the chantry and Solas follows close behind. The younger elven mage is clearly exhausted and they last thing the inquisition needs is for him to pass out in the snow and catch a fever. The older even manages to retrieve a small meal for Mahanon along the way.
When Mahanon calls the advisors to the war table once again they find him curled up in one of the chairs, passively picking at pieces of dried meat and bread with his slim fingers. Solas remains beside him observing Mahanon patiently. Everyone is silent for a moment waiting for Mahanon to address them.
“Someone should find Dorian before we start” He mumbles around a piece of food he’s just nibbled on. No one moves but when Mahanon looks up Josephine quickly moves from the to go find the Altus.
While the ambassador is gone, Leliana sets out a roll of old parchment over the much larger map of Thedas. “One of my informants was able to send us the prints of Redcliffe castle” She smooths the wrinkled pages out and uses a handful of markers to secure the curling ends down.
Once she’s finished Cullen and Cassandra lean over the pages, pointing out possible entry points, as well as locations for possible threats.
“Lethallin” The older elf greets Mahanon quietly and Mahanon gives a small smile in response.
The younger glances at the humans nearby, unable to help being suspicious of them even now, before turning back to Solas and speaking to him in Elven. They speak for several hours before finally setting to work on the mark.
It takes hours upon hours for the pair to finally reel the mark’s energy back in. It’s exhausting and leaves Mahanon feeling completely drained, even after slurping down several lyrium potions.
It’s late. The sound of swords clashing has died out and the walkways are lit with firelight, the tavern is now filled with the recruits and scouts all seeking to warm their bellies with some food and mead. The sun set behind the mountains ages ago and whilst all Mahanon wants to do is crawl into his bed and hide under the ratty duvet till morning comes around again, he knows they have to decide what to do about the mages sooner rather than later.
Mahanon eventually decides that it is time to head back towards the chantry and Solas follows close behind. The younger elven mage is clearly exhausted and they last thing the inquisition needs is for him to pass out in the snow and catch a fever. The older even manages to retrieve a small meal for Mahanon along the way.
When Mahanon calls the advisors to the war table once again they find him curled up in one of the chairs, passively picking at pieces of dried meat and bread with his slim fingers. Solas remains beside him observing Mahanon patiently. Everyone is silent for a moment waiting for Mahanon to address them.
“Someone should find Dorian before we start” He mumbles around a piece of food he’s just nibbled on. No one moves but when Mahanon looks up Josephine quickly moves from the to go find the Altus.
While the ambassador is gone, Leliana sets out a roll of old parchment over the much larger map of Thedas. “One of my informants was able to send us the prints of Redcliffe castle” She smooths the wrinkled pages out and uses a handful of markers to secure the curling ends down.
Once she’s finished Cullen and Cassandra lean over the pages, pointing out possible entry points, as well as locations for possible threats.
Elemental Son
Human, honest.
For half an hour or so, Dorian and Josephine traded witty repartee, each learning what they could about the other. Dorian's read on her was one of educated warmth. She was also very good at her job; Despite Dorian's flippant protestations that he needed nothing, by the end of their conversation, Josephine had promised to do what she could to house him somewhere warm, granted him access to the quartermaster's supply of books, and resolved to have a discussion with Haven's resident alchemist about refusing Dorian's aid. Impressed despite himself, when Dorian left to start on her suggestion that he introduce himself to other members of the Inquisition, it was with a sense of gratitude to her - and by extension, the Inquisition's - hospitality.
That gratitude changed only slightly when the next member of the Inquisition Dorian made the acquaintance of, was Mother Giselle.
"Messere Pavus, a word if you please."
She called out to Dorian as he wandered through the main hall of the Chantry, on his way to find a meal. Being trained in maintaining social graces since infancy, Dorian could do nothing less than oblige her the opportunity for conversation. Whether it was the gravel in her tone, or the increasing pangs of hunger wracking his stomach, something told Dorian it would not be a conversation he was going to enjoy.
"Reverend Mother, what can I do for you?" Giselle had called to him quietly; Dorian made no such secret of his response, his voice echoing through the stone hall. If he was to be put on trial for his presence, he would have as many people hear his defense from his own mouth, rather than hearsay, as possible. Her body language told him he had made the correct decision; the Reverend Mother dry-washed her hands, eyes flicking nervously across the open space between them, clearly uncomfortable with open confrontation. But his advantage lasted only momentarily; determined not to let her enquiries go unanswered, Mother Giselle squared her shoulders, and engaged him in kind. Despite himself, Dorian approved. If nothing else, she has conviction.
"I understand you are a mage from the Tevinter Imperium."
This time it was her voice filling the ambient space, and more than one small group of onlookers paused to listen in. Having expected her to be somewhat more euphemistic in broaching the topic, his response was not what he would have called his best. While polite, he could not help the slightly sarcastic, defensive edge to his tone.
"I am indeed. How kind of you to notice."
"I must ask what motivated you to travel so far, and involve yourself in the troubles of the South." By comparison, her tone remained entirely even. Being a woman of the cloth afforded her - to the public eye - a degree of moral authority which Dorian, as an outsider, could not hope to match. So, as had been his shield for almost all of his life, Dorian resorted to logic.
"My dear woman, are you joking? There is a hole in the sky. This is not just a problem for the South, and if the more stupidly short-sighted cousins of mine back home cannot see it as such, that does not put every outsider in the same situation. Your Herald is Dalish, one of your mercenary captains is Qunari - you have concerned representation from almost every race and nation. Why should my homeland be the exception?" Dorian avoided explicit mention of Alexius and the time-magic conundrum deliberately, unsure of how much information the Reverend Mother was permitted of the state of the war.
Mother Giselle inclined her head in conciliation, and apologized deliberately to avoid answering his question. When they locked eyes again, Dorian knew that neither she, nor the listening majority trusted him, and perhaps did less so for her interference. As the Reverend Mother excused herself to attend to other duties, Dorian made his way out of the Chantry, anger fueling his stride, while messengers, soldiers and servants stared in silence. The heavy oak doors had not fully closed before they burst into a chorus of speculative whispers.
----
Some hours later, a young dwarven scout - Harding, by name - found Dorian at Josephine's behest. No one in the tavern had been willing to serve him. The exclusion was not done explicitly, but every time he tried to order a meal - or a stiff drink, which Maker, he needed - a soldier or footman would be 'let in' first, the excuse being that they were given priority due to their deployment rosters. After the third obvious sidelining, Dorian left, and eventually bought some dried rations off one of the elven servants who worked for the quartermaster. Harding found him alone at one of the dozens of campfires set up in the camp, attempting to chew through the paltry strips of salted meat he had acquired.
"Ser? The Herald wants you back up at the Chantry. War meeting's on." Her tone held no apprehension, no judgement. Perhaps she did not know who he was, the dread mage from Tevinter. Regardless, it was a welcome break from what had been a tiring onslaught, and Dorian accompanied her gladly. He walked in just as Cullen and Lelianna agreed that their best approach was to send the envoy Alexius requested as a distraction, and agents in more discreetly as a security force.
"If you're going after Alexius directly, you'll never get your agents inside without my help. So, naturally, I'll be coming with you."
That gratitude changed only slightly when the next member of the Inquisition Dorian made the acquaintance of, was Mother Giselle.
"Messere Pavus, a word if you please."
She called out to Dorian as he wandered through the main hall of the Chantry, on his way to find a meal. Being trained in maintaining social graces since infancy, Dorian could do nothing less than oblige her the opportunity for conversation. Whether it was the gravel in her tone, or the increasing pangs of hunger wracking his stomach, something told Dorian it would not be a conversation he was going to enjoy.
"Reverend Mother, what can I do for you?" Giselle had called to him quietly; Dorian made no such secret of his response, his voice echoing through the stone hall. If he was to be put on trial for his presence, he would have as many people hear his defense from his own mouth, rather than hearsay, as possible. Her body language told him he had made the correct decision; the Reverend Mother dry-washed her hands, eyes flicking nervously across the open space between them, clearly uncomfortable with open confrontation. But his advantage lasted only momentarily; determined not to let her enquiries go unanswered, Mother Giselle squared her shoulders, and engaged him in kind. Despite himself, Dorian approved. If nothing else, she has conviction.
"I understand you are a mage from the Tevinter Imperium."
This time it was her voice filling the ambient space, and more than one small group of onlookers paused to listen in. Having expected her to be somewhat more euphemistic in broaching the topic, his response was not what he would have called his best. While polite, he could not help the slightly sarcastic, defensive edge to his tone.
"I am indeed. How kind of you to notice."
"I must ask what motivated you to travel so far, and involve yourself in the troubles of the South." By comparison, her tone remained entirely even. Being a woman of the cloth afforded her - to the public eye - a degree of moral authority which Dorian, as an outsider, could not hope to match. So, as had been his shield for almost all of his life, Dorian resorted to logic.
"My dear woman, are you joking? There is a hole in the sky. This is not just a problem for the South, and if the more stupidly short-sighted cousins of mine back home cannot see it as such, that does not put every outsider in the same situation. Your Herald is Dalish, one of your mercenary captains is Qunari - you have concerned representation from almost every race and nation. Why should my homeland be the exception?" Dorian avoided explicit mention of Alexius and the time-magic conundrum deliberately, unsure of how much information the Reverend Mother was permitted of the state of the war.
Mother Giselle inclined her head in conciliation, and apologized deliberately to avoid answering his question. When they locked eyes again, Dorian knew that neither she, nor the listening majority trusted him, and perhaps did less so for her interference. As the Reverend Mother excused herself to attend to other duties, Dorian made his way out of the Chantry, anger fueling his stride, while messengers, soldiers and servants stared in silence. The heavy oak doors had not fully closed before they burst into a chorus of speculative whispers.
----
Some hours later, a young dwarven scout - Harding, by name - found Dorian at Josephine's behest. No one in the tavern had been willing to serve him. The exclusion was not done explicitly, but every time he tried to order a meal - or a stiff drink, which Maker, he needed - a soldier or footman would be 'let in' first, the excuse being that they were given priority due to their deployment rosters. After the third obvious sidelining, Dorian left, and eventually bought some dried rations off one of the elven servants who worked for the quartermaster. Harding found him alone at one of the dozens of campfires set up in the camp, attempting to chew through the paltry strips of salted meat he had acquired.
"Ser? The Herald wants you back up at the Chantry. War meeting's on." Her tone held no apprehension, no judgement. Perhaps she did not know who he was, the dread mage from Tevinter. Regardless, it was a welcome break from what had been a tiring onslaught, and Dorian accompanied her gladly. He walked in just as Cullen and Lelianna agreed that their best approach was to send the envoy Alexius requested as a distraction, and agents in more discreetly as a security force.
"If you're going after Alexius directly, you'll never get your agents inside without my help. So, naturally, I'll be coming with you."
Last edited by a moderator:
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
