VII. CLOSED.

[liberalum]

WHO: Dorian Pavus and his devoted hangers-on.
WHAT: Catching up on some gossip, probably. Among other things.
WHEN: Throughout Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlais, Skyhold.
NOTES: This is a catch-all for pre-planned threads, rather than open prompts. PM or plurk me if you'd like to do something!

Comments

halamshiral, high quarter. benevenuta thevenet.

[liberalum]

How long do y'think it would take Cullen to notice, should we hang it in his office instead?

[ Having your picture painted is much less excruciating when you've someone to talk to, turns out, especially when that person isn't your family. The last time Dorian had to sit for such a thing, he'd been restlessly adolescent, and counting the minutes while imagining all the ways he might accidentally splash a red vintage on it first chance he gets. Perhaps casually set it on fire, a spell gone wayward.

That sort of thing. But as far as he knows, there's still a painting of his father, his mother, and himself hanging untouched in some particularly dusty corner of the Qarinus estate.

He reaches to top up his glass. When he'd uncorked the bottle, the masked artiste had uttered something about it having been intended as a prop only, but Dorian had pretended not to understand his accent until the painter had decided against separating the Tevinter mage from his glass. ]

I only ask because he's famously continued to ignore the state of disrepair that room is perpetually in.

[ He's dressed finely, in scarlets and golds, mage robes of Tevinter make and fanfare. He is careful not to knock the drape of its hem, lest he get a paintbrush thrown at him. ]

[ungovernable]

( a similar painting exists in the thevenet household, the knight-general standing solemn behind his seated wife, a much-younger benevenuta sat primly at her feet, not long before she'd gone to the circle; she hadn't minded it so much, but she'd been small to hold so still and it had taken f o r e v e r.

this, even if she isn't partaking of the prop wine besides occasionally stealing from dorian's ill-gotten glass, is a much superior experience. )

How very lowering, ( she says, reflectively, ) if he were to remove our portrait and still leave his ceiling.

( it's going to be an exceptional portrait, if she does say so herself. she might fade beside dorian in sleek nevarran grey, if not for bright, bright eyes and the strategic application of usually unworn jewels draped not only against her skin but into the elaborate style of oiled and artfully placed curls; orlais is precisely the correct place for her to kick up a notch the sort of dress sense that has sent sighs around skyhold about the likelihood of benevenuta contracting some sort of sternum-based cold-weather illness. )

[liberalum]

[ Similarly, much of one shoulder and the length of his arm is exposed to the temperate climate of the room, freshly bronzed from getting any sun, for once. Dorian ha's a quiet laugh at that, because, it's probably exactly what would happen. They've selected wisely, in selecting Josie. She's polite, thoughtful, and so many people drift through her office every day that will certainly appreciate a lovely painting of two random Northern mages.

Not so random, if you ask Dorian, and who doesn't. ]

I'm not entirely certain why we say Skyhold is so defensible when it has as many holes in it as cheese from the Anderfels. Iron Bull's room has a draft, although I know the day I succeed in convincing him of this truth, he'll be out with something like-- I like it that way, puts hair on your chest, [ is not a bad effort at the qunari's manner of speaking. ]

[ungovernable]

Pfaugh, ( very lightly, ) why should he have it fixed when he has you to keep warm beside him?

( it doesn't hurt, she's found, to discuss the loves of others; she'd wondered if it might, but no part of her begrudges dorian what he still has. it's terribly precious and so easy to lose - that she applies to others the same philosophies as she does herself is often as not the cause of great disappointment in them, but in this it is a simple thing. take a little joy where you might. it might not be there, tomorrow.

she'd never rather he not have joy, only because she's had sorrow. )

And,

( scrutinizing dorian closely, )

I don't believe it has.

[liberalum]

[ Admittedly, Dorian has refrained from bringing it up around Benevenuta, given givens. Being already predisposed towards discretion beyond what can't be avoided when they share a room, it's been easy enough.

But now that it's out there-- ]

There, you see. Empirical proof.

[ He is forever calling Bull ridiculous. The qunari never bats an eyelash. There's a pause, while they sit still and proper for the painting, before Dorian is moved to say, quietly-- ]

I'd attempted to end it.

[ungovernable]

( it's not often that benevenuta seems taken by surprise - and maybe she isn't as much as she might've been, but it still gives her pause, prompting a sharp word of orlesian from the artist when her head tilts in the wrong direction.

she obligingly resumes her pose before saying, )

Whatever for, darling? I like the two of you very well. You like the two of you very well.

( she considers. perhaps that's why. she can understand. )

[liberalum]

[ Dorian raises his eyebrow in such an inspiring way that it'll likely get painted into the portrait, and glances sidelong at Benevenuta as if to check that that was a real question. ]

You've had a go at me before for being a hopeless romantic. Developing feelings for a Ben-Hassrath spy is particularly unwise, even for me.

[ The painter keeps his eyes fixed on the easel. ]

And I didn't think qunaris went in for that sort of thing, frankly.

the battlements. anders.

[liberalum]

[ It's beginning to cool again in the mornings, the sun lazier to rise, the air tasting of a slowly encroaching winter. Dorian is not thrilled about it, but at least up here, in direct sunlight, it can go ignored, in the same way his back is turned to the icy slopes of the mountains while he watches the training grounds beneath him where Iron Bull drills his men.

Dorian leans against the stone, elbows taking his weight while one ankles idles behind the other. His interest in the activities below is casual rather than fixed, but consistent, content, like he's contemplating going down there but has decided, for now, that he's happy to be out of the way.

Fond, perhaps. If you squint.

He isn't paying too much attention to those who approach. Most of the time, it's a scout or a recruit making his or her rounds rather than anyone of personal interest, but he does account for his periphery just in case. ]

[justice_is_blond]

[It's been... a time since he's run into Dorian. Not since Leliana was poisoned, really, and Anders had been a bit short with the other mage. Sure, there's always seeing each other around, but they haven't spoken. Which means that Anders should approach as if nothing's happened.]

Mm. It looks a little violent down there.

[liberalum]

[ Dorian can go either way on ignoring an issue; he is more likely, however, to comment at length on the shade of grey of the elephant in the room. The corners of his eyes wrinkle in a private sort of good humour when he tilts his head enough to see Anders' approach, so that's likely a good sign. ]

Perhaps we ought to suggest they brush up on their diplomacy in place of shield bashing.

[justice_is_blond]

Mm. I don't know.

[He's got a small smile now.]

I'd put wagers on a good half of them having named their swords 'diplomacy.' And their boot knives 'kindness.' Or just their boots, but that tends to be more of a Templar thing and most don't have that look.

[liberalum]

And even if you lost that bet, they likely wouldn't practice politics whilst shirtless. A tragedy.

[ Except for Bull, who does everything shirtlessly, but Dorian does attempt not to be obvious.

And besides, that little jab didn't escape him. ]

Yes? It's a wonder how they manage to keep them so shiny.

[justice_is_blond]

Quite the tragedy.

[He likes admiring muscular forms as much as the next person, when they're not the sorts to ignore mage personhood.]

You didn't know? That's why Circle mages are taught to wear robes. So that the Templars can polish their boots while kicking. Two actions in one. Why do the Tevinter wear robes?

[He has a billion questions about magic in Tevinter. That's not one of them, but he's trying to not send Dorian running for the hills.]

a private corner of the tavern. adelaide.

[liberalum]

[ With how frequently the Inquisition flings its members, it's actually been a little while since Adelaide and Dorian have broken bread with one another, but it's enough of a habit that it settles in easily by the time the sun is setting. Adelaide retrieves the wine; Dorian has ordered the food in the form of a couple of slices of water crust pie, one of the better things to come out of Fereldan cuisine, if anything must.

With exception to one sigh as to underseasoned mutton, Dorian isn't complaining. He's been doing a marked less of that over the last few weeks, instead, given to quicker smiles, comfortable silences, a sunnier outlook. He might not even notice.

He even refills Adelaide's glass before his own. ]

[fleurdesel]

[ It is a marked improvement in mood- one that hasn't gone unnoticed. Unremarked upon, certainly, as the precise reasoning hasn't made itself plain until recently and even then? The...failure of hers to keep her nose in her own business leading to her current strained relationship with Benevenuta has prevented Adelaide from delving too deep into assumption.

Now, however?

She is reasonably certain. At least enough to quirk a brow at his filling her glass first and ask, voice wry and fond- ]

Who are you and what have you done with Dorian?

[liberalum]

[ He quirks a brow back at her, but charges his own glass without missing a beat. ]

What a ridiculous question, [ he says, light as a feather, as he sits back with his glass in hand. ] I'm radiantly myself at all times, as you well know.

[fleurdesel]

Radiant, yes. But as of late you have been positively glowing, Do-Do.

[ Not that she is at all displeased- it is an excellent look for him, this ease. This joy. ]

[liberalum]

Perhaps the impending apocalypse agrees with me. Or the summer -- no doubt I'll be back to my usual by the time the colder weather rolls in.

[ He's not about to help her out, after all, evasive as ever when it comes to matters of the heart. But he doesn't seem displeased by her observation. ]

You look as overworked as usual, I'm afraid.

[fleurdesel]

Perhaps it is the company you have been keeping.

[ One person in particular. There's been no great strides in research, no particularly positive news on their shared interest to prompt this otherwise. ]

There are the requests for Cullen's attention, the Council, the applications for equipment, supplies, or coin for research that may or may not be beneficial to the Inquisition, trying to coax out more information from those time displaced Magisters, trying to learn more about the spell that locked them into place and re-purpose it- my list of things to do is ever growing. How you do as much as you do and still look so fit and hale? I will never know.

the orlesian countryside. cassandra pentaghast.

[liberalum]

[ It's a beautiful, chilly day. Frost decorates the grass, leaves turn to gold, and demons die screaming in puddles of steaming ichor.

If Cassandra is the kind of woman that just needs to hit something sometimes, then Dorian can certainly empathise. The usual magical fatigue that sets in after one too many spells cast compels him, instead, to put down this last demon with a strong-shouldered uppercut of his mage staff to monster face, and then once more with feeling while it's down. He staggers a little sideways, turning a raise eyebrowed look to the gore stained serpentstone.

The immediate area smells acrid with blood and, thanks to Dorian, an electrical storm.

He was probably, in retrospect, a little excessive, but trust him to be given to excess, even in murder. The Inquisition soldiers give him something of a wide berth, even if his inspection of the bloodied hems of his robes is a little undermining when it comes to his reputation as Big Bad Magister. ]

[stabsbooks]

[ For the first time since the news of Martel's capture, Cassandra is, if not happy, then at least content. Leliana had been right - getting away from the estate and keeping herself busy and productive is far preferable to sitting gloomily and thinking of all the things she cannot do to help.

She smiles grimly as yet another demon falls to her sword, and looks over just in time to catch Dorian delivering a surprisingly impressive blow to the last one. Cassandra takes no note of the soldiers' leery looks; she is used to such expressions - though usually aimed at her rather than Dorian - and has learned to ignore them. ]

Well done. [ She walks across the grass to him, reveling in the fresh air, the adrenaline still coursing through her body, the feeling of having accomplished something. ] Though if you wish to continue beating demons with a stick rather than making use of your magic, I might offer some advice on your form.

[liberalum]

[ Compliments from Cassandra Pentaghast are enough to warrant a raised eyebrow as Dorian allows his robe hems to fall back into place. He turns his shoulder to where his felled demon is collapsing into steaming ichor, giving off all kinds of horrible smells that he has now become utterly immune to.

Ah, there it is. ]

That's the thing about sticks that they apparently don't teach you in the southern Circles -- when you're in need of but are completely out of lyrium, you can always hit your opponent.

[ He angles his staff against his shoulder as he tips his head, looking past her at the carnage currently melting into the frosty fields. ]

A little unconventional against demons, I'll admit.

[stabsbooks]

Is this the terrible secret of the Magisters that we were all so afraid of? Melee attacks?

[ She smirks, cleaning her sword and sliding it back into its scabbard. ]

Though to be fair, hitting demons has always worked well enough for me.

[liberalum]

I suppose that's true enough.

[ He had smiled, briefly and thinly, at her first remark. ]

Perhaps there ought to be a wager. [ He illustrates his contemplation, fingers to chin. ] Will Corypheus be bested by sword, or a face full of magic? Given the state of our internal politics, I'm shocked no one's started taking bets.

Or am I being a touch optimistic?

[stabsbooks]

Do not give them any ideas.

[ She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. ]

We will need much of both if we are to have a chance at defeating him. As for your optimism, it can only help. If we do not believe it is possible, it certainly will not be.