i'll be your shadow in the dark

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair, Dorian Pavus, Rafael Viteri, Scipio the Marvel, some horses, some darkspawn.
WHAT: Chekhov's vials of darkspawn blood.
WHEN: Early Firstfall.
WHERE: Mountain paths and what's left of Haven.

N—

Bunch of mining tunnels under ruins. Darkspawn peeking their heads through. Got Wardens up there don't you?

—J

Comments

[liberalum]

"I suppose the obvious question, 'what sort of Templar business?', would be cruel exploitation, then."

Dorian settles his gaze on the two figures astride their horses ahead of them, although his attention remains contained to the conversation. He considers his wine, and his horse protests its bit with a mild headshake. He considers Baratheon. Hill. Decides--

"Regardless, the mysteries of the southern Templars may remain as such, as far as I'm concerned. Perhaps we ought to remain on topic instead. Tell me, what compelled you from one secret-keeping shield-bashing demon-slaying fraternity to yet another?" He nods, ahead of them, indicating the Antivans, and lets his tone drop into flat, wry affect; "The company?"

[byblow]

Alistair's laugh is neither flat nor wry. His horse's ears swivel back toward him until he pats her neck reassuringly. "Actually, yes. I didn't have a lot of friends at the abbey. They hated me so much they moved past wanting to get rid of me and into wanting to keep me. Thought I would embarrass the Order." He sounds more nostalgic than offended. "They weren't wrong. But they--" A nod toward the two men ahead of them, as representatives of the Grey Wardens on the whole. "--like me all right. I think. And they're sort of charming, aren't they?"

Rhetorical. Of course they are.

"I'm assuming that's why you've come South," he says. "The company, not those two specifically, since they're not Southerners."

[liberalum]

There's a sideways glance and a lifted eyebrow at that guess turned back on him, some private amusement at his own expense he opts not to share with the rest of the class.

"The company, the cuisine, the scenery," Dorian agrees, instead. He allows rhetorical question to stand; the Antivans may be very Antivan, but at least they have senses of humour, which is more than he can say for practically three quarters of the rest of the Inquisition, full of dour southerners who hate him on principle and don't laugh at his hilarious jokes.

But his list isn't done. "A supremacist Tevinter cult run south to cause mischief, one that represents just about everything wrong with my homeland. Oh, and the weather."

[byblow]

"Well now I know you're being sarcastic," Alistair says, like he hadn't cottoned on at cuisine or, arguably, before Dorian spoke at all, ever. He has one of those faces. "But go back to the cult, please, sorry? They don't let us out much."

That isn't true, physically speaking, of course. But Wardens are very focused. Insular. Until the dots looked like they might connect, the Inquisition's troubles seemed very distant--and minor, to people not in the habit of concerning themselves with anything except the Blight.

[liberalum]

"The Venatori," Dorian supplies, with a sideways glance at Alistair. "A cult of Tevinters with specific interest in seeing our national majesty restored, or the ancient version thereof that Corypheus recalls. Very patriotic, not a little bit insane."

'Fondly exasperated' might be the affect, but there is a truer, underlying revulsion beneath Dorian's tone. That something such as that could come out of the Imperium, even if it's really existing latent sentiment given physical form. Motivation.

"They travelled south with Magister Alexius, and his son, Felix, the sickly fellow you might have seen hardly ever leave his room, in Skyhold. Together, we attempted to signal to the Inquisition that Alexius and his Venatori were attempting to bring a faction of rebel southern mages under his leadership, or rather, the Elder One's leadership. They'll be the uppity ones in robes and big sticks you've noticed wandering around," because he is a friend to poor, sheltered Grey Wardens. "And thus, here I am."

[byblow]

"Here you are," Alistair agrees, musing and thoughtful. "You know, a good, rebellious Tevinter isn't the strangest thing I've heard of happening, lately, but it is up there. Someone should write it down so we don't forget about it in the rest of this mess. Maybe in a few different places, in case the Chantry tries to burn it."

In case anyone was wondering why Alistair and the Revered Mother and Various Sisters at the abbey didn't get along.

"I did know a bunch of Tevinters threw my uncle out of his castle," he says, skipping the not my real uncle explanation, for brevity's sake. "I didn't know they were more insane than usual. Thank you for cleaning that up. Your friend, too."

[liberalum]

"Ha. They won't forget me. Better men have tried."

Jauntily, confidently delivered, equal parts jest and truth. Dorian hasn't exactly been discreet as to his affiliations, or uninvolved from what constitutes (laughably) as politicking amongst the motley crew of leadership. His feet idle in his stirrups with a shift of leather and metal.

"And you are, of course, very welcome. It was a terrible infestation, but that's Tevinter -- we typically prefer to travel in swarms. Now, did you refer to the Arl of Redcliffe as your uncle? What a charmingly small world we live in."

[byblow]

Alistair grins wide, the kind of rim that stands in for laughter when the mood doesn't quite call for it. He can imagine Dorian makes an impression on everyone, even if he doesn't throw things at them from on high as an introduction.

"Not my real uncle," he says, belatedly, with some regret. "My mother was the old Arl's servant, and my father was his and Arl Teagan's brother-in-law. They took me in to protect their sisters' honor or something." Or something. Queen Rowan had been dead for years by the time Alistair was born. But that's the story he was told. "I haven't seen them since the Blight, now--" He is, technically speaking, exiled. "--but they're good men."