faderift | III. SEMI-CLOSED.

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III. SEMI-CLOSED.

WHO: Dorian Pavus and the continued adventures of less dashing people.
WHAT: After briefly reuniting with his father, Dorian returns to Skyhold to navigate the current local turmoil and not have feelings where anyone can see.
WHEN: The latter half of Haring.
WHERE: 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!

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Hand in place, magic is swift to follow. A faint green gleam glimmers over his leather-clad ankle, seeming to sink past the tough fabric and ostensibly to the bruising below. Dorian's nose wrinkles, and his fingers move; the next moment, a few runic symbols settle on the same spot, glowing blue-white, and a mild amount of frost colours white over brown. A touch of healing and a touch of cold, and he's done by the time the rifter has given his explanation.

Dorian turns a look back over at him, a little brighter than it was before, thanks to kindled amusement. "They also know he's a Tevinter," he says, "or that he says he is. And I'm a Tevinter. Surely, we must know each other, it's such a small country. Is that why you got me?"

That word did come up. One that Marcel does not yet really understand, evidently. "Partly," he says. "I'm not sure. Mostly, seems like being a 'Magister' is a pretty big part of this guy's gig, and that seems linked to. Tevinter. Culture." Does Tevinter describe a group of people large enough to have its own culture? He'd gone for some hours thinking it was actually a surname, before determining that was rather unlikely given that Pavus was a few letters apart and naming conventions are fairly similar to the ones back home.

He'd asked around a little. Gotten some irritable comments about money and irresponsibility and corruption. The plot had thickened, in the days since he'd spoken to Samouel.

"You all get to live to be real ancient and super powerful, or is that just the Tevinter Magisters?" He juts his chin at Dorian's ankle, the most recent evidence that there's something to him, anyway. "You on your way?"

"I'll likely walk again," is droll, settling both feet back on the ground and tentatively flexing his ankle. "My talents usually run hotter and scarier, but a little light healing isn't beyond me."

With that out of the way, Dorian can focus on Tevinter Imperium, 101, because it doesn't surprise him in the least that the rifter can't get a comprehensible explanation out of a southerner. "I will say that much of what we understand Corypheus to be is based mainly on what he himself has told us, and what we theorise about our ancient history. But let's start with a glossary, shall we?"

He turns his attention out towards the gardens, where another sparring match is beginning. Again, no magic is flung around, and it seems to clip at a slower pace than the fight he'd been engaged in.

"I'm a mage of the Tevinter Imperium, a country placed far north of where we are now. My father is a magister, which means he has a seat on the Magisterium, the upper house of the Imperial Senate. He isn't going to live to be real ancient, particularly when the life expectancy of a magister must have numerous assassination attempts factored in. Politics, you know. You'll catch your usual southerner calling any mage from the Imperium a 'magister' out of ignorance, and usually as an insult, what with us being so dastardly and so on. But otherwise, he and every other magister currently alive are as mortal as you or I."

(Funny joke. Dorian doesn't even think that he might be wrong.)

"Now, to speak of the ancient magisters. The story goes that Tevinter magisters of an ancient time opened the gate to the Golden City, with the purpose of usurping godly power for their own gain. Their corruption tainted the Golden City, turning it Black, and they were transformed into the first darkspawn and cast back into the waking world. Corypheus is one of these magisters, of which number seven. And all of this is the stuff of debate and mythology, you know -- the Imperium has its own version."

He tips a look sideways. "How are you following thus far? Tell me if I ought to slow down. Some of what I'm saying is common knowledge to the average Thedosian, and other parts obscure."

Marcel sits and listens. He is a good listener, actually, nearly as good a listener as he is a talker. A hundred and eighty-odd years ago, his interpersonal style had had to accommodate a house full of egos that could probably rival Corypheus' in terms of carelessness at the expense of others, interest in domination, blood spilled etc., etc. He'd learned the niceties from making nice with some of the most singularly terrifying people of his world.

Also very old ones. Who'd had a lot of history to catch him up on; he's not half bad at tracking that kind of thing either, as a domain of content. "I'm following all right," he answers, presently. "To be honest, part of me is stuck on seven.

"That's an unlucky number where I come from." Not culturally. Not exactly. Close enough, though. There had been seven Mikaelson children and every one of them had been trouble. "I think it says something about you that you know the, uh. Non-Imperium version. But I don't know what. Any case, I think I'm getting the picture you're painting so far. Power corrupts, and those politicians weren't exactly pure of heart to begin with." The Golden City, he files away for later. Sounds like it's approaching some Judeo-Christian concept or other, but he isn't sure which one.

"Supposedly they sacrificed slaves in the hundreds to enact the necessary blood magic to break into the Fade at all. You could call their hearts tarnished, yes, if they had any at all. History remains inconclusive as to that."

One knee over the other, arms at a comfortable fold, his way of speaking vaguely whimsical as his words dance about such topics as slavery and murder and the beginning of the end of the world.

"So began the Blight and the crumbling of an ancient Tevinter that sprawled all over Thedas. My country was consigned to fairer borders after a few wars that formed a religion, lost out on divine power to the Chantry of the seceding south -- and not to worry, we made our own -- and now the Skyhold blacksmith likes to spit in my direction if he suspects he can get away with it. That it was our fault that the First Blight ravaged Thedas is fact, the souther you go, but according to the Imperium Chantry, it's all revisionist southern nonsense, and darkspawn have always been here."

Dorian shrugs, a coiling, precise movement, rather than careless. "The appearance of Corypheus is confirmation, even if his word is hardly hard evidence. But why might he lie? A thousand reasons, one supposes, but I don't think so."

The part that Marcel likes the least is, perhaps predictably, the mass death and sacrifice of the slaves. However, it doesn't cut and burn and sting him like it would have a few hundred years ago. By now, he has assimilated a great many elements into his sense of identity besides slave, former slave, the like, and he has been a soldier, a king, a kidnapper, a brainwasher, a monster of the night. It's quite beneath him to grow squeamish at tales of bloodshed or even epic, political revenges.

But his expression grows brittle for a moment, the tidy shape of his smile freezing in place, his eyes going flat. It takes a few more sentences before the look on him thaws out and his cordiality turns organic again. You have to know what to look for to notice, but Dorian might. It's not exactly a pretty story to tell, and it does not invite a reaction of overwhelming delight. Unless maybe you happen to be reciting Corypheus an approximate autobiography.

"That's a Hell of a story. I appreciate you taking the time." Marcel rubs his cold dead hands together thoughtfully. He hunches a little further, ruminative. "Guess what I really want to know now, in light of that. What do you think? Whole thing seems to put you in an awkward position, if the blacksmith and the rest of the South has anything to do with it."

No one likes to hear about slavery. Of most of the things that come out of Dorian's mouth, flippant remarks about those specific practices ordinarily chill people towards him. Even the Herald had refrained from talking to him for a day after a line or two went crossed. But southern sentiment around slavery (while merrily building walls all the taller around alienages and slums) is nothing new.

That a rifter might have the same reaction is interesting, but not surprising. Some things are universal. Corruption and exploitation seem to bloom wherever the human condition gathers the thickest.

He doesn't ask. It's not his favourite argument to have.

Dorian smiles instead. It's a nice smile. "Have I gone and made it all about me? My apologies, I can't help it. It's just that I'm so interesting." He waves his hand. "The Imperium's corruption, its susceptibility to the sort of nonsense Corypheus spouts, can't be abided by. But I love my country for all its faults, and when all of this is said and I done, I refuse to have it go down in history for having never tried to help. Even if it's just me.

"And as for Corypheus, well, it isn't thrilling to know that we're to take the old legends at face value, now... but perhaps his inevitable downfall might be the boot up the arse the Imperium so desperately requires. Hope springs eternal, you know."

"There seem to be a lot of political revolutionaries working the war front," Marcel observes, winding a thumb into the hollow of his other hand. It's a human gesture, what people do when they are trying to keep their hands warm or coping with nerves. "I met a surface-dwelling dwarf with a low opinion of the intractable, uh. Subterranean types," is his best attempt at separating dwarf categories. "I guess we have that too. Institutions getting stuck in problematic ways."

Slavery apparently not qualifying as a problematic way, outside of mystical sacrifices that tear the fabric of reality a new one? Is he assessing Dorian's attitude correctly? Yes? No? Marcel toys with an obscure sense of disgust, but it's obscure indeed. Something about casually utilizing mind-control every other night to suck the blood out of the necks of anybody who happens to live alone. "Does the Imperium require-- a boot up the arse?" he asks. "People down here seem to think your people do a fair job looking after themselves. Yourselves," he amends, as diplomatic as he can be under the circumstances.

"What do you have to object to?"

They're getting away from Corypheus, he knows. He rather expects that Dorian will gently nudge the trajectory of conversation back to the war at hand. Which is not unreasonable. Marcel's purpose in inquiring is to determine the nature of this man he might be fighting alongside, should he find himself taking their side. You know, besides a mage with a very fancy moustache and tendency toward self-flattery that doesn't sound altogether earnest.

"Ha, well, you've not witnessed a house session in the Magisterium, and neither have the people down here. To put it as simply as possible, when the ruling class isn't patting each other on the back for being masters of the universe, they're trying to kill one another to get ahead. Attempting to put forth any kind of radical piece of legislation is an absolute death sentence unless you've drummed up sufficient support. Of the Pavus line, I have one ancestor who, during the Fourth Blight, managed to amass enough of a voting block to turn the tide away from waging war against a weakened south, but instead offer political reconciliation and support."

Dorian's smile twists wry. "He was later tried for treason and executed. That House Pavus remains standing at all is a testament to how embedded we are. But so it goes. It's an internecine system, and we do a fair job of looking after nothing, save for our own wine cellars."

It's kind of nice, saying all this to what is essentially a blank canvas, devoid of prejudice. An experiment, if you will. But his passion is quite real, even when spoken so conversationally.

"You'll find that most, here, don't understand why they really hate Tevinter. It's tied up in prejudice against mages, about our supposed constant use of blood magic, and the cultural aversion to slavery, or the idea of potential war, and then there's the Chantry's accusations of its part in the coming of the Blight -- but none of the every day present complications and attitudes that Corypheus is playing like a fiddle, and more importantly, nothing of its weaknesses. Among his forces is a group known as the Venatori, formed of Tevinters who buy his rot about elevating the Imperium back to its former glory, and so on. I don't know -- if we can expose Corypheus for what he is, something that's no more god-like than a monster crawled out of a bog, and find proof as to his history, perhaps then we can dislodge his supporters, and more, even after he's gone."

Edited 2016-01-14 11:41 (UTC)

The passion certainly sticks in the side of Marcel's mind, noteworthy. Mostly, though, he notices how specific and terrestrial the whole affair sounds in Dorian's words. A thing apart from Sam's vague yet equally determined quest to topple evil from its violent, reality-orificing ways. It's the difference between a strategic move at the Senate and taking a sword to the neck of a monster.

It's not entirely foreign to Marcel, however, that these two kinds of approaches might somehow converge. "I think you'd find a pretty solid audience, if you wanted to expand on the subject of Tevinter weaknesses, if you felt like sharing," he says, eyes crinkling a little. It would be great if the matter of slavery would go away, but it's all right. Maybe it'll keep him humble in between brainwashing his thrice-weekly meals. "I also think I'm due to be impressed, that you've made such an account of yourself with the people here. Despite the prejudice." Though the subject of Tevinter hasn't come up all that much in his day-to-day dealings, he believes Dorian in his illustrations of the pervasive attitude toward the Imperium.

"I think you're making the right move. Joining the effort. Something about the greater good, right?"

Who can't get behind the greater good. Marcel smiles wider and it goes all the way up to his eyes. He picks himself up off the seat, but not to leave. He wanders past Dorian to the tree shading the mage, reaches up to steal a dying leaf off its bow. Casually then: "What's the deal with blood magic?"

"I appreciate your outsider's perspective."

A hint wry, in the way he is always a hint wry, but there's no real reason to think that Dorian is really making fun. Part of him wonders if he's chattering his hopes and dreams at agents of Corypheus themselves, and another part of him wonders what would happen if that were true, and how interesting. But most of all, he knows a fish out of water when he sees one.

Dorian sits back a little in a slouch that somehow doesn't seem lazy or unguarded, watching Marcel rise and wander. Something a little steely glints in his grey eyes, and his mild smile doesn't wan.

"In what sense? What is it, or is it you hear it disparaged so frequently?"

Has he? Marcel thinks back, does recall the phrase being dropped here or there in spooky tones of voice-- disparaging too, now that he considers it. His brow furrows slightly, thoughtful. Not too squirrely. There is definitely no reason to believe that this handsome stranger from the Rifts would know anything of blood magic or possess abilities that might be categorized as such.

"If you could start with the basics," he says. "I don't know what it is. Besides that I'm gonna assume, it's more-- risky than the usual kinds. Our culture does have stories about that kind of thing." Turning into an immortal, nocturnal creature with a series of abilities that violate the bodies and minds of ordinary human beings. Maybe a little bit of vodou, Santeria, the old classics. Blood almost always meant sacrifice, back home; he's careful not to make assumptions about the connections here.

But something about the way Dorian looks at him now elicits curiosity. He crushes the leaf in his hand, wiggles dust off his fingers. Pruning.

"Even the basics might take some adjustment to navigate between cultures, but I'll attempt not to lead you too far afield."

That Marcel is asking at all isn't too concerning; blood magic is hot in the mouths of those that distrust mages, including mages themselves who don't trust their own kind. Whatever kind of taboo it is, it isn't one that must go unmentioned. Then again, Dorian doesn't give the impression that he has many boundaries in what he should or should not mention.

He's inspecting his nails as he begins. "You should know what isn't blood magic, first and foremost. The basics of that is magic in its own right, which is a product from the Fade. A certain energy that alters reality, and mages are those born with the ability to shape it. A mage draws magic from the Fade, you see. Ideally. A blood mage draws magical energy from the inherently magical properties of blood -- his own, or that of others. Sacrifice. It was the use of blood magic and mass murder by the ancient magisters that led to the corruption of the Golden City, along with their sundry, more usual sins.

"Because of that little piece of religious mythos, common opinion is that blood magic is an inherently evil form of magic, and only madmen or magisters would dare trifle with it. Well, that, and that a blood mage will more often than not require the blood of others instead of his own to gain power. It also opens a host of other magical spells of sinister nature -- mind control, for instance."

Dorian's expression never changes, or shadows, or looks aside. He's long since between able to shelve his own experiences and carry on removed of them.

"Templars will slay blood mages on sight, and even in Tevinter, no one would openly admit to using it, but you can rest assured they'll use it behind closed doors. In my opinion, it's a poor excuse of a mage that resorts to blood magic, but it isn't in itself an evil thing unless used for evil, yes? But it does gradually deaden a mage to their innate connection to the Fade -- a steep cost for a little power."

Marcel sets his back against the tree, the coarse surface of bark reassuringly solid behind his back. He looks at the mage's face. He looks at the mage's fancy fingernails. He manages not to fidget with his own fingers during this description of blood magic, its various permutations and associated moral attitudes. None of it is all that surprising, of course!

It's nice that some themes remain constant between universes. He should probably actually be wondering how his blood-drinking undead nature will be received when the revelation comes out, but it doesn't occur to him to be, you know. Self-conscious. More cautious than he's already being. Anyway, Dorian has a bad knee and a medieval manicure, he's hardly going to be the one to instill in Marcel real paranoia about his own wellbeing. "People used to cut up chickens where I come from," he says. "Guess some of the witches would drip a little blood on something here or there. That's a different branch from anything I practice."

'Practice.'

"Seems like your politics are harder on the subject. I guess the nature of the donor has something to do with that. And the legacy of mass slave murder doesn't help, fictional or not." Mind-control. Heh heh. Heh. Marcel's hands and eyes are steady because he's a carnivorous monster of the night. "Can you actually do it with animal parts? If push came down to shove, and you needed the edge," he clarifies. "Would it matter, if you only did it once?"

"Would it indeed? In my view, not really, if used to augment other magics, and as long as you bleed yourself and the circumstances necessitate it-- what's a little self-respect, in the long run? And animals lack the sufficient spiritual energy, I believe -- otherwise that might have solved some problems. Reputation, and rat infestations."

Dorian smiles again, shiny, like a knife in the sun. "But why the curiousity? Or are you grasping desperately about after the things that sound important? I wouldn't blame you."

Marcel weighs his options internally, studying the moustache across from him. He wonders why Dorians clothes are so asymmetrical, and suspects he should have mugged somebody with slightly racier taste; he has nice biceps too that would benefit from all that. He should probably be a touch more concerned about the mage's inquiries, but he's too accustomed to prevailing as society's apex predator to really act like anything else.

"Wanted to know if the rules are the same."

He smiles easily, not too wide. And moves past the subject quickly, not evasively, but just like it wasn't all that important a diversion. Somewhat more pressing: "So does that mean you're worried about turning into darkspawn, yourself? I hear this means that you're on the front lines, even if you budget your soul for magic a little wiser than those people."

Edited (wordings) 2016-02-04 02:19 (UTC)

Dorian laughs in usual understated, breathy way, innately condescending, but let's be real -- that's just how his face is.

"I'm in no danger of entering the Fade," he points out. "Not physically, anyway, even if I'm pulled there in my dreaming. What I'm in danger of," and he says that like there are quotation marks around it, one apex predator talking to another, "is becoming an Abomination. A mage who's been possessed by a demon in their dreams, and wakes up a monster. A different thing from a darkspawn, but lacks the taint of the Blight. It's the danger all mages pose, theoretically."

He waves his hand, and then gets to his feet, only slightly tentative on his foot before settling his weight. "But I'm highly skilled, making it an unlikelihood. I was educated, not beaten over the head with fear."

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