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Entry tags:
V. CLOSED.
WHO: Dorian Pavus and Fenris (and later, Cremisius Aclassi and possibly more, TBA)
WHAT: Three Tevinters walk into a bar.
WHEN: Mid-Guardian.
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Probable violence.
WHAT: Three Tevinters walk into a bar.
WHEN: Mid-Guardian.
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Probable violence.
With much of Inquisition forces occupying Emprise du Lion, Skyhold feels its emptiest as it's been since those first early days. This is not a thing Dorian all the time notices in the privacy of the library, but does when it comes to the tavern, quieter than usual, winding down earlier. The errands that have seen his return to the headquarters of the Inquisition is complete, an errand that was more or less an excuse to get out of the snowy, red lyrium-riddled hellhole if only for a little while, and he is due to set out again at first light.
This has not stopped him from frequenting the tavern one last time, and staying there.
A drunk Dorian as compared to a sober Dorian is fairly difficult to tell apart, unless he is expected to use stairs, or do complex mathematics, or make good decisions. But he is ceasing before he actually passes out in a place he would rather not, draining the last of his brandy, as if it were in itself liquid warmth he could retain in preparation for the icy descent into Orlais.
He tips the barkeep a silver coin before getting to his feet, planning to go to bed, destined instead to catch sight of something intriguing, whether within the tavern, or out of it.
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"Vitae benefaria!" he called out to the barkeep, draining that last jug of ale, and slamming the tankard onto the table. "For once, the ale doesn't taste of piss in here!"
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Which in Dorian's world is always a good thing. Exclamations of the old tongue littered amongst common was standard, back north; here, it's a novelty. Rather than continue swan back out into the chilly outdoors, he says, "That's a sign of having drunk too much ale," just loud enough to carry as he instead finds a lean against a post in Fenris' path. He makes for a fairly gaudy attraction in the tavern, with new robes of scarlet, the sheen of metal glimmering between folds. Even the grow in of mountain-living scruff at his jaw is tidied. doing little to hide the twinge of a crooked smile he attempts to share side along at the elf.
Which is about when silver hair is marked, and silver lines drawn into flesh, which is enough to get impolite consideration even if it didn't niggle at memory. He's either seen it before or recognises something about it. "But if it gets out to my homeland that I have a fondness for Fereldan beer, they may not let me back in."
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He spots the mage leaning against the post as he walks out of the tavern, only staggering a little, and knows without him having to say a word. The way he carries himself is nothing like the mages of the south, let alone how he looks. Oh yes, he knows. "Oh lucky us. A Magister come to mock the south." He didn't think much of mages in general, but magisters held a special level of hatred for him.
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"The south makes it so easy," he says, blandly. He pushes out of his lean, hands up. "And come now, you seem like you know the difference between even a well-bred mage of Tevinter and a magister."
It's quite literally written all of Fenris' face.
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No, never mind. It's far too late in the evening to break down semantics, Dorian's hands coming together as he considers the man in front of him. Blood magic this and blood magic that isn't new, nor entirely unwarranted, given givens, but still a personal irritation all the same.
His voice flattens, lowers in volume, as he inquires; "Danarius threw a lot of parties, did he?" It's not really a question he cares to answer, so much as offering a point of familiarity.
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He'd survived.
With an almost casual move, he simply punched Dorian firmly on the jaw, watching with some delight as His sword may have been left in his room, but he was never unarmed. Danarius saw to that, and he activated the brands with a small grunt of pain, becoming like a ghost, and flitting out of the way, looking for his next route of attack.
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Two things happen when Dorian staggers back from the hit, clutching his
beautifulface. The first is he recognises that he spoke out of turn, in a real and tangible way that warrants apology, and the second is that he is far angrier than he is repentant. Less for the pain itself, and more for the shock of it, the indignity, his hip clipping a table and almost tripping back over a chair. He turns a furious look to where Fenriswas
standing, and open anger hardens into wariness as he darts a look around. Unlike what might be expected of magisters, or their sons, he doesn't immediately start throwing fireballs or spikes of ice, no magic in sight, but his fists do curl defensively as he turns to try and sight the elf.
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What was one less magister in the world, anyway? A good thing.
"I'm still seeking for a reason why I shouldn't just kill all Tevinter mages on the spot," he growled, his grip tight on Dorian.
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"Stand down," he barked, staring Fenris in the eye, putting himself between the elf and the mage. "You kill anyone here it'll be a damned riot."
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If Dorian has a reason for Fenris not to kill him, the close of the elf's hands don't help him along; his mouth parts, wordlessly.
But then Krem is there. Tongues of static electricity lick along Fenris' gauntlets and tease the hair at the back of Krem's neck, less uncontrolled so much as it is barely controlled. Upon feeling Krem's efforts, Dorian's hands come up to grip to Fenris' forearms, using the moment to try and twist away as Krem orders someone to stand down. Dorian can barely hear him, his own heart thundering in his ears, as much out of anger as anything else.
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"Vishante kaffas." He spat it out in disgust as he dropped his hands from the mage's neck. "One more dead mage wouldn't hurt the world. I'd be doing it a favor."
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"A dead mage in the middle of the Inquisition really seems like a good thing to you? Think, elf. Past your own hurts. Dorian's about the best chance for change in Tevinter that you or I or any of us have." Maybe a bit of an overstatement of Dorian's importance, but he'd much rather open a dialog than have this guy invoke the wrath of those in the hold that actually liked Dorian. "So cool your tits and sit down. Order a whiskey. On me.
"That goes for you too. Don't just jump to magicking someone because he's threatened you. Next time? Just kick 'im in the dick or something," he huffed at Dorian, then shook his head and pushed some on the mage's arm to get him walking toward a collection of empty seats.
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His pride feels like superheated metal, spitting and hissing, and as soon as Krem touches him, he shoves the younger man's hands away.
"Magicking," is repeated at a snarl, grey eyes flashing. "Rest assured, if I was magicking someone at any capacity, the elf would be a shiny smear on the floor before you could draw your knife. That was merely a warning," is now directed at Fenris. "Don't ever try that again. Nor dare class me with the likes of Danarius, and his disgusting proclivities."
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"A dead Tevinter mage in the middle of anywhere is a good thing to me," Fenris pointed out. As far as he was concerned, Tevinter was too mired in itself to ever contemplate chance, and one lowly Altus? It was never going to happen.
But he had a point about Danarius, and it made him pause for a split second before dismissing it, ignoring Krem's offer a drink and stalking out into the night, looking for his own room, and the wine he had there. Far better. He wasn't going to be anywhere near anyone who had pulled a knife on him.
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"You know what I meant though. Now go sit down, would you? You're causing a bigger scene all by yourself."
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"He had his hands around my neck, I'm rather sure you noticed. I've made spectacles for less."
Wine spilled on ivory satin, for instance. His books and notes misplaced when he'd been absent from the Skyhold library for too long. But his words, while sharp and slithery, lack the imperious volume of before, now that the true subject of his ire has left, and he turns a look to Krem. Sitting down. Having a drink. He drops his hands from where they had planted on his own waist.
Relenting, then, moving towards where the empty seats, and slowly, the tavern noise begins to pick up around them. Picking at the sit of his robe, Dorian kicks a leg over the other, before dragging his attention back up to Krem.
Gaining back his calm, reluctantly, faced with the fact he should probably thank the younger man.
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Once settled down with a flagon in hand, Krem doesn't seem to be expecting anything at all, let alone an apology. He just jerks his thumb at Dorian, telling Cabot wordlessly that the mage needed a drink too.
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Once it comes, he nods his thanks, and takes a deep pull. A half-pint of Fereldan ale. There's no complaining flinch, despite origin.
"Did you mean that?" he asks, eventually, in Krem's direction. Before he can be pressed for detail, he adds, "The bit about being the best chance for change."