V. CLOSED.

[liberalum]

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.

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.

Comments

[liberalum]

"That isn't exactly--"

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.

[aggregiopavali]

Of course he knew Danarius. Adrenaline pumped through Fenris' system, chasing away any sign that alcohol had been there. "Of course," he said through gritted teeth. Danarius did so love to give parties, to show off his prize pet, his little wolf. Fenris had been expected to perform like some freak show animal, and he did, because what else could he do?

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.

[liberalum]

Ow.

Two things happen when Dorian staggers back from the hit, clutching his beautiful face. 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 Fenris

was

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.

[aggregiopavali]

He had the Magister... mage... whomever Dorian was on the back foot and staggering. Good. This one was wary, respectful. Which meant that he was to be carefully watch, and on his guard. He padded round the room carefully looking for his opening. It came when Dorian turned out of his sight to look for him, and Fenris used the opportunity to dart forward and make the manoeuvre that would have the most effect short of reaching in for his heart - putting his hands round the mage's neck and tightening, choking the life out of him.

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.

[kremdelacreme]

Before Fenris could hit him again, though the elf's hands were around Dorian's throat and squeezing, Krem had stood from his seat against the wall, his knife drawn from the sheath at his him and held against Fenris' throat. His free hand was working under the clawed gauntlets and loosening the fingers gripping down.

"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."

[liberalum]

Hands on his throat is a certain level of unacceptable that does, finally, inspire Dorian to pull from the Fade. The air in the tavern that had been perfectly still and stagnant seems to shift with directionless wind, and the heavy, metallic scent of ozone hangs thick in the air, like storm has begun gathering in their immediate space.

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.

[aggregiopavali]

Fenris, luckily had a certain amount of defence against magic. Many thanks to Danarius for that, though it wasn't immunity. Fenris' fingers tightened for a moment, until a stranger came into his view... and a knife was at his neck. If he had a hand free, his hand would be round his heart, but since he didn't, he dropped his hands. He had no wish to die now.

"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."

[kremdelacreme]

The moment Fenris' hands left Dorian's neck, Krem's knife fell away. There, nobody had died and nobody had been hurt any worse.

"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.

[liberalum]

This is fine. There is blood inside his mouth from the first strike (although not as dramatic amount as Dorian is feeling in direct relation to it) and his throat is still opening itself up from the crush of elf hands, a hand steadying himself against a supporting post.

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."

[aggregiopavali]

Fenris faded out once again. Dorian could try to make him a shiny smear on the floor, but he would have Dorian's heart out before he could try. He moved closer to Dorian just to prove a point.

"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.

[kremdelacreme]

Krem had to fight not to put his head back and yell at the ceiling over all of this. Yes, it might have been stupid to pull a knife on Fenris to begin with, but it got the point across, and nobody was bleeding. Well, one person was bleeding, but it was superficial and would heal with time. He turned back to Dorian and shoved on his arm again, though not in a way that could count as actively hostile.

"You know what I meant though. Now go sit down, would you? You're causing a bigger scene all by yourself."

[liberalum]

Dorian isn't so unwise as to stop Fenris from walking out, even as he forsakes the last word for the cause. Tension is electric in his bones, enough that he jerks back and away to pace from Krem's mild shove, as precious about his space as a cat brushed the wrong way.

"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.

[kremdelacreme]

"Yes, yes, you are a spectacle all on your own just by existing in the general vicinity of other people. Calm your mustache." Honestly, what does the Chief even see in this man?

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.

[liberalum]

Dorian bridles, ever so, at what seems in his mind to be an unnecessary jab, assumptive and disparaging, but the most of his temper is spent, sodden and ashy, unlikely to respark as he watches Cabot grudging go through the routine of fixing his drink. Equally grudging, himself.

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."