lovingvambrace | For pavus

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

The taste of ash lies thick in the air. For once something manages to overpower the foundry stench and blacken the perpetual orange of Kirkwall's night sky. Rubble lies massed in the streets, flung from the highest point to almost the lowest. Insanity and sudden chaos in the wink of an eye, a fateful explosion that has Cullen still blinking back blue lines, negative light impressions burned onto retinas.

Knight-Commander Meredith has left the Champion with an ultimatum that she not surprisingly doesn't take, murder her companion and choose their side, or the mages will all face the consequences. Hawke has vowed to fight to the bitter end to protect the mages of the Circle from the Right. Cullen privately hopes that she'll keep that word whether he agrees with her sparing of the abomination or not. This is all moving too fast with blame falling in the wrong quarter. The right answer isn't more blood. Meredith is implacable with all of them drawn along in her wake of righteous fury.

Cullen doesn't stay silent, arguing about the Champion. Surely arrest will be enough. Kirkwall's nobility won't stand for one of their grudging own being murdered by the arm of the Chantry. It isn't their place, Viscount or no Viscount in office. To his surprise, he earns concession on that front.

Then there is no more room for talking. They come upon their first wave of demons and abominations slaughtering unfortunates. The night turns red and black, a mist of blood and ichor. Cullen bashes his way through wave after wave of evil torn straight through the Veil, called by violence and horror. His sword arm burns. His shield feels as though it gains twenty pounds of its own volition, all of that before they reach the Docks District.

He hears a sound up toward the boarded up Qunari compound, more fighting. He peels away from the main force following Meredith, promising to catch up shortly, and runs up the steep steps. Breathless at the top, he sees flashes of fire past the barrier. He throws his weight behind his shield and bashes it in enough to gain entrance. A lone figure stands in the long abandoned plaza battling demons with magic and not an abomination himself. Without further thought, Cullen charges into the fray. "Aid behind you!" he shouts. He doesn't want to be mistaken for another enemy in the fight.

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"Again, my secret is I treat them like normal people as they are." Dorian really doesn't see why that's so hard for everyone else. He knows it's his upbringing and how mages are in Tevinter but it can't be that hard. "They were afraid of me, at first, you know, some of them. I was a Tevinter Magister to them, never mind I never made that rank, but I was almost as scary as a demon to them."

It had been incredibly insulting but Dorian dealt with it as he always did by proving them wrong. He didn't suddenly become a sweet, gentle soul. He was himself and they came to see he was actually a person.

"There are defined political and class structure in Tevinter but if you're going to keep these mages in your Circle system you need to let them see you are a person otherwise they'll live in fear of their jailors." He shrugs, it's simple to him but he knows things are different here.

He rolls his eyes at Cullen's gentle reminder of the wager. He doesn't rise to the bait.

"There's more to it than that," Cullen says, glancing at him. He takes a leisurely bite of ram while thinking of how to put it. He's not completely sure why it matters to him if Dorian understands or not, but it does. It's not just a matter of thinking mages are less than people, although to his shame there was a time he held that harsher view.

"As templars, our duty and charge is to watch them as well as protect them. There's a very real risk that if you get too close to someone and they turn, you'll hesitate. You'll hesitate, and an abomination will rampage through the entire wing before anyone is the wiser. They will never be free of fear when they see me, and I can't afford to lose sight of why I'm here. When templars and mages are too close in a Circle, that Circle falls. I haven't just heard it. I've lived it."

"Would it make you feel better to know that when a demon takes over the mind of the mage is gone?" he offered. Tevinter mages studied possession a lot more than anyone in the south ever had. Since they dabbled in blood magic so often they had to be aware of what happened to the mage. "Ancient Tevinter texts say the mage's mind is in the Fade, unaware of what the demon is doing with their body. There are even some texts that speak of entering the Fade and pulling the demon out. Unfortunately there's not much on how just that it was done."

He wants to point out that there are hundreds of reasons a Circle could fall including that it is a flawed system. He holds his tongue. He doesn't want to insult his only ally here. "There's nothing wrong with being kind now and again. The happier the mages are the less chance they'll turn to blood magic or demons. Some will, some you least expect..."

His voice trails off as he remembers his father and then he shakes his head. "But the majority simply want to learn to control their powers and live their lives."

"Not really. It's still a matter of training and basic human nature. If you're close to someone, you're going to hesitate when that hesitation will cost lives. Templars are human, too. The reasons behind our methodology aren't cruelty for its own sake." He takes another bite and follows it with some vegetable, chewing methodically and quickly. That's also habit. Eat what he can when he can, because there's no way of knowing when it will be interrupted.

"I'm all too aware of that." The ones that turned, some of them at least, he never would have expected. He frowns.

"Until there is a way to know, this is how it has to be. Not all of us want to bow under the yoke of powerful magisters." He holds up a hand to show he's not trying to start an argument. "It may be there's no true balance to be had, but as things stand right now I think we can both agree that neither Tevinter nor the South have stumbled upon the right answer."

Oh, how he could argue basic human nature. Dorian didn't. His past was his past and he is not going to talk about them with a man who is still practically a stranger.

"There's always balance," Dorian scolds slightly. "The only thing that doesn't balance is a merchant's scale."

That's an old Tevinter saying and it makes him smile to say it now. It usually made a few people laugh at a Tevinter party. They were very far from that right now. The food is really different. "Tell me more about your plans for the evening."

That earns a snorted laugh. "That's a good one. I'll have to remember it." There's much truth to that in the Marches, too.

He looks out over the campsite, gathering his thoughts. "When it's dark, we're going to leave behind a party guarding the camp and take a small group out. We'll have black tabards, no glinting plate to give us away. We're going to see how many raider camps we can spot from a few different vantages and if any of them are small enough to take with our reduced forces. We'll hit them hard and fast. By morning the fog will be rolling in. That's when the real fun begins. We'll be tired, but we'll be ready and bring our reinforcements. We should be able to take out the larger camps then. We'll continue a northward sweep until we hit the ship supply lines. That's when the Viscount's forces come into play from sea."

"There is a spell I know that can make us move faster and fight harder for a brief amount of time," he said as he ran his fingers over his mustache. "When the fog rolls in I can cast that. We'll have an even bigger advantage."

He was not used to doing things like this but he was actually rather excited. The plan seem well thought out and not terribly risky. He would have to try and change his spells so they weren't quite so flashy. That would take some theorizing before they went out.

"But, do ask your men if they'll allow me to cast on them. I don't want to get accused of blood magic."

"I'll tell them to expect it." There'd be no asking. He has seen enough of Dorian to believe he's not a blood mage. If he can give them that sort of advantage, he'll take it. He'll be sure to brief Aveline, too, so that her own men and women can be prepared. The templars will actually feel the surge of mana. Her people won't.

"It's going to be an interesting time." It's clear he's ready for it and looking forward to it. He has been wanting to curb these criminals for a while now, angry that they've been taking advantage and preying on the outskirts while Kirkwall licks her wounds. They're about to find out she's not limping along quite that badly after all.

He polishes off his meal and sets his plate to the side to be scrubbed later. They don't want to attract wild animals and wind up fighting on two fronts. "Now we can rest for a bit and wait for darkness." He won't sleep. He's too keyed up for that, but he knows how to take advantage of down time when he has it.

"It won't hurt them," he reassures him. "It will just make them stronger and faster for a brief time. It's actually rather interesting, it's very slight time manipulation."

He stops himself before he goes in to the details. It's very risky magic and if he's not careful he could do something disastrous but it works on a very small, very brief scale. Alexius would be proud, he thinks.

"I have to figure out how to make lightning less visible otherwise I'll blind everyone on the battlefield not just our enemies. Maybe I should try ice magic," he muses, wiggling his fingers with a bit of mana flowing over them. "Flashy is not really useful to you and the others right now."

The thought of that makes him uneasy, something he's not quick to let on. Is there nothing the Tevinters won't touch with magic? Time, the dead, blood, even if Dorian himself stays away from that latter. "Ice would be quite useful in the fog. You're right that lightning would be to our detriment then, as well as in the dark. We don't want to alert them to us if we can help it."

Oh, eventually they would know they were being cut down and had warriors and mages in their midst. There's no sense in advertising to camps further away. He'll be advising minimal use of fire, too, for the same reasons.

"It's not my strongest magic, I'm afraid," he admits but doesn't let that thought linger in Cullen's mind. "By tonight, however, I will be unstoppable with it."

And then as the raiders started to die Dorian would really send those bastards in to a panic. Hopefully the Templars and Guards wouldn't panic as well. He frowns at the thought.

"Perhaps you should warn them that I work with Necromancy as well." It is unusual for him to care this much about the people around him. He typically cast whatever spell suited him without question. This is odd.

"Not lacking in confidence. I'll give you that." He also knows he's not lacking in ability, at least not as far as he has seen for himself. He still vividly recalls the night he encountered him in the old Qunari quarter.

"I'll be sure they know what to expect." It won't do anyone any good if they panic or fail to understand what is actually going on. They aren't going to like it. Cullen doesn't like it. He doesn't have to like something to recognize its usefulness.

He pushes himself off the driftwood log he's using as a seat and settles directly into the sandy soil with a few shifts to work any lumps out beneath him. Now he can lean back against the large sea faded bole and prop his head to relax. One hand comes to rest just above the line of his sash.

"Confidence that was earned." He was considered a prodigy of a mage back in Tevinter. Not all of it through so called "natural talent" but hard work, incredibly hard work for his father's approval. A lot of damn good that did him.

He wrinkles his nose at the idea of sitting in the sand. It would take forever to remove the grains from his robes but apparently his friend is relaxing the night they charge in to raider camps.

"You needed this," he says, studying him. "To get away from it all and charge in to danger."

He's a bit amazed by that. Who found battle relaxing?

He snorts softly. "Desperately if you want the truth of it. I never saw myself as the administrative sort. Staying cooped up behind that desk all the time with endless paperwork isn't why I drilled countless hours in plate mail under a beating sun."

No, never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be a Knight-Commander under any circumstances, much less these. Being out on the open on the hunt gets his blood pumping like few other things can. Knowing there's no ambiguity in it is even better. They're not hunting frightened children and youths. They're not even hunting crazed demon worshipers. Just bad men and women up to bad things who should have thought twice before bringing their brand of depredation here.

"I have a mind, yes, and I've never been afraid to put it to use. But this... This is what I know." Tactics for out thinking the enemy, then training for out fighting him.

"Why did you join the Templars and not the military or guard?" he asks, his natural curiosity taking over. Dorian couldn't help but be curious. He found himself in the company of the Templar over and over. He has to know more.

He can't imagine what the answer will be but if Cullen enjoyed tactics and battle he would do a great deal more of that if he joined the Ferelden army or some city guard. Templar seemed a strange choice to Dorian.

Then again, anything with Templars felt strange especially ones that smelled like lyrium constantly.

His expression goes a little far away. It's difficult to connect to that time in his life. He's so far removed from that idealistic boy, so jaded now, but if he lets that color his answer, then Dorian won't have the truth of it. It's easier to talk about with his eyes closed. He does so and relaxes down just a bit further.

"In Honnleath templars were seen as protecting people. Everyone, mages and those without power. Soldiers...well, soldiers served the king, and we didn't have much in the way of a town guard. They were a bit of a joke, old men with pot bellies and ill-fitting armor who marched around and thumped children on the backs of their hands for pilfering in farmer's stalls in the open market."

He cracks an eye open to look at him. "But the templars were grand. Disciplined, drilling, the arm of the benevolent Chantry, and before you laugh, try to understand my village was small and had an uncertain and frightening history with our one local mage of note, the unfortunate owner of the golem. Heady stuff for a young boy more quiet and introverted than his outgoing siblings. Our house was chaos. Happy chaos, but chaos. I wanted more, and I...perhaps naively believed that good intentions and hard work would be enough." A mouthful, he realizes, likely more than the man truly wants to hear. There's no taking it back now. He closes his eyes again.

"I imagine it's different when you're a mage. It...happens to you, not the other way around."

Now that's a story and not exactly the sort of thing Dorian is expecting. It's odd to picture. He's met Cullen when he's rather cynical and thinking of him as an optimistic young boy is a bit strange.

"I suppose that does explain it," he says with a slight not. As a child Dorian wanted nothing more than to be a Magister like his father. Those were the days when he thought he would be just like every other mage in Tevinter. How wrong he had been.

"Templars are a bit of a joke in Tevinter," he explains, "The Army is much more respected. I would never dream of enlisting. That's for the lower classes. Yet, here I am with guards and Templars. My life is a very strange fever dream at the moment."

Dorian is not sure he likes it. He misses Tevinter a great deal and yet he's adjusting. It's a strange situation.

"All of Kirkwall is a fever dream right now, friend, and we're all sharing it. It surprises me that you've stayed with us, not because you're Tevinter and not because you're a mage. I wouldn't expect any foreigner of any nationality or skill set to invest in our Gallows issues. You may not have the coin to leave, as you say, but I am certain you could have done better for yourself than all of this." He sweeps a casual hand to include their encampment, but he means the larger picture, too.

"Maybe you understand my early motives better than I anticipated." Every now and then he sees a glimmer of an idealist in Dorian. It draws him at the same time it stings him. It hits close to home and reminds him of just what he has lost.

Dorian frowns because one of his dwarven contacts was willing to take him out of Kirkwall and on to his next port of call but he had stayed. He feels a sense of accomplishment here, helping these wayward mages who have no idea what to do with a little bit of freedom. He's fixing something. It's a good lesson for him when he wants to change his homeland.

"Ah, what's better than this. The annoying insects, the cold breeze, and the delightful name Wounded Coast," he says flippantly. No need for Cullen to know what kindness lurked in his depths. "Who would ever want to leave Kirkwall?"

"Mmm." It's deliberately noncommittal, the other eye cracking open to rest on him for a few. It's interesting, the small ways he deflects compliments or the faintest suggestion of them. If he were the sort to dig or pry, it's an inroad he'd explore.

He's grateful enough for his help that he doesn't want to risk alienating him. He closes both eyes again. His face is more relaxed than ever it is behind closed doors. "You'll have a place with us for as long as you want it."

He adds after another moment or two, "But when the Seekers come, I recommend setting your sights on a new shore. Might be the ideal time to go visit the queen in Denerim."

"Any word on when your mysterious and supposedly terrifying Seekers are coming?" he asked, still unsure if they were as scary as Cullen made them out to be.

They were a branch of Templars and the Chantry, he understood that, but why they were more threatening was not exactly clear to him. There were no writings available in what remained of the library and asking the other mages mostly got him the sorts of stories children told each other to scare themselves silly.

He really wished he had some concrete evidence about this organization.

"None. There's been no word at all out of Val Royeaux. It's...worrisome. At best it could mean they're occupied with something more pressing. At worst it means they've cut us off and are preparing for war. I have some eyes set in the Vinmarks. We wouldn't be caught completely flat-footed. If it happens, though, it won't be good." He'd do everything in his power to be sure to minimize the blame. He's not sure how much power he'll have in that situation. Seekers are notoriously hostile toward templars and will do as they see fit with or without his say.

The trouble in his expression is somewhat quick to melt away, though. He's still focused on their current objective. "Whenever it happens, it will still be a while yet. We'll have time to get you well away."

"I would offer to help but I have no contacts in the southern Chantry to ask," Dorian says with a shrug. His name would probably have people turn away and run in Val Royeaux.

He waves a hand at Cullen's concern. "Don't worry about me. You have enough on your shoulders and I am quite good at taking care of myself. You know, competent mage and all."

He's bothered that Cullen thinks he needs to escape before the Seekers arrive and that Cullen might think he would run just because some buffed up Templars walked n to Kirkwall. He's not sure which idea bothers him. The idea that he's bothered at all is really bothersome as well.

"Right, I forgot." The words come in something of a lazy drawl, likely more because he's teasing him than because he's getting anywhere near sleepy. No, it's a different sort of relaxation, the calm before a storm. "I'm not supposed to be concerned. My humblest apologies, Messere Mage."

The curl of his lips is entirely too smug, all the more so because his eyes are still closed.

Concern implied care and Dorian didn't know what to do with things like that. Sarcasm is much easier and safer. Still, he's tempted to kick sand in the resting Templar's face for being a little shit. Dorian's the sarcastic one.

"The correct way to address me is Altus Pavus," Dorian corrects in his best haughty Tevinter voice. It is as natural as breathing to slip back to that superiority. "You would do well to remember that."

That's better. He feels back on equal footing now. He imagines Cullen is going to laugh at him for this. He feels oddly okay with that.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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