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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"Maker give me strength not to choke you for your deliberate mispronunciations." Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow, soft breath. He's being toyed with and he knows it. He shouldn't get upset. It still irks him.

"History and languages. I speak Orlesian, Antivan and Dwarven along with common," he says when he decides Cullen is worth speaking to again. "I have a mind for those, I suppose. Another thing that drove my teachers mad. I'd be reading one thing in a class on another subject."

It's not often that he's the one getting to someone else. One side of his mouth ticks up. His eyes light with enjoyment. However, he also knows when enough is enough and doesn't keep prodding. There can be a fine line between good natured teasing and outright bullying or browbeating. He doesn't want to cross that line. He likes the man far too much for that.

"I'm impressed. I speak a smattering of Elvish, mostly what I picked up in the Tower from the few Dalish we had there." He doesn't speak enough of it to have a fluent conversation. He merely knows a few words and common phrases.

"We'd never have gotten away with that as recruits." Failure to be disciplined was a one way ticket to home and shame.

"Oh, I didn't get away with it." But that is all he's going to say on his past within Tevinter's circle schools. He does not want to pick at that particular wound today. It's almost pleasant except for the looming boat ride. "It's why I'm not in the military, you see, no discipline, to free thinking, rebellious. Oh, and nobility."

He would make a horrible soldier. Knight-Enchanters were incredibly powerful mages but strict and rather regimented in their thinking. Dorian was quite happy being his rebellious, free thinking self.

"And the armor is horrendous. Look at you, no sense of design and beauty in the armor at all. Just bits of plate struck together."

"Nobility, yes. Don't remind me, or I'll start thinking wretched things." His opinion of most nobles is about as low as his opinion of Orlesians. In his experience they're self-important, mostly useless, and cause more problems than they solve with a very few exceptions. In that respect, Dorian differs. He has been very useful and shown he's not afraid to get his hands dirty.

"Oh, it's much more than that. These bits of plate are custom fit to every templar, minimizing openings for weapons, maximizing mobility. The design is tried and true for what it's meant to do. We're not here to look pretty. We're here to do a job. Our mail keeps us alive for it, and is readily recognizable. That's all it needs to be." For all that he sometimes wishes he didn't have so much weight on him nearly every waking moment, he appreciates his armor. It has saved his life on many occasions, such as with the most recent spider attack. It's hard for him to imagine wandering unarmored. He has been in it for longer than he was without it in his life.

"I'm Tevinter. You're already thinking wretched things." Dorian can't be a typical noble out in the wilds like this. He doesn't have the money and the standing for such antics. He does act like it a bit but out of habit. Habits that are changing.

He lets Cullen lecture about the armor with a small smirk. He got one over him with that comment like he knew he would. "Oh, sorry, were you saying something? I was busy thinking of other things more important."

Cullen rolls his eyes. It's only because there are witnesses he's not stooping to grasp a handful of sand and fling it at him for that. So he can give as good as he gets. It's something to keep in mind for future conversations.

His mild pique doesn't last for too long and is driven away by the sight of the ferry sails. "There's our ride," he says entirely too cheerfully. Everyone lines up and waits for the prow to slide smoothly up against the beach before boarding. Cullen settles himself midway. He finds that spot to have the least overall movement. He lifts his face to the salt air and squints against the glint of sunlight on water. It would be more beautiful without damaged Kirkwall looming ahead of them and an empty spot in the sky line where the Chantry once stood.

Once they hit the Gallows docks, he takes Dorian aside for just a moment to murmur, "Seven thirty for tea. I'll see you then."

He has several things to attend before he'll have some free time. It's nice to have socializing to look forward to. He contemplates breaking out his chess set. Either way, he anticipates a decent time of it and approaches his paperwork with less resignation than most days.

The ferry back is miserable. Dorian sits with his head between his knees. One of the mages rubs a hand over his back, trying to help him through his rolling, angry stomach. The waves aren't even that bad but they still make Dorian feel like he is dying.

He nods at Cullen when he's pulled aside, not up for speaking until his stomach settles more. They have sad news to deliver to the other mages when they return. He leaves that task to the man who might become First Enchanter. It's not his place to say words about mages he barely knew.

When the time comes for tea and Cullen's company, Dorian takes a moment to check his hair, mustache and robes before he makes his way over. Yes, it's just a meeting between friends but he can't help but want to look his best.

"Tell me you put aside your work and remembered our meeting."

Cullen smiles at Dorian's arrival and stands from his seat near the tea table. There are two chairs at the table. Offset from that is a cushioned bench before a currently clean and bare fireplace. It's not nearly cold enough for such a thing. The one large window shows the deep purple of fading dusk and reflections from the brazier in the corner and the candles on the mantle. The door to his bedroom opposite the entrance to the antechamber is shut.

"If I haven't, then I'm woefully under dressed for work." He smiles and gestures toward the other chair. He's wearing a comfortable looking navy shirt tucked into dark brown breeches and softer boots than usual that lace at the front rather than the back.

"I've been waiting to put the mint in the pot until you arrived." He turns and tosses a couple of generous pinches of fragrant dried leaves into the teapot and pours boiling water from an enchanted kettle, then covers it to steep. "It shouldn't be long. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He was not expecting to see Cullen out of armor. It actually makes him hesitate a second before he moves in to the room and takes a seat. If this was someone else Dorian would say he was being romanced. He knows better, though. This is tea between friends.

"I suppose it would depend on what work you were doing," he muses as the scent of mint rises from the steam in the pot. "You look dressed for political correspondence but not fighting demons."

Dorian, of course, looked his best in his robes. He's horrible at dressing casually like Cullen is. Then again robes are comfortable unlike heavy armor.

Edited (whoops) 2015-04-26 18:18 (UTC)

"If this look says politician, then I should burn this shirt after tonight." Cullen chuckles and takes the other chair, stretching his legs out comfortably and crossing them at the ankles.

"This is more comfortable than rocks on a beach, I daresay. I really don't ever have much occasion to make use of this room. I should change that. Things are stabilizing a little, enough that we can make a few attempts at civilization." He looks him over. If he's feeling any worse for the wear from the voyage still, he doesn't look like it now.

"You're all right?" It's offered casually. There's genuine concern behind the question. Despite their teasing on the beach, he took no pleasure in seeing him so ill.

"I fine. I'm merely not meant for sea travel." He waves a hand, dismissing his sea sickness as he would any other weakness. It wasn't encouraged in Tevinter to admit to flaws. "I am very good at being on solid, dry land."

He's especially good at being in large cities and places with sitting rooms. Dorian is most comfortable in this sort of environment.

"You should take time when you can. No one has worked harder than you to restore order. Don't forget the small comforts of life."

"Glad to hear it." Compared to a true sea voyage he has managed over time to grow used to the ferry. When he first arrived in Kirkwall, it was difficult to tolerate. Once more his thoughts turn to wondering how long they'll have their unexpected guest before he decides it's time to move on. Unlike the last time he had the thought, he realizes that when it happens, he'll miss him on a personal level. Funny that he only had to lose almost an entire city-state to gain a friend.

"I'm afraid more often than not such considerations are wasted on me. I've never slowed down long enough." He pauses and smirks lightly. "What you're witnessing this evening is almost as rare as our whale sighting."

He leans in toward the table to open up a small tin of cookies and pushes it closer to Dorian. "To go along with our tea. They're not fancy. They are quite good." They're crisp and light and browned nicely at the edges, thin sugar cookies.

"I remember those days when I was an apprentice. I would go days without sleep," he said with fondness in his voice. "Then usually collapse as soon as I found a bed."

It was better that way. He worked until he couldn't and then slept until he was ready to work again. It kept him away from alcohol and brothels. It gave him purpose, a direction. Now, all he had was the eventual goal to reform his beloved home.

"Are you hoarding sweets?" Dorian is surprised by the treats. He hasn't seen anything sweet in the mages' quarters. "I didn't expect you to have a sweet tooth."

Cullen laughs. "Are a dozen cookies a hoard? Why would I not have a sweet tooth? Who doesn't like cookies?" He says it as though it's unthinkable.

"There's a lady in Lowtown, the mother of a recruit we had here a few years ago. He was unhappy in Kirkwall. I helped get him a transfer to Ansburg. She has faithfully sent me cookies every week since and became quite irate with me when I suggested I didn't merit such an expense. So I've never said another word about it except to thank her."

He readies their tea cups and a strainer and pours each of them a cup of pale yellow-green tea. "There's also a bit of honey if you take it." Anything fancier is harder to come by right now and not something he'd waste resources on. He sets the small pot in reach of both of them.

"It's more than anyone has ever sent me." Dorian is reaching for a cookie when Cullen mentions honey. His eyes light up instantly. "Honey? Yes, please."

He hasn't had honey since he left Tevinter where it was common as anything. Many people kept bees or well, had their slaves keep the bees for them. His mouth is watering at the mere mention of it.

"It's been so long since I had some. Oh, now I wish I could give you this dessert we have that's layers of honey and nuts and pastry." Dorian sighs wistfully, a moment of sadness passing behind his eyes before it disappears. "My favorite treat as a small child was a little glass vial filled with honey."

So he has at last stumbled upon something that has the power to delight him. Since he has refused payment at every turn and seems more embarrassed with thanks than pleased, Cullen keeps quiet on his pleasure in the discovery and his plans to do something with it. This is enough for now.

"That sounds delicious. I wonder if anyone here knows how to make it?" He'll have to look into that. It's hard to picture the man before him as a small child eating honey from a vial. It's not so different from him and his siblings when their father would cut off slices of comb and set them into their waiting hands like treasure, no matter how his mother fussed later about the stickiness.

"Use as much as you like." He reaches for a cookie for himself to give him time to doctor his tea first. "I find it enhances the mint nicely."

"Here? I doubt it. There's barely any trade between our countries. I'd be amazed if you could find the spices for it here." He reaches for the honey as soon as its offered and pours two generous spoonfuls in to his tea. "I love ginger and honey tea. Maybe with a little bit of peach if it's in season."

He settles back in his chair with his hands wrapped around the mug, breathing in the scent of it. It's sweet with just the hint of mint behind it. Even the smell of it chases away some of the lingering sickness that was all in his head.

"It's difficult to find anything of my homeland besides ruins and what I managed to bring with me." He would not give up his robes and staff for anything, simple they may be in terms of his former Altus glory.

"We can hardly find common spices to the Free Marches in Kirkwall right now. I imagine you might have better luck in Starkhaven, or perhaps Wycome. The port trade is brisk there." It's also a touch warmer from what he has heard. He spoons a generous dollop of honey into his tea and takes a bite of his cookie while he stirs it.

"It must be strange to look everywhere and see echoes and shadows. Familiar bones beneath foreign construction. The Gallows...well, before the battle at least, were little changed. Less so than most of Kirkwall. There was no real need or desire. It lay empty for a long time."

He takes a small sip of his tea and finds it doctored to his liking. "I feel that way a bit sometimes when I hear Fereldan accents in the street. My eyes see a Marcher city. If I close them for a short time I'm there." Some days he indulges that feeling and others distances himself. He still has mixed feelings about Ferelden and what he endured there.

"What reminds you most of home here?"

"I'm not ready to move on but perhaps when I am I will head there next." Dorian has no idea when he'll be ready to leave. Right now, he really has no where to go, no place in mind that will take him. He has sort of found a place here with the mages but he knows it's temporary. He doesn't know how long that will be.

He sips his tea and sighs as the warmth goes through him while the honey coated his throat. It's almost like home except instead of ginger burning his nose, it's mint.

"The architecture in places, the statues, there are hints of Tevinter everywhere and yet it's overwhelmingly Free Marches in the end. There's an overwhelming amount of spit shot at me which does not happen at home." He should leave but something, or someone, keeps him here.

The faint smile comes before he knows it's there, and by the time he realizes it, it's too late to hide it. Really, what harm is there in being open that he's glad he's here, not leaving them any time soon? It's not as though it's knowledge Dorian would abuse or use to a bad turn.

He regards him over the rim of his tea cup when he takes another sip. It's not until after another thoughtful nibble of cookie that he speaks again. "It's ignorance," he says quietly. "If they knew how much you've done..." He sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly, and shakes his head. "Realistically, not much would change. These Marchers are such a stubborn lot. They still hate Fereldans when we've been fighting to rebuild their damned city as hard as anyone."

His cup lightly clinks his saucer when he sets it down again. "Some know the truth." It's as close as he'll get to gratitude again, since he knows anything more open will just earn scoffing discomfort.

He finds himself smiling in return. Someone appreciates it. What a dangerous thing for him to have a friend or someone he desires. He has been so careful about that since leaving even though the South seems more accepting.

"I don't mind. I know who I am and what I've done to help. I don't need their recognition." Though he would like some, maybe, something to remind him he's not the deviant his country would label him. "You've done most of the work. Don't count yourself out."

He will put the focus on Cullen, which is more comfortable for him. Or he'll talk about himself. He's very comfortable with that.

"If I needed recognition, then I chose the wrong vocation." He's still halfway smiling, keeping it light. "Still, it's hard to imagine that such unrelenting hostility doesn't grate or wear." As a Fereldan, he had been on the receiving end of resentment, but not the unbridled hatred he knows many feel for Tevinters.

"I know you impressed my men and women out there. Scared the Void out of some of them, too, but impressed them. We were better off with you there than without you. And the mages love you. It's very evident." In some cases it looks to him from the outside in like hero worship. It's not too surprising given the state of things.

He continues sipping the tea, letting the mint refresh and relax him. This time he keeps the cup cradled in hand and idly pushes it side to side between his thumbs, letting the handle be the stopping point for the reversal. "If I ask you something more personal, will it anger you?"

"Considering the fame some Templars have in Southern history you might be wrong about that." Dorian knows a bit of Southern history, not that much, but he knows many of its most prominent figures are Templars or related to the Chantry in some way.

He snorts. Of course he impressed them and scared them. His power is impressive and what he can do, raise the dead and manipulate spirits, would scare anyone. When he first thought of learning it scared him. "I act as the mages wish they could. That's why."

"I suppose that depends on the question," he answers carefully. He isn't sure what Cullen wants to know.

He tips his head in partial concession to that point. It's true that there are some templars who stand out in history as men or women of note. Compared to the thousands of others who die lyrium addled and in obscurity or fall to the hazards of the duty, they're few and far between.

"You honestly think..." He cuts off. He very likely does honestly think that's why the mages love him. It's the perfect segue into his question, and he wasn't even trying to direct it that way.

"Every time I thank you, or express positive sentiment your way, you..." He gestures with his free hand, a sideways deflecting wave. "Am I offending some custom of which I'm unaware, or is there some reason you don't want to hear it? As much as I enjoy having one over on you sometimes and getting as good as I give, I don't wish offense. Not really. Like just now. You don't really think the only reason the mages love you is because they want to be like you, do you?"

That is a question with a very complicated answer that Dorian really doesn't want to get in to. He's not angry, no, but bitter because the answer has so much to do with his ugly past.

"No, no, most mages in Tevinter want nothing but praise heaped on them and the more you praise them the better they feel about themselves." He waves a hand and looks away. His answer will have to be a careful consideration of what to say and what not to.

"They don't love me, they idolize, they envy," he says further. "They want the freedom I have. That's all. They may like me and enjoy my company but love is a bit much."

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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