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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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He chuffs an amused sound. "You can say that again. I'm afraid I'm not the best choice for diplomacy. I'd rather deal with the magic." He's trained for that, after all.

He tries to imagine what Queen Anora would make of a Tevinter noble showing up at the portcullis expecting an audience. To be a fly on the wall. The amusement lingers. It's the most cheerful he has looked in weeks.

His smile widens. "Animals are often better judges of character than people. A shame he was banished. I'd love to see a baboon one day. The drawings are so fierce."

He has nothing so exotic in his background other than the golem. "In the village where I grew up, there was a huge, frozen stone golem. Birds loved it. The last I heard the Hero of Ferelden somehow awakened it and traveled with it for a time."

"We both would." While he misses many things about his home, Dorian doesn't really miss the politics and backstabbing. He's more free than he's ever been. It's fantastic.

Dorian doesn't truly expect an audience with the Queen or the King. It might be nice if they were willing to listen to him but he has no real power here, not like in Tevinter. Denerim will be a fun distraction at best.

"They are but they're also intelligent animals. You can teach them like a small child, almost." He has fond memories of teaching his pet numbers and colors. Those were happier days.

"A working golem outside the Imperium?" His eyebrows go up in surprise. "That's quite impressive. They guard Minrathous."

"Mabari are like that, if children could rip out throats and disembowel horses." He shakes his head. It's such an unusual experience to speak to an animal and see genuine understanding behind the alien eyes. It has him even more curious about these baboons than before. "You know, they say the breed originated in Tevinter. I wonder if it's true." How much about the dogs is truth and how much legend? There's no real way to know these days.

He nods, as ready to warm to the topic of the golem as to pets. "Mind you, I've only heard the information at a distance. The golem was functional when the mage who owned it acquired it. Wilhelm, his name was. My parents have recollection of it moving about when they were much younger. It was deactivated by the time I was born. They say it killed Wilhelm. Or rather, he was found dead at its feet with it frozen in place."

He leans back and drums lightly on his desk. "When I was a little boy, my siblings and I would dare one another to run up and touch it. Or we'd pretend we were fighting it. It was shocking to hear Solona managed to wake the blasted thing up. I'm just glad it didn't kill her, too. There's no telling where it is now or what it's up to. They say it's sentient, if you can believe that."

"From what I've read of Tevinter history the ancestor of the mabari did originate from a Tevinter breed called the molossus used to fight lions and other dangerous animals," he explained, his eyes lighting up because he adores talking about history. "The molossus ended up in the hands of Ferelden barbarians and through time and breeding became the modern day mabari."

Modern Thedas owed a great deal to ancient Tevinter. Dorian could spend hours talking about the Tevinter contribution to all modern societies. They would be here all night if Cullen let him talk.

"Golems don't go inert, they don't die," he says with a laugh, "They have a spirit bound to the shape and spirits do not die. Think of it like sleep. With the right application of magic they pop back to life. I imagine your Hero found the right magic."

"Fighting lions. I could easily see it." There's almost nothing that can stand against a trained onslaught of a pack of war dogs. He's grateful that the few he has ever had to fight were feral and not coordinated by human trainers or Ash Warriors.

He shudders visibly. "It's awful to think of that thing just...asleep all that time, or worse yet awake and frozen. How it must have hated us all if that's the case. They put costumes on it for festivals. My brother liked it. I always thought it a ghastly thing. She must have. I haven't been back to the village since I left for my training. It's hard to imagine the town square empty." He doesn't even know if they ever rebuilt or if the village stayed empty after the Blight. The thought pricks him with guilt.

"Interesting world we live in, isn't it? No shortage of wonders and horrors." He reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose with steepled hands and pulls them slowly down and off the end of it. "What time is it? Do you have any idea?"

"They usually do better than the slaves tossed to them in the ring." Dorian said with a hint of distaste. It was one thing to make trained warriors and mages fight but executing criminals and run away slaves by feeding them to lions and other beasts never sat well with him.

He shrugs a shoulder. "It's possible they dream, they are Fade spirits. Nothing wrong with them going between the golem and the Fade. I never studied it in detail. I was more interested in death." A chilling but true statement. Necromancy was a fascinating field. It required much more skill than throwing balls of fire around.

Dorian glances out the window to see where the sun has gone. "Late, I'd imagine. Perhaps we should both consider sleep."

His expression of distaste speaks volumes. Of all the things that can be said of southern customs in comparison to the north, he can think of no sanctioned instances where people are tossed to animals to be torn to bits. He shakes his head to rid himself of the mental image.

"What's so interesting about death?" It's not phrased in the most diplomatic way, but his interest is sincere enough. To him death is an ugly, sometimes necessary business. He has seen plenty die at the end of his sword or bashed by his shield. He has witnessed others go in far more horrific or ignominious ways. The thought of studying it is foreign, to say the least.

He glances over his shoulder at the dark rectangle of window. It's not a bad idea, sleep, but it will also mean the end to a conversation he is finding more interesting than he expected. "Perhaps in a bit," he says.

"It's not the death itself but what it does to the Fade. You see, when souls move on the Fade is weakened and a talented mage can sense the Fade spirits that are drawn to that feeling," Dorian sits forward in his chair, his hands moving as he talked. "A Necromancer such as myself can draw on those spirits to terrify enemies minds or even take control of their corpses for awhile."

It might seem creepy to someone that Dorian would talk so openly and so passionately about death and death magic but he adores the mental challenge around it. The skill it takes makes him feel superior and he is.

"Death leaves an energy behind," he continues, "When there's enough of it the dead can linger like memories. It's why you find so many walking dead in places of mass death like battlefields or ruins. It's also why you might feel unease. The Veil is thin and dangerous."

Cullen knows enough of the Fade and how it works to be able to follow along. One isn't a templar for this long without exposure to some of the theories and the trappings. His brow furrows as he listens closely.

"But what led you to such a field of interest initially? It seems...well, pardon me for saying it, but it seems rather morbid. Was it a natural inclination?" He knows such is so for some mages, why some take to ice and not fire and so on.

Perhaps it's different in Tevinter.

His smile is sharp like a knife. "The challenge."

Mages in Tevinter saw necromancy as the art of Nevarrans and below them in many ways. Those who did study it usually delved in to blood magic sooner or later but Dorian did none of those things. He refined the school, made it respectable until his sudden departure.

"Necromancy is a very careful art because you can summon demons without meaning to or get overwhelmed and loose control," he explains with his smile easing slightly in to something more genuine. "I like magic more when there's something interesting to keep me coming back for more."

"I don't know if I find that arrogant or admirable, or some combination of both." Cullen waves a hand. His judgment hardly matters. This isn't Teviter, and Dorian isn't his charge.

He stands at last and stretches enough that his plate clanks in places where stretched past its natural overlap. "What I do know is that if I don't get some sleep soon, I won't be keeping up with any conversation consisting of more than three syllables at a time.

"You were right to bring this news to my attention. It's something we'll stay on top of and hope a lead breaks our way before this cult infiltrates Kirkwall. There are enough matches to our tinder as it is." He gestures toward the door. "I'll walk you until we split." His quarters are in a different part of the Gallows than Dorian's. They'll share a path down and up a few flights of stairs before the corridor finally branches.

"It's earned arrogance. I've worked hard to be this good," he says with pride, puffing out his chest a little. He's handsome and he knows it but his mind, his brilliance he earned that himself through hard work.

Dorian feels like he could stay up for a few more hours easily but he gets to his feet with Cullen and falls in to step with him. Walking shoulder to shoulder with a Templar. What a strange path his life has ended up on.

"I'll make sure to pass you any news I hear from my contacts," he says as he starts out of the office. "For now, sleep is the better option. It wouldn't do us much good to fight a cult with our eyes dropping."

Cullen likes him well enough by now to find himself hoping he doesn't ever have reason to regret that arrogance. He'd hate to see this man consumed by a demon or worse. He falls into step with him easily, pausing only long enough to shut and lock his office door for the night.

"Thank you. Agreed. I keep telling myself one day I'll see the proper side of a sleep schedule again." As much as he ever does with the nightmares. He's grateful in a strange way that he's so used to functioning at a deficit, or these past weeks might have killed him.

"The quarters you have are adequate? I've been meaning to ask and keep getting sidetracked." Their footsteps echo on the stone. The carpet runner was taken up some time back, bloodstained and scorch-marked beyond cleaning. Carpet and draperies are so far beneath concern at the moment he hasn't looked into getting them replaced. When some in Kirkwall are doing without food and basic shelter in their crisis, how could he ever?

"I have what everyone else has," he says, hoping not to give away how much he misses goose down mattresses and silk sheets. "It's fine. I don't expect luxuries when a city is burning. I'm not that much of a Tevinter bastard."

There are parts of Kirkwall that will take years to recover. He's seen Low Town and he's seen Dark Town. It will be a miracle if those places ever get their feet under them.

"Don't worry about me. If there is a problem, you'll hear about it. I haven't had any trouble speaking my mind, have I?" He looks over at his companion with a charming smile. It's his best one.

"No, that is one respect in which you seem to have yourself well in hand, Messere." He chuckles and lightly nudges him with his pauldron. He lets out a longer breath and settles back into a normal gait.

"I'm glad of it. The others see you speaking up, and at least a few of them are getting bolder. It may be a few years before they truly accept I'm no Meredith." He's not sure which is more depressing, the thought that he may have those few years to wait out here or that he might not. Not that he's eager to put an end to things or would step stoically into the fire without protest, but ultimately, he'd understand it. He has known for a long time what he actually signed up for when he took those vows, even if he didn't at the time.

"I have faith that they will in time, and you'll help them come to it." He nods once, a firm bob of chin. They exit the main corridor and start down the steps leading into the wide entrance from the portcullis. He turns them toward the wider stairs up.

"They should speak up. Silence gets them nothing and there are abusers who take advantage of it." A little anger creeps in to his voice. Against his will he's gotten close to these mages and the stories they told outrage him.

"I can assure you many of the mages that are here do not see you like her," he says quietly but with honesty. "They speak of her with the same fear they speak of demons and possession. They're cautious about you but they aren't truly afraid."

There's barely anyone out at this hour. They've certainly stay up past anyone else but the patrolling guards.

"I know, and I want to be told of any such things." He's serious about his efforts in weeding out the last of Meredith's staunch supporters. It's harder when people don't speak up. His own men are still feeling their way in the new regime and have never been quick to turn on other templars.

It's a relief to hear they don't fear him. It's a start. He can work with that. Somewhere between Greagoir's path and Meredith's there has to be some sensible middle ground. He's determined to find it before it's all taken out of his hands.

He falls into a somewhat pensive quiet, glancing around as they go. There are memories here, good and bad, voices that will never sound again, faces he'll never see. Somehow he's more numb to it than he was at Kinloch Hold. Rather than filling him with horror, it just leaves him tired and sad.

He stops where their corridor branches. "This is us," he says, gesturing.

"Yes, yes, mother hen Templar," he says with a slightly fond smile. It's another strange thing that he likes a Templar as much as he does. A Southern Templar at that. Dorian is having many strange experiences down South.

At the branch he stops and does something unprecedented. He reaches out and claps Cullen on the shoulder. "Sleep well, sir knight. Don't work in your sleep now."

Even though Dorian was contemplating heading to the library for a bit of research or perhaps send letters to contacts back at home. It an interesting mental debate. His body would certainly appreciate sleep but his mind could work.

He rolls his eyes a bit at the accusation of being a mother hen. It's a rather good natured exchange. He's comfortable enough with him now for that level of teasing. "If I did, I'd only have to redo it all once I was properly coherent. Good night." He lifts a wave and heads off toward his room. It was a pleasant exchange, something that stands out these days when so much of his time is occupied with dire business.

It's another three full weeks before he has time or opportunity to speak to Dorian properly again. It's official. Seneschal Bran is now Viscount Bran, and the city is in a rare state of letting out its breath in a collective sigh of relief. Whether justified or not, Cullen doesn't care. It's respite, and it's a chance to do something that has never fully left his mind since the idea was planted what feels like ages ago.

He finds Dorian overseeing a small group of apprentices practicing fine control of elemental spells. He does his best not to be obtrusive, as unobtrusive as a man in full plate can be, tapping him lightly on the shoulder from behind and beckoning him slightly away from the others. "How would you feel about that trip out to the coast? Aveline is itching to break some raider heads, and it seems like as good of a time as any with the city so quiet."

There is no hiding a man in full plate. Dorian notices Cullen the moment he comes around the corner. He's taught the apprentices a little training game from Tevinter, pushing a ball of elemental magic between their hands without letting it touch their palms. It taught control and skill. Dorian was quite good at it.

He leaves them to it as he joins Cullen in a little corner. People have started to notice he's often favored by the Knight-Commander. At least he is comfortable in the knowledge of someone else becoming First Enchanter.

"Oh, something interesting with fresh air and violence." Dorian rubs his hands together. "Let's go. I've been cooped up too long in this place."

"I thought you'd like the sound of it. Meet us out in the courtyard within the hour." He glances toward the exercises with an air of approval, nods to the couple of mages who make eye contact, and heads off.

The group heading out is a larger one than he has hazarded to leave the city for a while now, eight templars and four senior mages not including himself and Dorian. With guard recruitment up and the Gallows itself more stable than it has been since before Meredith's death, he believes they can spare the manpower. They need to with the raider threat on the rise.

Instead of sailing for the Kirkwall docks, the ferry takes off in a different direction. It's a brisk sail across the harbor toward an isolated strand surrounded by towering cliffs with one narrow, winding path down to the rocky beach. The day is fine and hot by Marcher standards, with a stiff wind blowing in from the east. They disembark without incident. Two forward scouts, one templar and one mage, head up the path to be sure the guard contingent they've come to meet are there and ready for them.

As soon as they hear the signal, Cullen calls the march. He takes up the rear for now, in higher spirits than he has been since before everything went to shit. Despite being here on work, it feels like a taste of freedom. He had forgotten how heavily the Gallows can sit on a pair of shoulders when not left behind for a while.

They've decided to set up camp a good distance from where they know of raider activity. The strategy is to form a strong base of operations and then coordinate a series of ranging attacks in shifts, whittling down their numbers and disrupting their supply chains. Bran has promised naval support after these initial attacks. Cullen suspects that's when things will get particularly hairy. With this day devoted to set-up and planning, he's relatively relaxed and pitches in with everyone else to erect the tents, set up the operations table, and get a couple of good fires going.

Later that afternoon, carrying an armful of firewood, he spots Dorian and calls out, "So, how is it comparing to Sundermount so far?" The number of guards is a few more than templars and mages combined. Aveline seems to have the lot of them well in hand.

The boat ride is probably the worst part. Dorian gets sea sick easily. He spends the ride leaning against a railing as casually as he can while they cross. Thank the Maker it's a short ride.

Then, of course, they're stuck on the coast with the water rolling in the distance constantly. It's a lovely reminder that annoys Dorian to no end but at least they are outside, in the fresh air and away from the Gallows.

"I hate the sea," Dorian calls back. He and the other mages have spent the day laying elemental mines in case the raiders become bold and attack the camp. It's been lovely except for the chilly wind and occasional spray of salt air. He's free and outside but it's a miserable place to be. "Stop looking so cheery, you."

Cullen dumps his armload into the ever-growing stack of firewood, brushes off his hands, and approaches, smiling. "I'm no fan of sea travel myself. That was just a quick jaunt across the harbor. We weren't out in the Waking Sea." His trip from Highever to Kirkwall had been pure misery.

He slaps idly at a small cloud of gnats trying to congregate at the back of his neck and wrinkles his nose. "I had hoped the wind today would spare us these. I suppose we're too sheltered by the rocks and shrubbery." It also means they're sheltered from view of raiders. Everything comes with a price.

"Coming along on the night march? A few of us are going to scout once the sun is down, see what's to be seen. They're never as careful with fires as they should be. They get arrogant."

Dorian clicks his tongue at Cullen as he swats as gnats. How do people in the South survive? Honestly. He takes a jaw of salve from his belt pouch and holds it out to him. "Put a bit of this on the back of your neck. It'll keep the gnats away. It works on biting insects as well. We have them the size of house cats in Minrathous."

He would have never survived childhood without it and he refused to be without it when he left Tevinter. He knew how to make it himself so that he would never be without.

"Sure. I'll keep you from stepping on any magical mines we've laid out there," Dorian says with a little smile. "When we get close I'll send ghosts and ghouls to torment them."

"Ugh, foul things. At least these are only after sweat." He takes the salve gratefully, uncaps it, and smears a bit across the back of his neck and up into the back of his hair for good measure. It smells strong but not unduly unpleasant. After capping it, he offers it back. He rubs the rest of the residue over both hands.

"Such a pleasant, useful man." It's just slightly dry. He's glad he's on their side. The things he mentions are anything but pleasant in the context of facing them.

"We'll have a good meal first." He eyes the sun's track through the sky, estimating they have an hour or two before nightfall. "Let me show you something before then, not that I anticipate we'll get separated in the night." He beckons him toward one of the thickets of waxy leaved shrubs that dot the entire region.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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