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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"If I only had myself to think of." He shakes his head, his expression shifting wry. "You're not that old, I don't think. It's a heavy thing to learn in a short time."

He appreciates the effort. He feels awkward, too, that he blurted something like that. It has been a difficult night. The whales... He can't explain it. They opened him up a little, reminded him of a person he has long believed no longer exists. What if he does and has only been waiting for a chance to come back? How very confusing.

"For what it's worth, I like who you are. I wasn't expecting to make a friend in this mess. I feel like I have."

"Tevinter nobility teaches heavy lessons. Maker, being a mage teaches heavy lessons. I've had to resist demons my whole life." He waves a hand to dismiss Cullen's words though his answer is truthful. Dorian's vain and spoiled but he is not weak.

He nods jerkily, feeling awkward from all this emotion. He's terrible with emotion, honestly. "You have and you're not the only one who can get this town back in order. There are other Templars in the world. Just so you're aware."

He briefly wonders if his father has picked a new heir. He ignores that thought very quickly.

"You always do that. Maybe one day I'll learn why." His deflection of praise or anything resembling admiration when it's sincere is curious to say the least.

"Not the only one, no. Some of the reports coming across my desk make me wonder if there's anyone else left to trust. The Order is angry, restive. Voices of reason are in short supply." He doesn't like to be that person, the one who decides he's indispensable or the only one who truly understands a problem. In this case, he feels genuine worry about what would become of the mages of Kirkwall, the rest of the city, if he did lay down his sword and walk away.

"I'll still have to live with myself no matter where I go. I can't leave yet." He wonders how long he'll tell himself that or if there will come a day he stops listening and walks. It seems more possible now than ever before. To say he's disillusioned is an understatement.

Dorian ignores that first statement. He's not going to touch on the reasons why genuine praise brings out his sarcastic side.

"Of course, the balance of power is shifting and change is rather scary isn't it?" Dorian can see it coming. The South cannot keep going with its Circles. The Templars and the Chantry cannot keep a hold of them. It's a scary thing.

He knocks his shoulder gently against Cullen's. "Well, as long as you recognize you can leave when the time comes you'll be fine." He bites his lip against offering him the chance to come with when he leaves. Dorian hasn't decided when he's leaving in the first place. He can't offer that just yet. Maybe he will when the time comes.

"They're angry. They feel the Chantry is turning their backs on them. They want revenge for the losses here." He snorts a disgruntled sound. "As though they have any idea what we've lost or what we face. Nothing worse than having your struggles become some distant ass' cause." He digs a hand into the sand in front of him and sifts it through his fingers.

He smiles faintly at the shoulder bump and returns it, a companionable gesture. "I hope that's the case. Leaving could just as easily entail execution, you know. I know I've mentioned it before. It's a real possibility, and while I'm not eager to die, if it meant saving my soldiers, I will. I don't want anyone fighting or putting up a fuss if that's what the Seekers decide, not on my behalf."

He's not sure he needs to tell Dorian this. He feels as though he should. The thought of him crossing the Seekers on his behalf in any way leaves him cold. He'd much rather he just leave if it comes to that. No sense in a good man going down for a cause that never should have involved him at all.

"Kirkwall will become a rally cry for both sides," he muses, his voice more subdued. "No one is right here. It shouldn't fall on you for the failure of your superior to stop this."

Cullen might not want it but Dorian will defend him if it comes to it. The man has done an admirable job as a leader and kept everyone together when it was more likely everyone would fall apart.

"You've held this city together and don't doubt that the people have noticed," he says, hoping to encourage him. "You're doing a damn fine job and though tonight was not spectacular that doesn't mean you've failed anyone."

"I'm not sure they'll be all that interested in what should happen. We'll see what kind of mood they're in if they ever make it to us." If they ride in armed and dragging trebuchets, well, that will be telling enough.

They're still sitting close enough that he can feel faint warmth against his side. He's surprised at how glad he is of it given the turn in the conversation. Sometimes he thinks his equanimity at the idea of being hauled before the Seekers is just exhaustion and a hefty cloak of denial to allow himself to continue to function. At other times, he wonders if it's a sign of some deeper malaise of spirit, or guilt whispering to him that if it happens, he'd deserve it.

"You're good for me." One corner of his mouth draws back, too faint to qualify as a smile. "Strange world we've come to when a mage will tell a templar he's doing a good job. Thank you for that."

"With the Chantry as shaky as it is I doubt anyone wants to alienate the people any more than they have." Dorian huffs out a breath. "Southern politics are a mystery."

He ignores the way his heart leaps in his chest. No one has ever said that without it meaning something else, that they would get personal gain from his friendship. For his lovers it was about the thrill of being with him and they never said it was good for them.

"Don't worry, I'll tell you when you fuck up as well," he says primly. He ends up smiling at him in return, though. Oh, he could almost kiss him right now. "It will be my great pleasure."

"I don't know. Divine Justinia hasn't sat the Sunburst Throne for long enough for me to know which way her winds blow. Early reports were promising. That was before all of this, though." He tosses a couple of the larger pebbles he has palmed out into the waves.

His smile is warm enough to reach his eyes. "I don't doubt it on either count, that you'll be quick to let me know and enjoy every minute of it. I hope you know I want you to. I never want to get to the point where I feel above reproach from anyone. It'll be a good check."

"She's Orlesian. She'll do whatever will further her policies best," Dorian says dismissively. He has a very low opinion of Orlesians and their politics. They're the worst of the barbarians. "If she was liberal before then perhaps the trend will continue."

Dorian looks down at his hands instead of that warm smile. "Don't worry, I will pull your head out of your ass when needed. So far, you've done a good job of policing yourself."

"Likely." His trust of Orlesians and the Chantry as a whole are about on the same level these days, in the dust. He tries to retain a sliver of optimism for his men. Someone has to wear a hopeful face.

He didn't for a long time. It's part of the reason they're in this mess now. He decides he has burdened him enough with his doubts for one night. There's no need to compound it by revealing the depths of his guilt. He leans in and bumps shoulders again, this time staying that way.

"Like I said. You're good for me." His gaze stays on the waves. Some truths are more easily spoken without a window onto whatever reaction they elicit or too much visual insight into their origin. It has been a very long time since he has felt this companionable with anyone, not since those who recruited with him died. He had thought he had shut that part of himself away for good. Now here it is, making him put off ending this moment and trudging back to the people who need him.

"Yes, the Tevinter Magister is just what you need at your side when you're worried about the Seekers coming for you," he says with a bitter laugh. He can't be good for Cullen, he can't. He's only good for himself, honestly. "I apologize for the 'you're under his thrall' comments you'll get when they get here. Do you think a full body inspection will settle their fears or will they just assume I'm sacrificing kittens?"

He leans towards him, taking the comfort even though he really shouldn't. This won't last. He's going to leave Cullen behind eventually. He can't stay forever. It's foolish to let himself get involved like this but the problem with being true to his heart is this.

"I wouldn't use kitten, though, not enough blood."

He shouldn't laugh at that, any of it, but he does. The sad thing is Dorian isn't wrong. That's exactly the sort of thing they'll think or say and another reason he's determined that he leave before they get here, even if it means tying him up and shipping him out forcibly.

"They're hard to find these days anyway. We Fereldans ate all the cats when we got here after the Blight." Not all of them. Most of them.

He's warmer with them actually touching, solid leans in shoulder to shoulder and arm to arm. He's not habitually a leaner. It's doubtful he would be now had they not had such an emotionally fraught night. It's this release of the tension that allows it, a few stolen moments of normalcy and conversation, the waves and the whales, and Maker only knew what else. He's grateful for it.

Dorian smiles, a real genuine one, for a brief moment. He's glad they can find something to laugh about even if it's the horrible truth that he will be painted as a criminal simply for existing.

"No wonder Darktown had so many rats," he muses, rubbing his chin with a hand. "I thought that meant you simply had a large amount of cheese."

They should go back to the camp. Honestly, they've been gone too long. There are going to be so many rumors. The rumors always came with him. He doesn't want to go back. He's comfortable here and content. For a brief moment Kirkwall isn't a shithole.

"You'll find far more cheese in Ferelden." Better cheese, at least, if one were to ask him, not that he's an example of refined taste in food or drink.

His thoughts are running in similar channels. They need to get back. People will come looking for them, especially after the dangerous night they had up to this point. He lets out a soft sigh that sounds exactly like what it is. Regret.

"We should get up." He glances at him, giving a final harder lean. "At this rate, we're going to fall asleep and get washed out when the tide turns."

"Yes, we should." Dorian sighs heavily as he gets to his feet. He slides off the rock and then waits for Cullen to join him on the sand. "Waking up with a Templar, what would people think?"

He puts a little more magic in to his wisp so they have more light to see by. It's darker now and he doesn't want to trip over any rocks and die on the cliffs.

"Come along now. Your men are waiting."

"We'd be washed out to sea. They'd never know how we died. How tragic." His lips twitch slightly. His spirits are lighter, enough that he can still joke a little bit.

He lets out another sigh and looks up the long walk. "Yes, they are," he mutters under his breath. Without more grumbling he gets moving. The good thing is that he's not in his plate. The climb this time will be much easier than his first one earlier.

Leaving behind the exposed strand feels akin to leaving a private room and being forced to go back to socializing. He can feel himself tensing up all over again, having to tuck away the person he could be with Dorian on the beach behind the shield of his command. To his credit, he doesn't resent it, only regrets it. It's hard to imagine the time or the freedom to take many moments like that in the days to come.

"I think they could put it together when they know we were down at the beach and never returned." Dorian was glad to leave the beach behind. It was a lovely break but he had too many revelations tonight.

Most of the camp is asleep when they return. Dorian sends his wisp away because the low fires of the camp provide more than enough light. He looks over at Cullen one more time.

"Sleep well tonight," he says softly before he heads towards where the mages have their tents and bedrolls.

"You, too." Cullen watches him go for a moment before heading over to collapse onto his bedroll. He's exhausted enough that he falls quickly into sleep and stays that way despite his dreams.

When he awakens, the entire camp is blanketed in thick, swirling gray, light enough that it's obvious the sun is rising, but too dim to make out anyone or anything without proximity. Such morning fogs are natural on the Wounded Coast, inconvenient and something he would have taken advantage of in their raids. That thought only serves to sour his mood. He sits up and finds his armor to finish what he started last night, cleaning it and getting it serviceable for his day. He can hear others around him doing the same, sounds and voices drifting from different directions tricky to pin in the fog.

He's glad for the chance of temporary isolation. It allows him to pull himself together from last night, both their rout at the hands of the demon and its minions and his lapse into vulnerability on the beach. He doesn't regret that, but he has to close himself up again if he's to be of any real use today. After cleaning everything, he dresses himself and begins moving through the camp, checking in on the survivors and injured, then coordinating with Aveline about what their next move should be.

The fog gradually shifts from gray to golden and then begins to burn off and blow away with the shift of the winds and the rise of heat. Their numbers are fewer. Spirits aren't crushed, however. These are people accustomed to losses and plans going awry. It's the way things have been going ever since the fall of the Chantry. Cullen doesn't know if he's proud of them or sad for them that this is the new normal they adjust to so readily.

The plan is relatively simple and involves all of their forces. They're leaving nothing of value behind at the camp. They'll be leaving this place on the ferry by nightfall. They're returning to the site of the attack to comb the area for the cave system the demon and spiders came from. They'll search it, clear it, and block the entrance so that it won't be a ready base of operations for anything or anyone else without considerable effort.

Breakfast is a hasty affair. No one is wounded enough to be left behind entirely, but the mages are tasked with guarding those too injured to be of much use in a fight should things turn ugly again. They're positioned at the middle of the column. Aveline is at the front, and Cullen takes up the rear guard in case of ambush.

It's a hot, frustrating search through thick, tick infested undergrowth. They have to hack their way through several unyielding thickets until finally a voice calls out from the south west of their search grid, "Found it! Maker's breath, what a bloody great hole."

Cullen pushes his way through the bushes to see for himself. It looks to him like the opening of a sinkhole at first. How in Andraste's name are they ever going to block that? Closer inspection shows a steep path leading downward, less actual hole than very steep cave entrance. Better, though still not ideal. Perimeter guards set up with the few wounded who need to rest. Everyone else prepares to go in, torches lit up and passed hand to hand. "Remember the plan," Cullen's voice carries over all of them. "No one goes off anywhere alone. Keep up the patterns of call and response with your signals. At the first sign of heavier spider infestation, alert everyone. No more losses today."

There's a ringing chorus of "Yes ser!" Then they begin the descent.

It doesn't feel like morning when he wakes. Everything is gray and heavy even though there's a hint of sun somewhere. Dorian takes a few extra minutes to make sure his hair is in order and that his mustache looks neat. It helps him feel a bit more normal after last night's losses.

The mages seem to feel better about seeing him so calm and together. He doesn't make light of the losses but he keeps everyone focused on the task at hand. They have spiders to clear out and the Templars and guards will need fire if they're truly going to end the infestation. Mages are very good at fire.

A massive hole in the ground. Lovely. Dorian is so thrilled. He brings a wisp with him as they descend in to the depts. Once again he finds himself doing things he never would have imagined he would do when he left Tevinter.

"My life has become one of those action adventure tales I read a child," he says conversationally but softly. No need to alert the spiders. "Mage leaves for the big wide world and battles all sorts of things including demons and southern barbarians."

Cullen overhears, not too far away, and chuckles low. "Truly, you'd have to go much further south for the real barbarians. Some of these ruffians are from closer to your homeland, Rivain and Antiva."

The spiders, though, they're all home grown, and none of them get very far into the cave before they start seeing the signs, thick webbing and dark, web lined holes leading into rock. Everyone goes more on alert, listening for the telltale click of chitinous legs and clawed feet and the sometimes eerie squeaking and chittering that the larger spiders make, whether vocalizations or something else.

It's almost too quiet. "Burn the webbing," Cullen says, his voice carrying perfectly well.

"You're here," he points out, "Ferelden. I think that's southern enough. It's certainly barbarian enough for me."

That gets a chuckle out of some people, the mages at least. They're willing to laugh at Dorian when he's funny. It eases some of the tension.

"You heard the man, let's burn." Dorian flicks his fingers, causing sparks to fall to the ground. The mages step forward to deal with the web. They send flames along the webs which lights the caves.

Cullen snorts and rolls his eyes. It's nice to hear the others laughing, enough that he doesn't feel compelled to retort. It's good for them to see that he can take ribbing at his expense, that he's not another Meredith, not a tyrant to be feared at any sign of confrontation, even light hearted.

He grips his sword tighter and braces himself. As expected, the onslaught of fire flushes out three spiders, nasty wasp spiders with shiny black legs, poisonous red abdomens, and fierce tempers to match. The templars and guards are on them the moment they emerge from the flaming burrows.

After what happened the night before, none of them are willing to lose another comrade.

"Oh, well, look at that." Dorian smiles because the fire also reveals a great number of skeletons lying on the ground. He can feel the spirits just on the other side of the Fade. "Some friends to help us. Keep the fires burning."

Dorian reaches for those spirits and calls them forward. He guides them in to the skeletons and the skeletons to their feet. It helps. It makes him feel powerful again after the spiders tried to take that last night.

But he doesn't use them to attack the spiders outright. He puts the skeletons between the spiders and the Templars when they try to flank and come at them. He doesn't want to alienate the Templars. He wants them to trust him.

It's eerie. The templars and the guards both are jumpy when they see skeletons rising. Cullen felt the surge of mana. He knows they're not demon possessed. "They're ours!" he snaps. It's all he has time for with the speed and potential lethality of the attacking spiders. Wasp spiders are some of the worst.

The wall of bone helps. It also confuses one of the arachnids. It turns its fury on the skeletons instead, trying to bite and grapple them. It gives the fighters the opening they need to kill it quickly.

One of the others leaps back several feet and gushes a jet of poison. Guardsman Hendyr raises his shield just in time, and he and his wife break off to rush that one.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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