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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Dorian bit his lip to try and stop the grin that threatened. He did not want to give up the game so easily but it is just so amusing. Cullen really does give as well as he gets. "The uniform is not you, Cullen. You're more than a Templar. There's a man under all that armor."

Dorian's strategy is unconventional. He seems to think is very odd ways. It's the same way he studied magic, in his own way, his own mind. He knows the standard strategies but he ignores them for his own.

"Of course I am. Let's examine the facts here," he says. He sets his tea aside to brush cookie crumbs off his shirt, then gestures down his quite plain outfit. "This." He then gestures a finger up and down at Dorian's much more ornate robe. "Versus that. And you're calling me flashy?"

For all that Cullen knows the usual strategies very well, he's proving himself adaptable. He's more than a by the book thinker. He feigns a bit of distraction with his tea and sets up another sacrificial piece as bait.

"Excuse me, these are traveling robes." Dorian plucks at the robes on his chest. Honestly, these are horribly plain in comparison to some of the ones he's worn. He does miss the beautiful black and gold ones that showed his chest off. "They're quite refined and tasteful. Casual, even, just as you're trying to be."

It's a fun game, though Dorian can see he might lose. Cullen is proving to be a challenging opponent. He's having fun. He's relaxing. It's why he falls for the bait. He takes it just to feel the sense of satisfaction.

"Unbelievable." He shakes his head. His mouth twitches. The only thing to do for that is eat more cookie to forestall the amused expression trying to blossom.

But the smile that comes for the taking of the bait is all sharp edges and flashing eyes. He takes far too much satisfaction in the follow up move. Popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth, he chews it and swallows and also polishes off his tea to set aside.

"I don't have to try to be casual out of uniform, you know. I don't have fancy clothes. As templars we're supposed to eschew such things."

"Are you? Then what is all this for the Knight-Commander?" Dorian gestures to the room around them. "The mages don't have a private space that's all their own. I haven't looked at the First Enchanter's quarters so I cannot comment there but for an order that embraces poverty I haven't seen signs of it."

He wonders if Cullen ever thought of that. Dorian's noticed but he's a man that notices when his own quarters are not up to the standards he had at home.

"But that's my outsider prospective."

"Nor do templars in the ranks have private spaces all their own. You're not military. I don't say that in an insulting way, but there are certain aspects of military life that only make sense to soldiers. If you think this lavish, you should see the First Enchanter's quarters. People in the lower ranks have certain expectations. Their leaders must be set apart, and quite frankly, privacy is one of the only perks of high rank in this vocation, a necessary one given the pressures of leadership that fall on the shoulders of senior officers and enchanters in the Circles." He says it without apology or any sense that it's unfair, because he genuinely doesn't see it as such.

"Had you come to us when the quarters were undamaged, you would have found more equitable distribution and much less crowding. In time, there will be so again. These rooms aren't truly mine. I occupy them only for as long as I hold this rank. Very little in here is actually mine. Were I to leave, most of it would remain for the next Knight-Commander to use." Aside from his chess set, books he has accumulated through the years, and his personal clothing, not even his weapon or uniform are truly his. Were he to be removed or walk away, he would not be welcome to take it with him.

"It's still not privacy. Worse, it's no privacy with guards," he counters with a frown. "Mages aren't allowed much can't you allow them something? Even small things like, like curtains. Some way to keep people out when it's needed."

Perhaps he's a little too passionate on this subject. His father invaded his privacy for years, dictating his life. When he rebelled it was worse but honestly, something that made him act out.

"You have comfort, Cullen, more than most mages get. Perhaps I am crazy for thinking mages should have the same even if you deny them everything else."

"No, I can't. This is still a Circle. There are protocols. If I break them, it will go worse for all of us when the Chantry forces arrive, and they will." Not to mention it was too much privacy in Ferelden that allowed Uldred to make the move he did. He won't make that mistake here, not with the Veil as thin as it is already.

"You're not crazy, but you're not from here. You don't have the same perspective." He doesn't sound angry, but he's very matter-of-fact. In this respect it's much like arguing with a stone wall. There's no hint of movement.

"A chance to change and everyone is too scared to try anything," Dorian says with a heavy roll of his eyes. Traditions would kill Tevinter and traditions would kill the Circle here. No one could see it expect him and a possibly insane revolutionary. Lovely.

"There are times I am glad for that even with all the complications being from Tevinter brings me." Dealing with Southern logic would be too much for him after too long. There's not a good enough reason for him to put up with it, even being able to have sex with men without being judge.

"I don't expect you to agree or understand. Just know that I do have the interests of everyone in this city in mind with the decisions I make, including the mages here." It's a cultural divide too wide for him ever to expect to be crossed and an area where he can't afford to bend lest everyone in his care is broken.

He merely shrugs one shoulder for that. "It's still your move." The earlier bantering mood is gone. He's not willing to throw the game over the disagreement, although his demeanor is once more guarded and professional, a change he's not even aware of.

"This might surprise you but I believe that's true," he says and the comment is genuine. "You're trying to salvage the mess made by your superior in the best way you can. I don't understand the culture nor the steps that would be needed to change it successful. I will keep arguing, though, to keep you honest."

It's a shame they couldn't keep things friendly but Dorian is used to the cold shoulder. He experienced a lot of that during his final days in Tevinter. He'll still play fairly, perhaps a bit more aggressively. It's frustrating that no one can handle an intellectual argument.

There's a brief temptation to open up and try to explain why he has such strong feelings on the topic, that it's more than just an academic exercise or sticking to tradition for its own sake. He quickly quashes it. The fact that there even needs to be such a discussion tells him it's a bad idea to open up so much with a mage. Any mage. They'll only ever see their side, and it's a weakness in him that could be exploited or simply thrown against him hurtfully.

He misses Thrask at times like this. They didn't always see eye to eye. The man had a good heart, and he might have been able to be more of a bridge in the current situation because of his views. He might have been able to explain things better and not gotten defensive. It's hard not to be defensive when all of it is on his shoulders now.

He continues to play with a somewhat cautious strategy punctuated by occasional bold moves or tactical sacrifices for greater gain. "Why did you decide to learn chess?" It's offered when the silence drags for too long.

"It's part of a classical education in Tevinter." Apparently their friendly banter was done for the night. Dorian was a bit sad to see it go but he let it. Cullen had his reasons. "I studied it because my teachers demanded it. They were quite frustrated with my tactics. Once again, not traditional and they couldn't stand it."

It was misery for him until Alexius found him. He was finally able to learn what he wanted and how he wanted to learn.

"The game is mentally challenging enough to keep my interest but I doubt I would've learned otherwise. I much preferred other games."

"Your strategies are unconventional. A bit careless, but you're giving me a run." He's not the sort just to say such things. It's the best game he has played in a while, counting those he played well before the crisis hit. "Strange it would be considered part of a classical education. I doubt I'd ever have learned it if my father hadn't taught us children." Nor would he have stuck with it had his sister not been so persistent and difficult to beat.

Thinking of his family is bittersweet at best, particularly now with things so tits up. He frowns slightly. They're strangers now, or all but. He has no idea if any of them still play.

"Mostly I preferred physical games. I've always been good at those." Particularly those that involved a combination of strategy and strength. "I suppose that's not too hard to guess, though."

"As smug and self centered as Tevinter is there are certain things we've claimed for ourselves as worthy," he says with a little shrug. "The game evolved from ours so we teach it in the upper class."

He laughs at the idea of physical games. Oh, how he would've liked to play physical games with other boys. What wonderful torture that would have been.

"Those sorts of games are above an Altus' son. I occasionally dueled other mages my ages but nothing more physical than a dracolisk race or two."

"Pity. You missed out on some fun." His lips twitch upward slightly. Some of his fondest memories both of childhood and his recruit years are the games and competitions. They often set goals for their spars, and he was quite good at them, one of the most disciplined in his group. It helped he found it genuinely enjoyable and thrived on challenge.

"I've seen a couple of those beasts before. They belonged to people passing through. I've always wondered what it feels like to ride one. Are they smooth gaited like a good horse?"

"They... well, a lope is a good word for it. They're predators and move differently than prey like horses but a well trained one is very comfortable but if you're not ready for the spring you'll get tossed right out of the saddle." He doesn't comment on the physical games. He would have enjoyed them and hated them at the same time.

"I had one as a young boy. Victus." He smiles fondly at the memories. "Fouled tempered beast to anyone but myself. Bit the stable hand once. After that I had to tack him myself."

"Perhaps I'll ride one some day." He's not sure when or if that will ever happen, stuck as he is here with no end to it in sight. He doesn't have the time or the resources to go gallivanting off riding odd creatures. It's a nice enough thought to entertain.

"You had all the most interesting pets. We had dogs and draft horses. Not that the horses were pets." Or that they were easy to ride with their broad backs and impossible heights. It didn't stop him and his siblings from trying. As before when speaking of his past and family, there's a faint wistful quality to it, likely something he's not fully aware of.

"I would be absolutely stunned to see one this far south. They don't really like cold weather." It would make him more homesick to see, though. Little things were tolerable but something that is so much his home and his childhood would cut deep.

"A Ferelden owned a dog. I'm shocked," he drawls with a bit of a smirk. "I do not understand the obsession, honestly, but it's better than Tevinter and blood magic." He would not point out how wistful Cullen sounded. Things were rough enough for him. No need to make him sad.

"Something you have in common," he says, the tone faintly teasing. In increments some of his better humor from before is starting to return. He's still feeling more cautious and wary than before, something he wants to bridge and isn't certain how.

"Of course you don't. You're not Fereldan." He shakes his head. No, he'd never expect a foreigner, any foreigner, truly to understand the deep bond his countrymen have with their dogs or what they mean to them. More than almost any other strange affectation of the Marchers, the realization that they didn't view dogs the same way, that no one else did, had been the biggest culture shock of all.

"You have changed my view. At least of some Tevinters. It's encouraging to know that there are some quarters that see blood magic much the way we do down here."

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