sixthiterationlogs | one | Dorian and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

WHO: Dorian Pavus
WHERE: Fountain Park
WHEN: 29th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: None as of yet. Will update.

Fountain
Dreaming of drowning wasn't uncommon, especially when one was facing an ever-increasing threat with nothing less than the fate of the world hanging in the balance. One could almost say it was expected, even, given the vast pressure all of the Inquisition was under, but it wasn't merely a dream, was it? Even when they'd physically walked the Fade, it was less real than-

Fasta vass! The water burned his eyes as he kicked toward the surface, or at least what he hoped was the surface, as it was far lighter there than behind. He gasped in a relieved breath as he broke free of the water, hands instinctively finding the edge of the fountain and pulling himself free. Having grown up in a port city had its uses, it seemed. The meager clothing he was in clung to his drenched form as he simply took a seat on the edge of the fountain and pulled the weight from his shoulders...a pack it would seem. Then a breeze blew through the square and a deep shiver rippled through his body. The water didn't stay long in his oiled hair, but it ran freezing troughs down his back, forcing him to his feet, the squelch of his water-logged feet in some of the most atrocious boots he'd ever seen pulling a groan from the Tevinter mage. He turned his attention to the pack he'd removed, one thoroughly unfamiliar and certainly not something he'd choose, trying to shake a strange almost hollow feeling that was flooding his limbs. He felt hollow, listless.

Perhaps this was all a terrible nightmare, he'd awaken in his freezing room in Skyhold to the realization his fire had burned too low. That would explain the chill, but that didn't quite feel right. For one, he'd never dreamed this vividly, and even in his nightmares...this was all far too...mundane. Don't mind the dripping man in violet scrubs with the fancy mustache and the moistened but clearly quite stylish hair. He's just going to systematically remove all the items in his pack on a nearby bench until he finds-

"Maker's Breath, a coat!" He wastes no time sliding into that, at least. It wasn't much, but it did something. One step at a time. Marginally warmer, but no closer to answers, he begins to repack that bag he's been provided, though his olive eyes look around regularly, alert to anyone approaching. Something still doesn't feel right, after all, and that hollow, missing feeling was beginning to breed unease.

Inn (South Village) | A bit later
Very few answers to his multitude of questions having made sense, Dorian would like nothing more than to find this library others have mentioned and ready every bit of literature it provided until some clue connected to some other one and so on in the same fashion until the who affair made sense. That adventure, however, would be for another day. His mind was still reeling from the foreignness of it all, and the numb shock of learning his magic was held at bay from him still left his nerves raw. He felt powerless (as he was), exposed, vulnerable and weak. It was unacceptable that whoever or whatever had pulled him here had such a hold over his wellbeing.

Following some sort of routine seemed best as he found a vacant room in the inn, changed into a dry pair of those strange pieces of clothing, violet in color, he'd been provided in the waterproof sack, and made his way down to the common room to dry the rest beside the fire. The slight shake of his hands as he worked, the tenseness in his shoulders, could almost be mistaken as a fault of the chill in the air if it weren't for the way he looked about, jumped at shadows or unexpected sounds. Perhaps the weather had a hand in it, but more than that...Dorian was afraid. Even at his most secluded, hiding for weeks in the Hinterlands hoping for some opportunity to subvert the efforts of his former mentor who'd seemed to have fallen off the proverbial wagon, he'd had his magic with him.

He was dealing with powers beyond his understanding. That was unacceptable, and he didn't have a way to protect himself from them if it were necessary. It was possible the library would provide more answers, and he'd have them, but tonight, he was just hoping to find enough peace of mind to relax a bit, and he'd welcome a friendly face to ward away the gloom, or at least a bit of the fear.

No. Not fear. It's the cold, by the Maker. Just the cold.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A denizen of the Inn since shortly after his own whirlwind--perhaps whirlpool--arrival, Cael has seen plenty come and go through its lower floor. Plenty at the fire, drying their simple clothes, staring into flames. Even those places that trafficked in spirits and ciders sold warm drinks through the year, the city beset on all sides by the ocean and its storms.

They have donated jars of whiskey to put in tea, behind the inn's bar, and he plucks one up in his free hand on his way back to fire.

Two separate cures for the shakes, just to cover all the bases. He'd been tuning his lyre in the corner, settling in out of the cold to distract himself with familiar songs, but left to fetch the tea when the man came back down the stairs.

"They're thin clothes to start," he comments, wrapped in his deep gold shawl and the thickest of his few tunics. "These will help, but I could also fetch you a blanket, sir--"

He hangs the word with an inclination of his head, letting the man fill in a name.

"Dorian," he completes Cael's hanging question and graciously accepts the spiked tea as it's offered. The tattoos on the man's hand catch his attention, but rather than ask, he files the observation away for later, something to explore once he's no longer cold, and once he's imbibed the liquor he can smell wafting from his teacup.

"That's rather kind of you, but I'll manage." No one needs to out of their way on his account, after all. "And what am I to call you?"

"Rather kind is nice, but Cael will do," he answers, releasing the mug when he feels the weight lift in another hand. "And other compliments besides, as they come to you."

Having left it in worse places since the giving, Cael neither tuts nor acquiesces to the dismissal, only dismisses in turn: he's an efficient (lazy) creature, so it suits him just fine to put the shawl around Dorian's shoulders as he moves back to his own seat, rather than mount the stairs to find something.

It frees his arms to wind around the frame of his lyre, if some benefit must pass both ways. "Rather kind of you to be a human coat rack, now we're even." Punctuating the matter with a plucked string, he tilts his head to the sound, then turns the knob a little more. "How fresh are you, from the water?"

To spite the cold, the discomfort, and the uncertainty, Dorian couldn't help but chuckle at this man and his flourishes. This Cael reminded Dorian something of himself, after all, and when someone has so much in common with you, you couldn't help but like them immediately.

His laugh is throaty, deep, sultry almost, though he isn't trying. That's just Dorian's laugh, really, though the argument could be made he's always flirtatious. It wouldn't even be a lie.

"Oh, I'm expected to return this, then? A shame. As for my arrival...an hour or so? Give or take, of course." He motions to the lyre. "You're a bard?"

"My, and already forming full sentences; you're one to watch." A flick of his eyes matches the laugh, a mimicry of intent, a flit and rustle of myna feathers.

Not that he wouldn't take the look, and to be aptly named is as much reason as a decent set of shoulders under his shawl. "You might be the first I didn't have to tell," he says, voice broadening with sincerity. "They're an odd group; sometimes I can't tell if they're so far ahead, they've forgotten everything I know, or if they've never known it in the first place."

They at least know what music is, even if he couldn't find anyone else playing it before his instruments arrived. "As for the shawl, we'll see how good it looks on you dry, and I'll weigh it against the hole it might leave in my heart."

"My person, my wit, and my undeniable charm are all I have left. It's only fitting I should retain full command of them." And he flashes Cael a charming smile as though to illustrate that point before nodding. "Yes, and hour or so is all I've really needed to recognize those collected here know what they know. They have a certainty about them, don't they?"

Mischief teased across his face, twinkling momentarily in his eyes. Dorian was a collection of unease, uncertainty, slight fear, and greater foreboding, and when those were the predominate emotions warring for his attention, avoidance was a necessity. He'd revel in this now and fall apart later, in private.

"I can assure you, I look dashing in anything, but if you require proof, you'll need stay, perhaps play me something while I enjoy my cider by the fire."

one | Dorian and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

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