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

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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.

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Another round of projects, another round of metal working, another round of carting water from the fountain to the forge. He doesn't know if he's just lucky enough to keep coming across people as they roll out of the water or if the tubes are on some kind of schedule unknown to everyone (yet, pattern recognition is a thing) but, another new face soaked to the bone, looking bewildered. "Something we should probably keep a stack of over here as the weather keeps turning."

He finishes his trek to the fountain, all sun warmed skin and stripped down to his shirt, the chill not bothering him- if anything it's a relief after being hunched over an anvil for most of the morning. "I'll make a note of it, see if we cant get a few spares set up in a chest or something out here."

Because people are going to keep coming up out of the water- and what'll they do if it freezes over? What'll they do if there's no one around to help them to the inn through snow and they're soaking wet?

And here is a gentleman all snark and smiles, business-like and...comfortable pulling water from the fountain and speaking as though it's perfectly common for a grown man to pull himself bodily from its waters and have a sit on a bench and empty out a pack that is not his own and don some stranger's coat in the hopes of staving off the chill threatening hypothermia.

"Yes, quite. See to it it's noted a coat chest be should present at this thoroughly ridiculous fountain." Dorian stands, his jaw visibly flexing as he clenches his teeth against the water sloshing about in his boots, and approaches, inclining his head in greeting and doing his best not to care about whatever the water may have done to his hair. "Assuming you aren't simply some figment of my imagination, I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Skyhold by way of Minrathous."

And then he waits, curious as to whether or not any of those words may mean anything to the other man.

Edited 2018-10-30 02:09 (UTC)

Hawke kept showing up at the fountain day after day, and she must have great timing because this is not the first time she sees someone crawling out of it. She's a fair distance though, and she's leisurely walking since the person doesn't appear to be in pain or crying out. It's the mustache that really clues her in. There could be a lot of people who look like him, arguably, but no one with the mustache that Varric told her all about. She teased him about his fascination with the good looks of his friend, and how he did it all on purpose. And here's another Inquisition member that isn't Varric. Ah, well.

She's casual as she walks closer now that he has a coat on, not sneaking up or anything. Her own hair is up and out of the way, no longer in her yellow scrubs since it seems impractical now that she's getting ready to go on a hunt. She's in black instead, plain and simple. She's hardly the towering Champion people speak of thanks to legend, although she is recognizable on the spot for people who know what they're looking for. Hawke alive and in the flesh, no longer in the Fade.

"Uh oh, better dry off that mustache before it starts splitting at the ends." Her smile is cheerful.

It all flies over his head for the most part, the patter and lilt reading as some kind of fantastic, whatever world this guy came from, but he does have to huff a laugh at the accusation towards the fountain. Ridiculous doesn't begin to describe it.

"Tony Stark of the Forge by way of the dead planet Titan." When in doubt if there's a formula? Use it and flip it to fit. He hauls up two buckets, slings them on the yoke and shoulders it in a fluid flex and curl of shoulders and biceps without so much as a grunt. "It's not that far from here and pretty warm. You can come dry off with me. I might have some tea or something to help with the cold."

Not usually something he worries about while working but he's taken to keeping it on hand due to Bruce's fretting. "And a bottle of wine to help with the bullshit- trust me. There's plenty."

More than just the fountain, than the weather.

He puffs at the accusation, even though he doesn't immediately recognize the woman making it. He does smooth his hands over his mustache and curls the ends, though it's more for show than any sort of actual concern. It's well oiled, after all. A bit of water isn't going to disturb it. He turns afterward, and pauses, staring. The last time he saw her, she was turning against the largest demon he'd ever seen, distracting it to enable their escape from the...Fade. Perhaps this was all an elaborate dream.

That seemed unlikely, though. His expression softened slightly, perhaps because the sparse clothing in which he'd found himself was starting to dry a bit.

"If a brief dip in a freezing fountain was enough to damage my facial hair, I'd have to rethink my entire facade, Hawke." And yet, it's a comfort to know she's here, that something here was familiar midst all this madness.

"My deepest condolences for your deceased planet, Stark," Who is rather strapping and capable and impressive with those buckets. Tony continues with a promise of warmth Dorian cannot find the force of will to deny, and then seals the deal with the added offer of wine. "That does sound divine, though."

He's been to a nightmarish realm in which his deepest fears were made manifest from his own mind. He can cope with quite a bit, but this Tony Stark seemed to be native, or at least someone who'd been here long enough to have answers to his questions. He'd be a fool not to follow the man. He shoulders the strange pack he was provided and falls into step with him.

"How could I not accept with such a sales pitch?"

Hawke could have done the ta-da I'm alive thing, but acting like nothing is wrong is basically her way of coping with everything. Joking about it or in denial about it. "That's freezing? Oh you sweet Tevinter soul." He might not be one of hers, but he is, extendedly. Their adventures only briefly coincided, but Hawke has an unusual knack for counting people as 'hers' regardless of whether they're actually friends. It's how she made all her others. She just thought 'mine' at them for long enough they became part of the same crew. And it's better than being alone.

"I'm fairly certain this is only going to get worse. Weather wise. But neither of us are dead! That's something. I have low standards." She realizes around that time that things are in fact going to be worse, because she kept thinking if Bethany came through there, she'd be devastated to lose her magic. And Bethany wasn't even close to experienced the way Dorian is. Hawke's concern shows, the emotion crossing her face like a ripple. She shakes it off. "Let's get to the inn, it's warm and there's food. Also Bull's around here somewhere. He might spot us there if we wait." And maybe she won't have to tell him!

"Planet I was on, not really mine, not that mine's much better now. Suppose Earth's half dead?- it's complicated" Things he breezes past in thought and speech to avoid, well. Dwelling. If he dwells he'll hunt around for something stronger than wine and that doesn't ever lead anywhere good. He's got work. That'll keep him busy enough. Getting the mill worked up for powering the adjacent buildings takes his mind off of it, the puzzle that is the power grid of the bunker keeps him from getting too maudlin.

The walk to the forge isn't all that far, even in the cold. Effort keeps the chill from getting to him while he's away from the hearth . "Usually there's a little more flash in my proposals but we're dialed back to relatively normal, here. Not a lot of gunpowder or any kind of magic to go around."

There's a hesitance around the word 'magic'- not distaste so much as disbelief. Where he's from? It's not a thing- is a thing but- it's just science he hasn't figured the rules out for yet, that's all.

Coats are a wonderful thing. It's why Bobo is wearing a dark, calf length fur coat over his red scrub pants and a tee shirt. He's going to need a better undershirt eventually but, eh, Canadian, he's got time. The coat is more image than anything as it is.

He's come down to the South village to check out a few things in the storeroom, still working out the winter months and making the house he has self sufficient. Besides, he's got an axe to return, which is over his shoulder. He'll hang around long enough for lunch, see if a few people are around, and then get back to his latest idea of trying to bring in livestock to slaughter closer to home.

He does pause seeing someone with all their things laid out on a bench, and he pauses to consider the new arrival.

"You know those things might dry quicker hanging around the stove in the Inn. There should be stew as well. Better than the porridge, though they're feeding us for free so I shouldn't complain."

"There are two words I never thought to hear a Southerner utter in the same breath." 'Sweet Tevinter' indeed. Members of the Inquisition spat at his feet as he passed, muttered insults behind his back, or to his face whenever they were beyond the earshot of the Inquisitor. Still, he smiles even as he pulls that peacoat closer about himself.

"Please, Hawke. I'm too pretty to die, and you," he moves his gaze over her form, a teasing sort of smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "are far too stubborn, at least if half the tales Varric spins are true."

No, no, Hawke. There's no need to be concerned about the Tevinter altus. He can take care of himself just fine, thank you very much, even if there is a nagging wrongness hanging about he can't quite put his finger on. He hasn't tried to summon his magic, though the loss of his staff is something he's painfully noting. "Food and warmth, you say?" And there's the momentary smile at the knowledge that the Bull is present, though it's quickly hidden by a turn as he retrieves his pack. No, no. There's no cause for excitement or comfort at the Bull's presence. Whatever is going on between you two is a lot, yes, but nothing...nothing like that. "Do lead on."

"No more so than an ancient evil straight from myth opening a hole in the sky to a realm from which demons pour at an ever-increasing rate, simply different I imagine, as I've never heard of this 'Urth'." He can respect a man wanting to avoid a sensative topic and welcomes the change, though at Tony's mention of magic, not a lot of gunpowder or magic of any kind, he stops walking.

There it was, that emptiness, that void, the wrongness he was feeling. His breath quickened as he raised a hand, willing flame to his fingertips and he found nothing, no surge of energy coursing through his body, no thrill of power swaying to his command...just...nothing. His eyes dart about, seeing nothing but seeking something, some sort of reason, some sort of explanation as to how his magic could be taken from him, but not his emotion. How could a mage be severed from their mana but not the Fade?

"...how?" It's a question for the wind, rather than Tony, but there it is all the same. "I...think I may vomit."

Wanda wasn't dressed in her scrubs but wearing a pair of warm boots and tights. She had on a sweater dress like the ones she used to wear when she lived in Sokovia. Her long hair was pulled back into a pony tail and a warm jacket was pulled around her thin shoulders. With her was a large Norwegian Hound dog with something that appeared to be a dead bird clasped between its jaws. Wanda, for her part, had a bow over her shoulder and a small quiver of arrows at her side.

She had been heading to her home when the echoes of splashing water filled the shell of her hear and her attention turned towards the fountain. She caught the tail end of Dorian pulling on the coat, his dark eyes scanning the area. There have been a lot of new people lately and each time she stumbled across a new arrival that wasn't Clint, a little piece of hope chipped away at her resolve.

Arado barked but somehow managed to keep the dead bird clamped within his jaw and cantered over towards the fountain before Wanda spoke the command word to make the dog stay. "Sitzen." Her voice was firm but kind and Arado stopped and sat with his tail wagging happily behind him. "You're new." It was a statement. "I'm Wanda. That's Arado. If you want some place warm the inn has a fire and food. I could show you where to go."

She pointed to the building behind her which was by far the largest building in the area and obviously an inn. "Or answer any questions you might have."

"Is everyone's reality kind of fucked?" It seems that way. Demons. Zombies. Purple skinned zealots snapping out the universe, vampires and monsters and clones and wendigos-

He keeps on after muttering that for a few steps before Dorian's stillness registers and-

Well.

Shit.

"No idea. It's not just magic- Super Soldiers don't heal, can't hit as hard as they used to. Plant men can't regenerate. A friend of mine that can normally transform into a giant green rage monster is alone in his skin for the first time in well over a decade- this place just...puts a stopper on what makes us more than an arbitrary point of human, or human adjacent. I haven't figured out the how, I'm still working on making sure everyone's got what they need to keep from freezing when winter rolls around." A beat. "Aim for the bushes."

"There's an inn. The Maker hasn't completely forsaken me." Though the number of people who find this random appearance from a fountain normal is beginning to disturb him. Did they all arrive this way? Where is here anyway? Should he be concerned as to the transport? Was transportation what had occurred? How much distance had he traveled? How had he done so through water when he'd been sleeping in a bed far in the mountains?

He shakes his head to clear away the questions vying for his attention and looks over to the man with the...impressive cloak. It wasn't his style, but he could appreciate the design well enough. "I would even accept porridge at this point." He waves a hand. "I believe the saying has something to do with beggars and choosers." He isn't about to ignore an observation, though, and he stands from the bench, closing some of the distance between himself and Bobo.

"This...arrival via fountain is something to which you're accustomed, then?"

Oh good, a dog. This one at least was cute, rather than the drooling and bounding mongrels the mabari could be, regardless of how intelligent the Fereldens claimed them to be. When Wanda gave it the command and it stopped, Dorian shifted his gaze from the dog to its owner, smiling in thanks before he even stood from the bench, thankful for her offers of aid and hoping more than anything to alleviate his confusion.

"Dorian. It's a pleasure, Wanda," and he shifts his gaze back to the dog briefly, "and you, Arado. I'd welcome any sort of answers you'd be willing to provide." He pauses. "The two of you aren't demons, are you?" He realized it may seem a strange sort of question, but it was a necessary one. Of course, no demon would admit to it, but in the answering, the truth could be gleaned if one knew what to listen for. He's met a few demons, had a few attempt to possess him.

Edited 2018-10-30 13:43 (UTC)

He listens to Tony's explanation intently, because it gives him something to focus on, a puzzle to attempt to solve, something to organize that madness threatening to choak him at the loss of his magic. They weren't just abilities. They were a part of him. Whoever or whatever brought them here had amputated part of his very being! He-

He took several deep breaths, focusing on the chill air in his lungs. In. And out. Your composure is still your own, Dorian. He repeated that to himself several times, mindless of the fact he'd uttered it just under his breath rather than simply in his mind. After a few moments, he swallowed, looking over to Tony and raising his chin, almost in defiance.

"I'm fine, a momentary shock, that's all." Someone, some being of intelligence had brought him to Maker knew where, stripped him of his essence, and imprisoned him here with strangers to do whatever it was they wanted of him. He'd be damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd rattled him. "I would very much like to avoid freezing to death in the winter as well if that be our fate. I'll help however I may." They will not win.

"..." Tony doesn't say a word, doesn't offer a hand, doesn't move an inch while he waits out Dorian's mental implosion. He's had more than a few himself and honestly? What works for him is finding something to focus on that he understands. In this equation the whole world, himself included, is a foreign variable and there's not much he can offer as a grounding point of focus.

It doesn't surprise him to have Dorian murmur something under his breath, he does the same thing when he's rattled.

Not that he'll say anything about it- not his business and one manfully ignores another person when circumstances take them by the spine and give their worldview a good shake. As soon as he's lucid, talking, moving? Tony pushes on, bringing them around the curve to the inviting heat of the forge, hearth crackling. "We don't have a steady supply of rubber, the alternative are- um. I think bedwarmers? Casing you put coal in and slip under your blankets to keep your feet warm. Pretty antiquated but what can you do? We're limited here."

"Never, ever believe half of what Varric says," Hawke says on a laugh. She's the last person to pull such bigotry on anyone. After everything she's been through, after all her mistakes, she's not about to judge another person. Tease them, absolutely, make jokes about an entire area, of course, but judge? No, she'll leave that for Meredith. Alllll for Meredith. Her warmth is genuine and so is the rest of her. Varric made her into a legend, but it's because he knew the true person. And exactly how to make her roll her eyes the hardest.

"You should have read his letters about you lot. I swear he falls in love with everyone in his own writer-driven way." They did have excellent stories after all. No she's not falling apart without him after they only had a short reunion and then she died. That's far too sad to dwell on.

Hawke gestures for him to follow and walks toward the main village. "So there's a lot of buildings, some for living in, a library I think, the inn has a kitchen and rooms, it's basic conditions of a small type of village, but not terrible." It's relatively clean, that's the good part, and for now not as deathly. She's been here long enough to know her way around, and she leads him right to the inn, opening the door and dramatically bowing as she holds it open. It is dry and warm in there, at least. "There's a storeroom with a lot of knick knacks, it's where I got my knives. I suppose it's all open season there." No one stopped her. She gestures toward the village census and village events "There's a load of information in there. Gave me a damned headache."

"I do work with him, you know. I am aware." Even not knowing Varric's love of a good story or the fact that he's a published author with several works in circulation, it was impossible to meet the dwarf and not learn quickly his words are at the very least 60% filigree. It actually touches the pit of his stomach with a hint of homesickness to think on it too long. Well, there's something unexpected: missing the dwarf.

He was glad of the topic shift, speaking of Varric's opinion gave him something tangible to focus on rather than overwhelming himself with his current predicament. He'd adjust, and rather quickly of course, but he'd seek his own answers more than drinking up someone else's. Still, perspective was wonderful. "I shudder to think what he may have said of me." And yet, his tone suggested he was asking.

He followed her explanation with his eyes, turning his head to regard one location or another, and followed her dramatic entry into the inn with a roll of his eyes. It was a quaint place made more acceptable by the warmth and the dryness. The hunger for information flashed across his gaze as his eyes fell upon the census and the logs, noting their location for later, and he chuckled, shaking his head. "If a census gave you a headache, Hawke, you should read more often." Granted, he'd also been raised to be a politician. Maybe he was conditioned.

Still, looking around at the alien surroundings, noting the great hearth in the inn, the tables, and chairs, he frowned, looking back to her.

"Where is 'here', precisely? It's...rather unfamiliar."

If Dorian were a man who discussed his feelings, he'd thank Tony later for the consideration and for allowing him to find his own resolution to the shock of his magic being stifled, but he was not. He'd willfully ignore for the rest of time that it had even occurred, falling back into step with Tony and focusing instead on the topic at hand: warmth.

He doesn't attempt to hide his confusion at the word "rubber", a commodity unknown to Thedas at least to his knowledge, and arches an eyebrow at the claim that bedwarmers are antiquated.

"Artifacts from a by-gone era? Bedwarmers?" He holds up a hand to stay that course of conversation. There was clearly something far more primary to clarify first. "There seems to be some sort of temporal deficit that is far more drastic than I realized."

"We are a merry band of misfits here from all over about every flavor of reality, and different points in time in relation not only to this place but each other. My Aunt's running around young enough to be my daughter, for example." Which he still hasn't quite gotten around to coping with because she's not, technically, the woman that'll call him ridiculous names and try to spoil him on the sly yet, she's the young woman his father may have had feelings for or something.

It's complicated and uncomfortable and he tries not to see things that aren't there but-

This place plays tricks with the mind. It's fun. "The level of technology here seems to level out around something comparable to the Edwardian era back home. Right in the middle of the industrial revolution but, again, supplies are limited. Most of the buildings don't have power."

"Space and time displacement through a fountain?" He crosses his arms, one hand rising to his chin where he strokes the bit of facial hair there thoughtfully. "That's...spectacular." He looks over to Tony then, realizing that reaction may be a bit insensitive. "Though I imagine it must make for some...awkward exchanges. Does she know you're her nephew?"

Terms like 'Industrial Revolution' and 'Edwardian era' were lost on the Altus mage, but he recognized them for what they were: references to points in history, which, by way of interpreting Tony's tone, had passed some time ago for him. Then that last bit caught him unawares and he looked to Tony in confusion. This question and its related answer may well clarify a great deal.

"What sort of power would a building possess?"

Wanda's brow furrowed in confusion. She'd met a lot of people during the time of their arrival but that was a new question. "No." Her answer was slow, her confusion evident even through the thick warm accent that colored her voice.

His question raised a few questions of her own but Wanda pushed them aside and focused on Dorian. Waking up here wasn't easy and she wasn't going to assault the poor man with questions when he doubtless had plenty of his own.

"I can't answer all of your questions." Just so he was aware up front. "But I've been here awhile and I'll tell you what I can. There is also some information inside the inn. People have been brought here for awhile now and we've slowly been pooling what we know."

For a moment, he caught himself hoping. The complexion, the hair colour - this man looked like someone from the Levant. Only when he got closer and saw the cut and the shape of his facial hair did he decide that they didn't precisely share a heritage. Still, he tapped the table nearby. "My pardon," he said. "I thought you seemed familiar, but I believe I've mistaken you for someone of my homeland. You are not of the Levant? Damas, or Jerusalem?"

His accent was deliberately heavy, thickening his words to sound as much like Masyaf as he could - being an example. He didn't expect a positive answer, but there was more to this than that. This man looked as if he felt the way Altaïr did not let himself show. Slightly fearful. Concerned. Turning the world over in his mind and yet finding no answer. That sort of thoughtfulness was something Altaïr was encouraged by. If nothing else, he thought this man may be a kindred spirit.

The rapping on the table nearby was enough to cause Dorian to start, a fact that immediately creased his face with a frown. Pavus, you've fought demons, lyrium-maddened Templars, undead, and worse. A simple sound on an inn table shouldn't be cause for alarm, and yet, here he was, taking a breath to steady himself. Others here could obtain weapons, arm themselves. He'd been told once it wasn't the same, that magic was a danger far worse than a man with a sword because they couldn't put it down.

Perhaps that was true...until they were forced to. And then, the man with a sword could find another, but the mage? The mage was left defenseless. Perhaps he would have to become a man with a sword. He looked in Altair's direction after a moment, surprised to see someone to near the look of his homeland as well, and...fiendishly attractive. He'd seen beauty similar in the past...a desire demon in disguise. This was just unfair. Still, he'd been forced to ignore such desires all his life. He could force it down and simply shake his head.

"I am not. I hail from the Tevinter Imperium." And he assumed the location would mean as little to this other man as Altair's had meant to him. He stood, though, inclining his head in greeting. "All the same, I am Dorian Pavus, Agent of the Inquisition, most recently of Minrathous. I could attach more fancy titles to my introduction, but I fear they would mean little. How do you do?"

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

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