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.

Threaded | Flat

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?

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.

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."

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."

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.

Bull hadn't gotten the news that Dorian had arrived and arrives late to the inn. Trying to brew his first batch of beer had had him busy all through lunch but now that was all dealt with and cleaned away and the beer was fermenting in a vat in his living room. So he makes his way over to the inn to settle down and relax for a bit and catch up on what is going on in the village.

He isn't more than two steps inside the door when he sees Dorian and then just stands there in stunned disbelief. "Dorian?"

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.

Threaded | Flat

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Inn