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

"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?"

"This is where I don't mention the lack of alcohol that comes with that Inn, right?" Because he knows that irritated him when he first arrived. "Some distill their own, and the watchers or whatever they are, sometimes they provide people with bottles, but it's definitely not as freeflowing as I'd like it to be."

"Well, that is this place in a nutshell. You can find some clothes there though, food, and rooms. It's a start when you first find yourself snatched up and dumped here."

At least he's trying to help, even if it's not the best demeanor for helping.

"Not sure if I call it accustomed, but it's how I found myself here, and seen a few others since I got here. That was only a moment ago though. I've heard some don't get this far, arriving out of tubes in the bunker instead of being dumped out here. Weird thing?" Well weirder. "There's a village to the North of here, exact same layout. Except as I've seen it, no one has arrived from that fountain."

"What sort of inn-" He shakes his head, adding this latest inconvenience to the list of reasons he was quickly growing to hate this place. The rest of this man's suggested sounded as though he was to go to this inn and scavenge for clothing and supplies, which was odd seeing as someone clearly put him here with purpose...and with clothing, regardless of how mundane and feeble they may be.

The pack, however, did not contain any sort of rations he'd noted. Perhaps this inn deserved a visit after all. Instead of falling to panic, though, Dorian systematically cataloged all the information this other man provided. This was a common enough way for new arrivals to appear that none were shocked. Their point of origin was some sort of underground shoot or tunnel in a bunker off-site. There was an identical village to the north, but no deposits via that fountain. Newly arrived though he was, curiosity was blooming, and he would embrace it. Curiosity was a much more comfortable emotion than panic, after all.

"The same layout, you say? In every way...?" And it then occurs to him he's yet to introduce himself, or vice versa. He clears his throat, inclining his head in greeting. "My name is Dorian, by the way. Dorian Pavus, most recently of Skyhold by way of Minrathous."

"The crappy kind in a town where you can find weed growing wild apparently, but yeast and large containers are at a premium," he says, answering the question that never is finished being asked. "Trust me. I've spent enough damn decades in a town where everyone hated me and still had more modern conveniences than I can get in this place."

And he sounds less than impressed about it all, too.

"Bobo Del Rey," he says, giving a nod. "Previously from Purgatory, in so many ways," he says, which is being bluntly honest which he finds himself doing more and more. "But yeah, seems much the same. Kind of a mirror image layout. I was talking to Margaery at the Inn who told me until fairly recently there wasn't another village. It was like they were in a valley between mountains and then they all arrived at once and... new village."

His nose wrinkles at that, not impressed by the story. Less so by the thought they could just decide to upend things one day as it amused them. Whoever the were.

"I can only assume you're referring to a specific 'weed' or that the term is some sort of euphemism." A drug is what he assumed it to be, which he didn't wholly disapprove of. They had their uses, he'd done his own experimentation in his days of schooling at one Circle or another. "Though now you've piqued my curiosity: how is it one is from a place in many ways? Do you hail from Purgatory and also embody traits for which it's known?" Or was it something else entirely?

He tapped his chin thoughtfully as he mulled over Bobo's description, humming as he pondered. "Mmm, an illusion? And if so, which?" He waves a hand in a flippant gesture, dismissing the line of thought for the time being. He had a more pressing question regardless. "Has anyone explored this mirror village?" Not one to be held back by shock or discomfort for long, Dorian found the best course of action was to stay in motion.

He arches a brow at that, reminding himself it's not just times that are so changed here but places. "It's a drug that grows natural. Marijuana. It let's you chill out," he says, shrugging. "I prefer alcohol and a cigarette, but you make do with what you have here," he notes, which is what he's been doing.

Bobo considers that, head tilting slightly and his eyes narrowing as he looks at the man. Part of him thinks so many in here won't care what he is, and others will not believe him. "The town I live in is called Purgatory. Then there's the time I went to Hell before I came back," he says, shrugging.

"That's a good question, but one no one has answers to. Some say it's a simulation. Like an illusion, and others that we're an experiment." And cloned, but he's not sure how much of that this guy had in his world.

"Important, that. 'Chilling', which context suggests is something akin to relaxing rather that related to temperature. Otherwise, I'd just as soon not. That being said, you've intrigued me." He made a mental note to explore that avenue further at a later date, perhaps after his clothing dried.

"Did you go to Hell literally or figuratively?" And the rest of his message is disturbing but no less fascinating for the trauma. "An illusion...and no one has tested that theory?"

(OOC: If you want to drop this that's cool, I really thought I'd answered it. I'm sorry!)

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

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