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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"..." 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."

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?"

"The fountain's the output. We actually wake up in a system of tubes in a bunker underground, guess no one was on tube duty when you popped up. Sometimes we catch new people there otherwise they get brought up here. I assume clone processing is below." It's a lot to get through in not a lot of time and, well. Tony's probably not the best person to have as the welcome wagon. "Yeah, it's- Weird is an understatement but we're making due."

Supporting each other through the creative fuckery that is their enclosure. He waves Dorian up to the bench near the hearth, comfortable enough for most as he sets down his yolk and dumps his fetched water into the barrel next to the hearth. "Uh- electricity?"

A beat. "You have that where you're from, right? Or is it less nobility and more dungeons and dragons in Skyhold? Why am I asking, that's very obviously a fantasy thing- oh. Wait I knew that sounded familiar-" He flits from forge to notes, sketched in shorthand in a book, eyes flicking from paper to the diagrams on the wall- "Bull said he's from there. You know him?"

"Clone...processing?" Clone was not a word with which he was familiar, and he shook his head to better illustrate that fact. "I can process 'weird'. I've heard stranger, even."

When one has a friend who can punch a hole in reality by wiggling her fingers, it changes one's perspective. He follows Tony's hand wave and gladly finds a seat by the fire, the warmth already seeping into his face. A blessing, that.

His eyebrows raise at the name. "Bull?" The hopeful lilt in his voice is replaced quickly by one of doubt. It couldn't possibly-

"The Iron Bull? Massive hulk of a man, grey of skin, rather large horns and blatant disregard for shirts?"

"Only has one eye but has a way of looking through you that feels like he can stare past all the bullshit?" Tony's voice is warm, fond. Bull's- interesting. An effective distraction, a terrible coping mechanism, but good overall.

"I'm finishing up his braces and axe." He knocks the back of his knuckle against a massive axehead, ready for the final pass of sharpening and polishing. "I didn't know they made people that big."

"You put it succinctly." The brute's ability to, quite adequately put, 'see right through him' was a point of near constant annoyance, but at the same time, a comfort. Dorian abhorred discussing his feelings. With the Bull, he didn't have to. Tony's tone wasn't lost on him, either, and there was a strange ping of some unknown emotion somewhere deep in his gut. He didn't like how fond Tony seemed of the Bull. That was unacceptable. He decided quickly to shove that little feeling down with all the rest he refused to process. Best for everyone, really.

He instead eyed the indicated axe with a bit of amusement and a slight chuckle, fond as well, and so were his words, though out of context they would hold a much different meaning.

"It may be large enough for him. He's fond of cleaving men in multiple pieces at a time." He makes a flippant gesture with a hand, almost dismissive if not for that same fond undertone. "He's large for a Qunari, who are a race of giant men. He has quite a way with people, though."

"Not a lot of men here that need cleaving, most of what we worry about is in the forest. As far as anyone can tell we're the only living settlement on this island." Key word being living. There are ruins, sure, but he hasn't been able to venture out to check them. Doesn't much want to either. Exploration is not his bag, he's done his stint in the wilds once or twice already, no thank you. As he talks Tony walks further from the hearth, kicking open a box with an assortment of ingots and billets tucked to one side- and pulls out a bottle of wine.

Always have some on hand in case of celebration.

Or failure.

The only cup he has on hand that isn't covered in soot or silt or sledge is a ceramic mug with a cracked off handle, but beggars, choosers. Wine uncorked and poured, he offers Dorian the mug filled halfway with rich red. "I've seen bigger but that wasn't normal so much as an accident of science."

"Or anything, really. He's rather taken with 'mayhem'." And there's that fondness again, and slight amusement. Perhaps after everything, he'd grown a tumor of affection for the man. That was...permissible. He had a way about him that was endearing, and-

-this was neither the time nor the place to think on it, especially since Tony had just pulled out the wine he'd promised and poured him a...ceramic mug of it. It wasn't until the scent of the red reached his nostrils that he realized exactly how much he needed it.

"Sweet Maker, it smells divine." It smelled like something that would suffice at the least. "You have my thanks."

"First thing I needed when I woke up here was a drink." A beat. "Well, medical attention, but after that a drink."

Waking up in a tube full of water with a hole in your side can drive a man to the bottom of a bottle, nevermind everything that came before. Tony leans his hip against his worktable, settled comfortably with the warmth of the forge against his back. "So, what'd you lose?"

There'd been that moment before, the moment he ignored out of courtesy- but it was, in fact, a moment. Something's missing for Dorian and knowing that might help solve the mystery of how their overlords keep managing to fuck with them.

Medical attention suggested to Dorian that Tony didn't know how to swim, though he didn't discount the possibility that he'd been in some other bad sort of way when he'd arrived. He took a long pull from that provided mug, and he paused after Tony's question to enjoy the comfort it provided.

And to savor it. It sounded quite like his stint in the Hinterlands: weeks without proper shelter, bathing, food, wine. This was to steel his nerves, after all. And then that question, so innocuous, but so telling at the same time.

"You know the Bull. Has he mentioned mages?"

"Not directly- I'm a man of science, Magic shit is-" He shakes his head, grimacing. "It's physics with a set of rules I don't have the background to understand yet, that's all, and every person I meet that's got some kind of magic is very hush hush about them. But I don't think I've met anyone with magic from Bull's- your world. I figure different worlds, different systems?"

There are too many variables in things that are concrete and known to him already- it'd be impossible for systems or whatever to stay the same from universe to universe.

"I'm sure, to an extent, that's true, but the force that holds one's feet upon the ground is the same, regardless of where that ground might spring from, yes? Fire burns, water steams or freezes depending on temperature, the earth quakes as its layers shift, electricity arcs from cloud to cloud to ground, blah blah blah." He waves a hand to ward away his continuing examples.

"Seconds become minutes, which in turn become hours, days, months, years. Surely you follow." He takes another sip from the broken-handled mug Tony had given him. "Some men will never grasp mathematics. They weren't born with the capability, their minds simply won't process complex computation. It is a fact there exists a place beyond the physical, where energies exist without solid form. We call it the Fade. It is also a fact some individuals are born with the natural ability to...well, our bodies gather that energy, we store it as mana. We can use that mana to form effects in the physical world: flame, frost, wind, the movement of objects. Those movements and reactions occur in nature, we are simply able to...dictate their occurrence because we essentially generate the primal energies that fuel them. Stop me if I'm going too quickly."

"..." Give him a moment, he's reframing all of this in terms that are comfortable, clinical, and familiar. Tony drums his fingers against his chest, a quiet rattling thud rather than the click click click he used to have with the reactor but- the pressure, the rhythm is comforting.

"People with a genetic predisposition are able to store and wield metaphysical energy due to a connection to a metaphysical plane, and shape or coax natural phenomena into existence by using said energy?" Right. That- the connection and genetic predisposition don't make much sense unless there's a biological component he can't quite crack, something in the brain or the blood but that's all Banner's side of the equation. Similar notes had been made in Wanda's file, if memory serves but- generally he tries not to think about that shit. "No, I'm with you."

"It isn't metaphysical. I can assure you, even you could feel it. You know the Bull, after all. It 'creeps him out'. Ask him if you find my explanation lacking." He motions then to the anvil, the forge itself.

"You work metals into a form you see in your mind, correct? I do the same with spells. I feel the energy at my fingertips as surely as you feel the resistance in every strike. That is...what is missing. I can't feel it. Rather like noticing someone knicked your coinpurse when you weren't looking."

"Loose term until I can come up with something better. So you put off ozone like a tesla coil, something like that?" He can wrap his head around it a little better than most, maybe, his hand stilling against his chest. The glow, the radiating energy, the vibration of the arc reactor had been jarring until it was soothing.

The first few days without were weird as hell. He still misses it from time to time.

"That does explain why you looked like you weren't sure if you wanted to faint or puke earlier."

"I can neither confirm nor deny your analogy and thus am forced to assume you know what I'm talking about." If that bothers Dorian, though, he doesn't show it, instead shrugging as though Tony's understanding of the situation had no impact on the overarching narrative.

He nodded, though, to confirm Tony's suspicion. "Indeed. It was rather like being punched in the gut in the dark when you were only stepping out to use the privy." He finishes the wine he was given, setting the mug down and looking back to the man. "Or rather it is."

"You've got a way with words." Tony shakes his head, reaching out with the bottle to top Dorian up. Something like that? Needs more than a single glass to deal with and if there's anything Tony knows just by looking? It's the face of someone that could probably use a drink or five to get through the latest round of bullshit.

He's seen it in the mirror often enough.

"I want to say 'you'll get used to it' but so far? Anyone that's woke up missing something? Has adapted but- that's not the same as getting used to it."

"I do. It's rather kind of you to notice." He nods his head slightly at the top off. Tony really has no idea how much he needs that wine, or how much he's dreading the prospect of not having a steady supply of it available. Surely he must be able to find something, though. That was a problem to tackle for another day, though.

A shadow passes over his expression at Tony's explanation. 'Adapt' indeed. He scoffs. "I'd like not to acclimate, if it's all the same."

"I mean-" He drums his nails against his chest for a moment, considering the middle distance. "There's the machine in the bunker but it's temporary and the selection is pretty limited."

Not insubstantial but nothing like having that kind of magic at your fingertips on a constant basis.

"And pathetic." It wasn't a punch he was ever going to pull. "I'll not be so desperate. If I cannot use my Maker-given gifts, then...I'll just have to resort to something else."

What, he couldn't say, but something. Dorian Pavus would always view that machine as a weakness, something to rely upon. Not for anyone else, of course, but he holds himself to a sometimes impossible standard. That view could change, of course, given necessity and what not, but for the moment the very idea of it...

"Not everyone's from places where this shit happens naturally and not everyone wakes up shooting lightening from their fingertips, judgy. Getting addicted to it? Sure, that'd be pathetic. Making use of a resource? That's pragmatic." Reasons he's topping his own mug up rather than Dorian's.

At least for the moment.

"That justification is always the case. 'We have this power, but what if we could have more, and so on and so forth until everything is ruin."

His own nation was a cautionary tale in that regard, after all. "But I'll see you your point, Tony. Not all would abuse it, but enough? Quite possibly."

"Pretty sure most people don't trust it. I've used it and I still don't trust it." Otherwise he'd haul himself there for another dose of 'healing rapidly all the time and being as fit as he'd ever been'.

Useful as he'd found it, the crash afterward? Not so much.

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

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