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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That, he hadn't known - none of it But the supposition made sense. As Dorian spoke, he nodded, a hand stroking his short growth of beard in thought. "A sensible thought. In the upcoming weeks, I intend to begin working to regain some other skills I've lost over the last decades. I can use this as a reason for exploring to the north." He'd begin the following day. Running, bringing himself back into a condition to do what had once come naturally. He had retained much of his skill, but little of his constitution, having grown short-winded and easily tired. Now, he was at his prime once more. He needed to remember that.

"I will also see about gathering resources - a way to note our findings as we gain them. I've grown used to having books and ink at my disposal. Perhaps, at the least, I can find chalk or some similar material."

Several things in Alaïr's explanation caught his attention: he had skills he'd lost over decades (which seemed impossible given his appearance; that he believed those skills would afford him some sort of advantage in exploration; Alaïr was also a 'thinking man' as he said. Dorian nodded.

"And what skills are those? I'm not incapable myself, magic or no. Besides, I'll not stand for you having all the fun."

It was reassuring to hear those words - that it seemed he wouldn't have to act alone. He had lost at least six decades, but he had learned the values of working with others in things like this. "In my youth, I was taught many skills - fighting, investigating, climbing - and as I aged, I learned curiosity. How to ask questions, and how to find the answers. I retained my mind in my old age, but less my body."

And then, with a hint of a smile, he went on to add, "Before my arrival here, I had seen ninety-two years. It seems I lost many of them somewhere along the way."

That was certainly an age beyond what Dorian had expected, and what's more, intriguing beyond measure. Altaïr had no reason to lie about his age, obviously, and that in itself was enough to give the mage pause. "And so, this place not only changes time or origin, but rewinds it? That remarkable!"

And something he would have to delve more deeply into on his own. The bunker might be a place to start...but that was a line of thought to be had after a night's sleep at least, and not in another's company. "Curiosity has always been a curse for me. I learned to fight from a young age. It's absolutely necessary to train a young mage, lest his powers rule him rather than the other way 'round...though climbing? Perhaps a tree or two."

"Then perhaps that is something I can do for you. Climbing quickly has saved my life ten times more often than I have fingers at the least." And he'd not precisely hidden the fact that he was missing a finger on his left hand. There was no way to - it was simply a part of his life and he didn't think twice about it. "It's something I will have to become practiced in once more. At ninety-two, I could move at a walk and little more. I coughed anytime I moved more quickly, my lungs burning. I have much to regain."

He had already decided to begin running, to explore, to build himself back up to where he had been. He would climb, balance, jump. In time, he would fight, spar, and bring back movements that had been instinctive, muscle memory more than conscious thought. And before long, he thought, he would feel like his old self again.

"More than ninety times, then?" He smirks slightly at his jest. Dorian isn't unobservant by any means, and rather often people assume otherwise, which he takes advantage of. Even under normal circumstances, he makes it a habit to be aware of his surroundings. In an alien place with no access to his abilities it's even more imperative to do so.

"I can see how it could prove useful. I wouldn't mind being show a thing or two. I have no other way to evade enemies at the moment." Something he has ever intention of changing as soon as possible. He may not be able to call forth fire to his fingertips, but he does know his way around a certain weapon.

"Are you skilled in staff fighting at all?"

Altaïr lifted one shoulder, unflinchingly displaying his four-fingered hand as Dorian continued. "I have used halberds, as the English call them, which are similar. A staff with a spear and blade at one end. Is it similar enough?"

With the topic on such things, Altaïr cast a glance over Dorian in general, taking in the build of his shoulders and arms. What he saw was promising. Strength, if more latent than active. Capability. Something he could teach from beyond the first steps. The man was not a rank beginner. Good.

Dorian nodded at the description. A weighted and bladed staff were similar in function. He was almost certain he could adapt. "Yes, I believe I could, though...if that is how you lost your finger, I believe I'll seek out a different teacher, if it's all the same."

He smiles,at ease with the conversation regardless of direction.

At that, with a faint smirk, he held up his four-fingered left hand. "Look more closely. This was intentionally done. Part of a ritual - my coming-of-age in my Brotheroood. An oath that cannot be forgotten."

And there was no lie. The wound, old as it was, was clean, well-tended, well healed. There had been no infection, no raggedness of the scar. It had been done neatly, quickly, and had healed as well as such an amputation could ever be. And he was far from shy about it. Why hide it, after all, when it was on such a public part of his body.

A good bit of information to be sure, and rather...dour and grim as well. It sounded a bit cultish if Dorian were honest, and that just set him off his cider. And so, Dorian treated the news with a bit of flippancy, to lighten the mood. "And a joke that cannot be noticed." Smiling, he nodded all the same, accepting Altaïr's explanation.

"Oaths are all well and good, but I'll not be taking any. The last time someone offered me membership into their club, they turned out to be warmongering zealots."

He shrugged one shoulder. "More than once, it has been said that I lack a true humour. You are not the first - and likely will not be the last." Not much of an admission, but true. "And that is unfortunate - but have no worry. We fought to end a war against zealots. And membership into our Brotherhood no longer requires such a sacrifice. My own learnings made certain of that. I do not regret having made it, but I am glad that those who follow will not have to. It is too public a mark."

And if they were to operate in the shadows, remaining unremarked would serve that goal much, much more easily.

"A member of a secretive group who until recently practiced initiation by way of disfiguration tells me not to worry, that they fought against zealotry and oppression. There's a trustworthy endorsement."

But he isn't assuming either way. It's just as possible Altaïr is completely right about his little group as it is he is under whatever misconceptions his forebears thrust upon him.

"You are not the first or last to think that, either." But he shrugged again. "Our Brotherhood saw much. We were surrounded by a religious war, Christian against Saracen. Each side either courted our allegiance or threatened us if we did not give it. We had to fight to maintain our independence. And once I was named mentor..."

He exhaled. He had never had that sort of ambition, but he had inherited the title all the same. Because he had killed Rashid - but if Rashid hadn't betrayed them...

He'd had no wish to lead. He'd just had to.

"I understood the contradiction. We wished for peace, and yet had to fight to gain it. We wished for all to have the freedom of choice, and yet demanded perfect obedience. It was a great irony that we had to embody such opposing ideals - and yet, that is mankind in so many ways."

"Indeed. walking contradictions, the lot of us." He shook his head, not hiding the lack of recognition from his face. "I know neither of those religions, by the way. I feel if I did, this conversation would seem more weighted."

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Few who lead well seek the titles required, and many who have them are unfit to bear them. That is also the likeness of mankind."

All of it was worth nodding at - agreeing with. Though he did have to wonder. The Christians and the Saracens. He wasn't sure if it mattered so much. He saw the similarities in them and the differences, and he didn't see enough reason to start a war to say the least. But mankind believed things with a wholeheartedness that disturbed him. After a point, they stopped questioning. And what would that mean in the end? An entire species of people who refused to think for themselves?

A shake of his head and Altaïr broke out of his momentary reverie. "My apologies. My thoughts turn to the nature of mankind and how belief makes them cease to question their world. I lament of such things more often than I should."

"Nonsense." And to illustrate his belief on the matter, Dorian shook his head. "One should question more. Adherence to belief and the denial of inquest begets a cessation of thought. Nothing changes if no one tries to see what may be wrong."

There was a faint smile on his lips when he looked up at Dorian. The man was a kindred spirit indeed. "If only more thought as you do. I fear for the futures of those who cling to a single deity instead of investigating the workings of the world."

Dorian shrugs slightly. "I'm certain there's always someone who thinks outside their box, Altaïr. The universe is, quite clearly, far larger than we knew."

"With this place as evidence of it," he agreed. "But I will remain glad to have found a kindred spirit no matter the surroundings. Odd how fate's hand weaves." But still, Dorian's presence was restful. A thoughtful man that settled some of his concerns in a strange place. He wouldn't be puzzling at things alone.

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

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