Raistlin Majere of the Red Robes (hourglass_mage) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2016-10-13 11:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, garrett hawke, raistlin majere |
Who: Raistlin and Hawke
What: Two mages meet in a bar...
When: Recently
Where: The Hanged Man
Rating/Warnings Low/None
Status: Complete!
Raistlin Majere and Garrett Hawke weren’t exactly friends. There were very few people Raistlin would have actually called “friend”. He knew Hawke mainly because of Isabela, which was fine. The two of them had a few passing encounters previously and the fact they both were mages were something they had in common, although they practised very different forms of magic. Hawke’s blood magic was a subject of great interest to Raistlin.
It was as good an excuse as any to make his way to the Hanged Man that particular evening. That he could use a drink or two. A shot of scotch seemed to help his ever increasing cough. He had not yet received the tea that his Dream counterpart drank, and he would be fine if he never did. It was disgusting, tasting more like mud water and bark. Scotch was much better.
Hawke very easily made friends, most of the time. If the other person was willing to handle his inappropriate commentary and how everything was essentially a joke for him (unless it involved his baby sister dating, ugh) - but he was simple to get along with. Very uncomplicated in terms of everything. Mixing cocktails, pouring beer, polish drink glasses, dabbling in the forbidden arts of magic; he was content with life despite the curveballs.
And today he was doing most of the aforementioned things. Mixing cocktails, pouring beer, polishing drink glasses. If he were to hold this establishment to the true spirit of The Hanged Man in Kirkwall, cleanliness wouldn’t be a priority and it’d smell like shit, rotted wood and stale ale but, you know. Health code violations could close a business. Still, the ambiance was plenty antiquated, and the flickering flames on the torches hung on the walls gave the scent of smoke and chestnut that was rather welcoming.
“Greetings, mate,” he welcomed, recognizing the man from their mutual person of interest - Isabela. “Wife’s not here today. Did you want me to pass on a message?”
Considering Garrett doubted he was here for him. Raistlin was hard to read, and he was sure that there must be a forest lodged up his arse more often than not.
Whenever Raistlin went into the Hanged Man (which probably wasn’t often as Isabela would have liked considering the two of them were friends and all) he got the feeling of stepping into another world. It reminded him a bit of the inns and taverns he and his...traveling companions (because, let’s face it, by this point in his Dreams he was assured the people he traveled with were not his friends. His Dream Counterpart had made certain of that) frequented on their journey across Ansalon. It had what interior decorators might call an “Old World vibe” with its open floor plan, wooden benches and hanging rustic looking chandeliers. Although, to Raistlin’s “new” eyes, the benches looked rotted and ready to collapse the moment someone sat down. The bar itself had mold growing along the top, with holes through it as if something small and squirming had been eating at it. Despite that, however, the Hanged Man made Raistlin a little nostalgic for the Inn Of The Last Home in his Counterpart’s hometown of Solace, and he wasn’t too sure what to think of that.
The bartender behind the bar - Hawke, himself - looked like an animated corpse. However, after a month, Raistlin had grown used to how the living looked. He still didn’t like it, but it didn’t seem as though there was much he could do about the curse. If he should ever meet Par Salain in this world, he would make the man remove it, regardless of the cost.
Not being a man who gave out smiles easily, Raistlin inclined his head in greeting. “There’s no need,” he answered Hawke in his low voice. He was pleased that it had not taken on the whispering hissing quality of his Counterpart’s, and with any luck it would stay that way. The eyes and fragile health were enough, thank you. “I’m here for a drink of scotch and perhaps to pick your brain some.”
Hawke wasn’t completely in the dark of what ailed him; the cursed eyes, for one thing, that didn’t look so cursed in the naked eye. Most of his information came from Bela, and it certainly seemed he was getting a rather unique shit end of the dream stick. “My scotch and my...brain, I suppose, are certainly at your disposal,” he throatily chuckled, getting a rocks glass ready and a bottle of amber liquid to pour into it. Must be something interesting Raistlin had come to discuss if it required scotch and a face to face conversation.
Anyway, he slid the poison of choice over and crossed his arms, leaning against counter behind him. Bethany was about, going a bit of ‘cocktail waitress’ and making sure those at their respective tables always had a drink on hand - she and Carver helped around for the tips. “What’s on your mind? Need sexual advice? Family advice? Have a stubborn stain on your carpet that refuses to leave?”
He was a big advocate for baking soda and vinegar for that sort of thing.
Raistlin wrapped his long fingers around the glass given to him and took a sip. The request for scotch and the request to question to pick at Hawke’s knowledge were completely unrelated except for the fact that Hawke could supply both and both were of benefit to Raistlin himself. The burn of alcohol down his throat seemed to quiet the irritation in his lungs. At least for the time being.
He arched a brow at Hawke, the corners of his mouth raising just slightly into something that may have been considered a smirk. “None of the above,” he answered, although he found Hawke’s offer of sex advice to be a tad on the ironic side, all things considered. He shook his head. “No, actually, I wanted to speak to you concerning your Dreams. Specifically, the magical element of them.” He paused to cast a curious, if weary, glance over his shoulder at the rest of the bar and its patrons, “if you happen to have the time, that is.”
Now he was certain this would be an interesting talk. Hawke didn’t seem like the typical mage scholar; he wasn’t bred for books and control like Circle mages were, with the idea of restriction hammered to his head like nails keeping him shackled. Magic, for those in his dreams, ran in the blood - through the very veins, a kind of power that developed naturally. Most of his knowledge came through experience, not text on old smelly paper - but he wouldn’t knock on the power of education, either. He’d simply rather do rather than read, though there were exceptions to that sometimes. Especially in regards to something as unknown and forbidden as, say.
Blood magic.
Two of his fingers beckoned the female Hawke over, motioning her to take over most of the drink-slinging while he had a moment to discuss things with Raistlin here. “Sure. What are you interested in, exactly?”
Raistlin watched the woman come over to relieve Hawke for a few moments so the two of them could talk in earnest. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to finally be speaking with the man about the magic from his Dreams. It was no secret that he craved knowledge like some people craved a vice. He was chomping at the bit to hear everything Hawke had to tell him. He wanted to know everything, and perhaps if Hawke was willing, learn what he could. Something within him stirred with eager excitement. Something that had once been deep, but over the past year had started coming more and more to the surface.
Raistlin wasted no time in deciding where to start, he knew he couldn’t monopolize Hawke for too long. “How does magic work in your Dreams?” He asked. Magic seemed to work differently for those who Dreamed of different places. It was important to get the fundamentals first. “Bella once spoke to me about something called the Fade. I wish to know more about that first.”
Hawke winced a little. How to explain that without being long-winded and going into background story that wasn’t exactly necessary? He scratched the back of his neck, contorting his face in some kind of hilarious expression of thought. “In simple terms? It’s the realm of spirits and dreams, and where us mages draw our magic from. It’s something in our blood, passed from generation to generation, that allows us to shape the power of the Fade into spells. There are categories, of course, in regards to the different types - some are more accepted than others. Most mages are well-versed in various forms. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
He didn’t know if Raistlin came up to simply discuss differences in their types of magic, or if he was searching for some kind of answer - or some kind of different perspective in things - for anything. Either way, the spell-chucking bar keep was open.
The look on Hawke’s face was amusing, to say the least, but Raistlin’s own expression remained passive. He didn’t want to offend the other mage and give him any reason to decide not to give him a primer on how his magic worked. Besides, Raistlin wasn’t given to smiling at random, if he was given to smiling at all.
He listened intently to what Hawke said, about the Fade being a realm of spirits and dreams and the place where mages drew their magic from. Isabela had told him something similar when he had questioned her about it. He found it absolutely fascinating that such a realm existed. There was nothing like that in Krynn. However, he did find it interesting that magic seemed to run in families. Raistlin’s head tilted forward a little in interest when he heard that. Aside from his fragile mother, who had been a seer, Raistlin was the only member of his family who wielded magic. At least that he was aware of. His father had been as mundane as they had come and his brother and sister were both warriors who relied on sword and shield rather than spell slinging.
“Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to Hawke. Glamoured eyes glanced up when Hawke asked if there was something specific he was looking for. He nodded once and opened his mouth to ask more about the Fade, however, what was actually said, in a voice a little deeper and a little less gravelly than Raistlin’s own asked, “Actually, yes. I would like to know more about your specific form.”
His specific form? Talk about quite a loaded request. “It’s widely hated,” he began, because of course he’d be interested in a school of magic that would get him killed on the spot if a templar witnessed him practicing it. “Mostly because it’s widely misunderstood - us mages aren’t held in the highest regard in my dreams. We’re supposed to be held captive in what they call a Circle, tracked and controlled, and if we’re not then we’re to be considered apostates and are to be killed on sight.” A few exceptions were made. Hawke was an apostate in Kirkwall for years, but it seemed to benefit that shithole of a city if he was. Who else would clean up the messes? It wasn’t as if he ran around raining fire and ice from the sky on a regular basis; he played it smart despite his devil-may-care attitude.
“Anyway, with that said, if we’re talking blood magic, then it’s fairly simple - blood used to fuel magic spells, whether it’s enhancing the existing elemental or arcane ones, or using spells that involve actual blood,” Garrett went on to explain, a little quieter but with enough volume that Raistlin could listen. “It’s recognized as one of the more sinister types of magic because of it’s ability to summon demons from the Fade, or even control humans. It’s rarely used properly because the church institution we have in place preaches fear of it rather than actual understanding. Not to mention if used improperly, it puts a mage at risk in becoming an abomination - that’s when a demon possesses a mage and becomes this unsightly thing not worthy of salvation.”
It’s what he feared when he first learned that he was a blood mage in the dreams. Back then when it all started Hawke didn’t have much clarity in understanding it, but the use of it ran rampant in Kirkwall - mages turned to it in desperation. It was a clear problem, and how else does one try to help fix a problem?
By learning and understanding it. That was his view.
As Hawke explained about blood magic and how it worked, something shifted across the blue eyes that were watching the bartender with sharp interest; something deep gold in color, pinching the pupils into hourglass shapes. It lasted only a moment. A blink and Raistlin’s eyes were blue once again. However, in that moment Raistlin felt a little peculiar. Oh, felt alright all things considered, but it was as though he’d suddenly just...not been there. It was a little disorienting and when it was over, Raistlin felt as though something had scurried off, like a cockroach away from light, within him.
He also didn’t remember actually asking Hawke anything. One moment he was about to ask him to elaborate more on the Fade and the next, Hawke was speaking of how blood magic worked and the abominations misuse of it created.
Raistlin glanced down at the glass of scotch he was nursing. Perhaps he’d had enough for the evening and he slid the glass away from his hands. “I see,” he started carefully. A cough tickled his chest and he stifled it into the back of his wrist before continuing. “It’s unfortunate that such a discipline is feared and the education needed in order to wield it properly is suppressed. However, I understand. Magic isn’t exactly trusted on Krynn either. Many of my companions look at me sideways because of it.” Another stifled cough. “However, you are a hero of Kirkwall, aren’t you? I think that’s what Bella told me recently.”
Hawke wasn’t so entirely engrossed in the sound of his own voice - there was enough clarity to pick up on something a bit odd, whether it was the odd pause in Raistlin’s behavior or a trick of a light that distorted something along his face. “So they say,” he shrugged after a moment. “More like I was at the right place at the right time, then maddening things happened. I became a fugitive after it was all over, for quite a couple years.” In Bela’s dreams he’d died through sacrifice, but his went differently. Varric became Kirkwall’s Viscount and the both of them would then repair the broken city’s infrastructure, building it up from the rubble and ash.
It was a hopeful future. With the elected Divine, mages were to be treated in a much more humane way, and the Circles then reformed into actual schools. More education, less containment, and many of them were reunited with their families.
“You feeling alright, mate? Is the drink not agreeing with you?”
“Isn’t that the way of the hero's story?” Raistlin asked, the corners of his lips turning upward slightly. “Right place. Right time. Or, depending on how you view it, wrong place wrong time,” which is how he viewed his own journey through his Dreams. “Unfortunate about the fugitive part. That is gratitude for you.”
The smirk fell off his face when Hawke asked him if he was alright. He shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat, becoming aware how much the bar stool disagreed with his boney ass. He glanced again at the scotch that he’d ordered. He didn’t usually have issues with alcohol. His Dream Counterpart never drank and Raistlin wondered if perhaps his tolerance for alcohol was suffering along with his health. That would be incredibly annoying.
“I’m alright,” he answered with a slight shrug. “The cough is courtesy of my Dreams,” and he figured Bela may have mentioned such a thing to Hawke at this point. “It hasn’t gotten any worse. Usually a glass of scotch helps. However, tonight…” he paused and tried to put into words that peculiar feeling he’d experienced a moment ago, “I’m not entirely sure, but for a moment I may have had an episode of disassociation. Perhaps the drink was a poor choice on my part.”
Never, not even once, did Garrett Hawke ever have dreams of adventure and heroism; they mostly were about him wanting to be there and provide for his family, and then it snowballed to the largest, political clustefuck in existence - he’d lost his blood family (even if Carver was his only close living relative, he felt as if he’d lost him to the Templar Order too) he gained a band of misfits that stood by his side and him by theirs.
Except for the one that became a willing host to a spirit of Justice and blew up a Chantry. Hence all the snowballing into one of the largest, political clusterfucks in existence.
A single brow rose at Raistlin’s words. Bela had mentioned a couple things, yes, a cough perhaps one of them - mostly in passing. But what actually concerned him was when he said an episode of disassociation. Maker’s balls, what in the bloody hell? “Why do you think it was disassociation? For all we know I could have bored you to death with my ramblings, or the cough’s developed into an actual sickness.”
Now there was something of a frown on Raistlin’s features. “Believe me, I never find talk of magic to be boring,” he stated rather frankly. Magic had become his passion and the more he learned, the more he knew, the better. “The feeling I had was of me suddenly not being here for a moment.” He made a vague gesture between the two of them, “I was obviously speaking to you, asking you a question, but I don’t remember actually saying anything.” Another uncomfortable position shift upon his bar stool and a sigh. He ran a hand over his angular face. He didn’t want to think the cough had turned into an actual illness, though it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities. However, that didn’t explain that presence he’d thought he’d felt and not for the first time, either.
He looked at Hawke again, the vision of a dead man on the other side of the bar looking back at him. Of all the things the Dreams had given him, he liked this the least. He would have liked to have carried on a conversation without his partner looking as though Death itself had forgotten to take them. “What exactly did I ask you?”
“You wanted to know more about my ‘specific form,’” he quoted. “Of magic, I presume, so I went into the forbidden and much hated art of blood magic - the basics and general view of it.” It was worrying that he didn’t remember that part, because now that begged a question: who the hell had he been even talking to, then?
Hawke let a pause hang in the air. Then, he shifted, leaning against the bar with the support of his palms while he gave Raistlin a long look. A very worried one. “Is that something that’s happened to you before? In your dreams, perhaps?” He didn’t like uttering the word possession but that was what had come to mind, and he wanted to tread a little lightly here.
“I see,” Raistlin said thoughtfully. He was looking at the bar, processing what Hawke had said. Again, it was true that Blood Magic did interest him, but that had not been what he had wanted to ask next. This was...disconcerting, to say the least.
His eyes flickered up from the bar to look at Hawke a moment. He debated how to answer the man’s question. Raistlin was not the type to trust easily. People were an unstable variable. You never knew what their agendas were or what they were truly thinking. Raistlin studied Hawke closely for a moment, noted the look of worry on his face. Isabela trusted him, obviously, and the pirate woman was one of the very few people Raistlin did trust. Eyes narrowed a moment. “In the Dreams, no. Not exactly,” he said carefully, his voice lowering a little more for privacy between the men. “There have been a couple of times in the Dreams in which I have...heard a voice. It guided me, cautioned me in a time of crises.” Eyes narrowed, “I realize how that sounds, Hawke,” he went on. “And I am not hearing voices here.” Another pause, “But...yes, something like this has happened once before.”
Hard to gauge whether or not that was entirely normal - for one, the term was relative depending on someone’s dream baggage. Vampirism, for one, while a burden was normal for some people. Magic too, with the blessings and curses it wrought. But from experience, when there was signs of another presence lingering at the precipice of someone’s mind, influencing or speaking for them or, perhaps, sometimes borrowing their physical body for a purpose…
It was never actually a good thing. Often, it felt like a dangerous thing to play with. Worse than fire, worse than blood, worse than all that.
“Isabela and I had a...friend, you could say, in the dreams,” Hawke spoke after a minute. “Anders was his name. A mage with impressive healing abilities, but the curious thing about him was that he chose to be a host for a spirit of Justice. This spirit was often angry with the treatment of mages, and it came to the point where no one could tell where Anders started and Justice ended - I don’t think they could, either. It proved to be a deadly cocktail there.” As in, Justice began teetering the line of Vengeance which caused Anders’ brilliant (sarcasm, by the way) display of magical arson.
Everything went tits up, Hawke had to kill him, the Mage-Templar rebellions ensued, which all led to a clusterfuck that eventually led to change. Just like Anders had wanted. The cost, however, was immense. “Do you think it might be something like that? Something getting its roots in you?”
Raistlin raised a brow. Why would anyone chose to be a host for something as vague as Justice? It also begged the question whether or not concepts like Justice and Vengeance and Peace and War were actual physical - or in this case, astral - entities in the world Kirkwall was a part of. Raistlin shook his head. Questions for another time. There was something familier about what happened to this Anders. Raistlin wasn’t sure exactly, and it troubled him. Furthermore, the restlessness he felt that didn’t quite belong to him troubled him as well.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Although, I don’t remember agreeing to be a host for anything.” He paused. Could it have been the dragon orb? Something had happened when he’d tried to harness its power, although Raistlin wasn’t entirely sure what. It was also possible he didn’t remember agreeing because it had happened prior to the Dreams even starting. Unlike Kit, Raistlin had not Dreamed of being a young child. He had not Dreamed of being summoned to the Tower nor taking his Test. Raistlin frowned. “However, apparently, there is a lot about my Counterpart’s life I have not yet been made aware of.”
“Well, sometimes you don’t have to be willing for something to attach itself onto you,” Hawke voiced, and he hoped it wasn’t the case for Raistlin - but perhaps it was something to think and be wary about, if he didn’t know quite yet what was going on with him. It was usually a universal fundamental that certain types of magics came with a terrible price; the Tevinters thought that great things could be discovered through blood magic, and he personally hadn’t a doubt about it, but such feats typically meant there was a lot of human sacrifice to be involved. You know, things that were generally immoral and often looked down upon if you were someone with a heart.
Either way, he didn’t think Raistlin’s path would be easy. No one’s was, but some paid the price more than others. “If this is a new development for you, then maybe it might do some good for you to record these occurrences. Make a note of who you were with, what you remember talking about. It could be something, could also be nothing, but what’s the harm?” If something, then maybe dotting down some notes would shed some light.
Hawke raised a good point. Most of Raistlin’s reading into possessions (he had strange hobbies, what?) indicated that those possessed had usually in someway invited the entity to them, some willing, but most were not. A possession could easily result from someone fooling around with something they knew nothing about. Ouija boards, for example, they weren’t toys but most people treated them as such. Raistlin would have liked to think that his Dream Counterpart would have been smarter than dabble in things he wasn’t knowledgeable of or skilled enough in, however, the two of them shared an insatiable desire for knowledge. However, where as Raistlin of Orange County wanted knowledge for the sake of knowledge, Raistlin of Krynn had wanted power. That did things to people.
That frown lingered on the mage’s face for a moment as he considered this and Hawke’s suggestions. As a scientist, he could have kicked himself for not thinking of recording his experiences before now. “That’s a good idea,” he said, “thank you. I think I will start recording these experiences. In the very least if something does happen to me it will be well enough documented that perhaps someone can reverse the effects.” Or put an end to him, if it came down to it. Raistlin would rather die than be someone or thing elses puppet, thank you.
He reached for his wallet to pay for the mostly drunk scotch. “I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Hawke. However, I do appreciate you taking that time to speak with me.”
No need, it was just a practically a shot - and while he was very business contentious there were times where it was appropriate to let things slide, and it was an unspoken rule of his that when a fellow dreamer was having a potentially shit day because of these bloody dreams, he’d give him something on the house. The Inquisitor provided professional therapy in regards to talking it out, and the Champion provided alcoholic therapy in regards to drinking problems away. Even if only for an hour. “No need,” he assured. “But it’s no problem. If something comes up, you know where to find me - perks about where I always am is that you either have a rustic ambiance of the medieval times, or tits in your face. Either way, liquor is provided here and at the Rear End.”
Raistlin raised a brow. He had not expected Hawke to waive the price of his drink. Probably not the best business practice, but Raistlin appreciated the gesture for what it was. Even he needed therapy in the form of alcohol from time to time. It was good to know that there was someone in the community who understood and was able to supply that.
Raistlin nodded and put his wallet away. “Thank you,” he said as he got off the bar stool. “I’m going to start noting these...episodes down and I would like to supply a copy to either you or Isabela, so someone has record of it, should something happen.” And what place securer was there than a pirate? “Hopefully, it will amount to nothing and the Dreams will make everything clear. However, until then, keeping record is the best I can do.”
“We’d be happy to help in whatever way we can,” Hawke nodded - the community looked out for one another, it was the only way some of them even managed to survive this place. “Just remember to take care of yourself, mate. Magic works in mysterious, backstabbing ways sometimes.”
Whatever it wrought, he and his wife would be there.