dorian pavus (necromantical) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-08-24 22:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, dorian pavus, garrett hawke |
Who: Dorian Pavus & Garrett Hawke
What: Drinks, and Thedas! After Dorian has some dreams
When: Tonight
Where: The Hanged Man
Rating/Warnings: Mostly tame - talk of blood magic, slavery, general dreariness of Thedas
Status: Complete
Sometimes Hawke slept peacefully. Sometimes, he didn’t - and that was the bloody curse of this place, it really was. He hadn’t received anything new in the dream department recently, and perhaps his story - the infamous Champion of Kirkwall, He Who Was at the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time - was over. It definitely seemed over in Isabela’s (his supposed death and all). There were times the memories returned to him again in his slumber, vivid as always, like he was breathing the City of Chains’ putrid air with a hint of salt from the open sea. And he found himself missing people he’d never met (seemed like a thing around here, alas), wishing that one day a glorious canvas of chest hair would walk through his tavern doors - or a broody elf-like figure that’d want to take a bottle of slave wine and smash it against the wall. But until those fateful days and fateful moments the best he could do is honor them in the form of drinks, and hope that the presence of The Hanged Man would pull them into a comfort they didn’t realize was familiar. Others too, obviously. Thedas was a massive world. Politics of magic, races, gods, dragons and Blights, holes in the fucking sky. There were others he’d heard of but never had the pleasure of spending much quality time with but regardless, his bar was open to all of them. It was that dead period lingering between the afternoon and evening, a few bodies sipping ale here and there and Bethany - his dearest, sweetest, could-do-know-wrong darling of a baby sister - was tending to them, fitting in her last full shifts before university started up again for her and Carver. Hawke remained a presence, however, sitting at the bar like a patron and flipping through a musty tome of text. No steamy smut novel from Bela’s forbidden collection. It was another kind of forbidden treasure, one of demons and blood magic. Garrett wasn’t much of a scholar, really. Books of magic weren’t kept in his family as they were apostates, and anything magic-related found in their possession would lead to their immediate murder or arrest (depending if they resisted or not) under the suspicion of them being mages. He learned from experience, feeling, trial and error, but the ins and outs of the more frowned upon and unknown schools required, ah. A bit more studying. Even for someone as seasoned in the art as he. Well, yes, in case you were curious - those experiences that he needed to have to truly understand had begun trickling in for Dorian. Felt a bit like water in the ear. Something annoying that wouldn't cease no matter how many nights you laid there attempting to rid yourself of the nuisance, or how many times you shook your head to clear it like a crazy person. Not that things were especially terrible, mind you - save for the fact that his father seemed to despise that his only son wasn't acting according to protocol and plan, his mother was apathetic and couldn't even be arsed to take him sailing, and he'd recently been expelled from the Circle of Carastes for being so much better than the other mages (and bragging about it - apparently annihilating fellow scholars in magic battle was frowned upon, poo). Minrathous was where he'd been sent to study, but it was far better to live it up and party in the elven slums. Debauchery was his middle name. Dorian Debauchery Pavus - he'd gone through a stage like that here too (the parallels were disturbing), though he'd grown out of it and no longer needed to be in bars or clubs until they closed, each and every night. He wasn't sure if dream 'him' particularly missed Qarinus, where his home was. That coastal city; nobility moving to and fro via horse and carriage, marble and gold, gaudy art. Breezes as a gift from a the sea, salted and rustling the curtains at night to stir up clouds of incense. There was much to admire and be proud of when it came to Tevinter - and much to despise as well. His family owned slaves, like all the other high-powered Altus families, and he couldn’t bear to remember. Not to mention, magic beginning to reawaken. That whole thing. Needing respite, he went into The Hanged Man after work one day - he’d gotten in early since he couldn’t sleep, so heading to his office was better than sitting around - and his impeccably dressed and groomed self, nary an undereye bag to be discovered, headed up to the bar. “I was told you had drinks here,” he greeted cheekily, since he was sure he recognized the owner. Dorian was recognized as well - hard to ever forget a man with such an interesting presence, even if Hawke hadn’t the pleasure himself to stick around with the inner circles of the Inquisition. But he’d been to Skyhold, met the key players (including Cassandra, and he felt his balls shrivel under her steely gaze), and with Varric in their midst they were, no doubt, a diverse and interesting band of companions. He had also seen them in action - the Fade was a lovely place to bond. “You’ve been informed rather accurately, my friend,” chuckled the barkeep of this reputable place, the dip of his dimples visible from the dark bristle of his scruff - well-kept, of course, nothing wild but glorious nonetheless. “Welcome to my humble abode. I take it you’re thirsty?” The Champion himself was casually dressed, flannel over a black shirt and jeans. No need to be too fancy here. And as for the book, er. He closed it. Its cover was misleading with the Chantry burst on it, but it’d been a ploy to keep it cleverly hidden in Kirkwall. “Quite thirsty. I’ll take anything, whatever you most recommend,” Dorian nodded. Honestly, it all sounded good (he’d briefly skimmed the menu of specialty cocktails - and he didn’t quite understand the names, though Nug’s Mother sounded oddly familiar. Weren’t the Orlesians obsessed with keeping those ugly things as pets?). And he wasn’t feeling particularly picky this evening, which was a rarity for him. The book Hawke closed caught his eyes, however. The telltale symbol splashed on the front - hard for him to miss such a thing. “Doing some light theological reading?” he inquired, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t know - you...and Thedas?” It had been hinted at on the network, of course, but at this point in his limited dream series, Dorian didn’t know who Hawke was. In a minute it would click for him, however - the story of The Champion of Kirkwall had reached many neighboring lands. Interesting to see him with a Chantry book, though. The meaning of “magic must serve man, not rule over him” always held different meaning in Tevinter. For them, it meant that mind control was essentially the most forbidden - otherwise, those who ruled over man should benefit from magic as much as possible. A somewhat dangerous line to draw, though it admittedly made studying the craft a bit more freeing. Ah, Hawke knew just the thing, too - he motioned Carver over mix a very specific cocktail. Sparkly Balls with its pomegranate liquor, sparkling wine, all poured into a champagne flute (and for this purpose, there was a thin straw added with a very familiar looking mustache). “Sparkly Balls it is, mate, specially made for you.” Literally. Isabela was the creativity behind these; she did an excellent job representing everyone with their own drink mixes. And as for the light reading, hm. How to explain that. “Me and Thedas,” he started with a nod. “You and Thedas. Tevinter, correct?” Varric had developed his own version of dossiers with the Inquisition group; the dwarf did have his own spy network, and it was sometimes easy to forget. Information was also his craft. “I’m am - was - Ferelden, and was forced into Kirkwall after the infamous blight.” He’d ease into the blood magic bit. Garrett doubted he could shake the man’s hand and start off with ‘Hello, I’m the Champion of Kirkwall, a fucking blood mage.’ No need for the unique introduction, it clicked for Dorian after he said ‘forced into Kirkwall after the infamous Blight.’ Naturally he’d studied his history, kept up on current events. When he wasn’t killing braincells with certain types of alcohol (dwarven ale, anyone? Antivan Sip-Sip?) that had no business being consumed. “Of course, yes, I remember,” he said, which sounded strange to him. He remembered. Like what played out in these dreams was something long-forgotten which, well, he supposed it had been. “But me and Thedas and Tevinter, that’s right. Me being an ornery little shit, according to my father - but I can’t quite picture myself caring so much about becoming breeding stock simply to continue the precious bloodline,” he snorted. Dorian then received his drink and was both befuddled and impressed by the concoction, especially the decorative straw (so very much like his, a mustache behind a mustache) - an interesting, complex array of emotions here. “I’m sorry - this is called ‘Sparkly Balls?’” “Anything involving the process of procreation never seemed like your type, no,” chuckled the apostate, dragging over a pint of Rat Droppings his younger brother knew to pour. “As far as I saw, anyway - but yes, Sparkly Balls. Congratulations, you’re drinking yourself.” Now, the collection was technically incomplete. There were other important players in their Thedosian shithole, and maybe once they knew more they could come up with new ones for the rest. Dorian could provide insight, perhaps. Hawke figured he ought to clarify, though. “The Hanged Man - it was also a bar in Kirkwall, you see. A setting of very fond memories. My wife also dreams of the same glory hole of a dreamscape and we decided to invest in a place to model after it. Our specialty cocktails are dedicated to those we’ve met. Not everyone’s represented, but you could say we’re still working on it. Sparkly Balls was such one created in your honor.” He charmingly winked, too. What other way to discuss what they had in common? “My honor? Really? I’m flattered,” Dorian chuckled, taking a sip of the adult beverage to test it out. “Hm, that is tasty - I can only hope I, myself, taste just as good. Though I haven’t fielded any complaints so far.” Now he just had to wonder why he would warrant a drink being crafted in his honor - obviously he wasn’t finished dreaming, he’d only just begun, so there must be many stories here left to tell. “Where exactly did we meet? I can’t picture myself in Kirkwall,” he confessed, though that was simply because traveling seemed like such a far-off concept for someone who was studying to do Great Things with his magic in Tevinter - the brightest arcane minds were found there, the most talented of spellcasters. It was a colorful world of magic of all kinds - including blood magic, practiced in secret and a useful tool for annihilating the political competition. There were only so many seats in the Magisterium, you know. In Tevinter, you had to watch your back and your front. This was what he had to look forward to, which was probably why he fought against becoming that so hard. Cheeky fellow, wasn’t he? Hawke recalled liking that about him - he was always more fond of those ready to make wisecracks in the face of mayhem. “Ah, no, definitely not in Kirkwall and definitely not in Tevinter,” he confirmed, swirling the beer in his glass a bit before she sipped. “Frostback Mountains, if you want a location. That specifications around our meeting lead those things people call spoilers and I’d rather not get into it too much, unless you want me to.” He knew enough but also wasn’t part of that inner-circle - again, most of his intel was from Varric when correspondences were exchanged. The dwarf also helped made sure that grumpy Seeker kept off his trail. “But I am pleased to know another mage familiar with our version of magic will be around. I take it that’s been a shock to swallow?” Magic could manifest a little sporadically at first. His was when he had gotten shot and instinct had him call upon blood to heal himself. With how it was in their blood, it sometimes tended to appear in times of duress. A shock to swallow, yes. Dorian had always been interested in concepts of magic, in the occult and wicca, but the magic he was dreaming of was a whole different type of thing with its own rules and its own unique history. “I can do so very little of it,” he sighed, flexing his fingers - and not even on command either. The most he’d accomplished so far was freezing fat, ugly zombies when he’d been trying to do some scouring for antiques. He still mourned that smashed stained glass. Woe. “It’s not something I enjoy, being...disconnected from magic,” he continued. “But I suppose I ought to be patient. The rest will come, I’m sure. And so what about you?” More sips of the drink were taken, down the hatch and proudly from a straw that paid homage to his impeccably-groomed ‘stache. “Fellow mage, you say...apostate? Or did you learn in the Circles?” “It trickles in slowly or it comes in like a donkey punch out of the Fade,” he sighed so dramatically. Very similar to puberty, come to think of it - and that’s when magic tended to show its head for people in their time. And if they were unfortunate, were ripped away from their families and tossed into an arcane prison for their own ‘good.’ What a crock of shit. “But I’m no Circle mage, bollocks to that. Wouldn’t have the manners to be in one of those dreadful things. My father was an apostate himself, so when my sister and I developed those same abilities we carried on the tradition of staying apostates.” Much to Carver’s disapproval. He felt like the odd one out, felt like his needs were being shot to hell because of what ran in their blood and all the effort it took to keep their secret safe. But to be ripped from his family, and told when she should sleep, eat, and shit? A bloody prison, that. “We became familiar with our abilities with trial and error, instinct, and with a little study too, I won’t deny. We had to be careful on what books we had and if they were about magic, we had to destroy them after they were read to avoid suspicion. Lucky us here - the magic community’s very welcoming. No need for us to hide too much.” Aside from the regular public for obvious reasons. Still, better than Thedas. “We value mages so highly in Tevinter - we have little use for Templars, and the Circles...I don’t have much to compare it to, but I do think studying magic there is more actual study. I wish the rest of the Circles were like that,” Dorian mused, drumming his fingertips on the bartop. Educational institutions, rather than prisons, with Templars assaulting and beating mages just to get their jollies. No wonder some became apostates. “Then again, we’ve obviously maintained our own steady stream of corruption - mostly in politics. And I was expelled from the Circle of Carastes anyway. My father sent me to Minrathous to study because he thought I would learn discipline there from more seasoned mages - I’ve recently been taken under the wing of a Magister who seems to think along the same lines as I do. There’s much we want to change about Tevinter, so much we see wrong with our homeland.” There was a lot wrong everywhere in Thedas, though Tevinter seemed to bear its share of the blame. Not easily fixed (and the last Magister who attempted to outlaw slavery, for example, was soon D-E-A-D). However, the hopes and goals, the visions - he had so much of it all. Little did he know it would all come crashing down after Alexius went batshit insane, but don’t all good things come to an end? Dorian would - for the moment - enjoy learning from someone whom he had a camaraderie with, a peer and friend, rather than die of boredom in the Circle. “Anyway,” he rolled his shoulders. “I won’t ask if things turn out alright, since it doesn’t seem to be a land of happy endings. But I’m sure there are a good number of adventures along the path.” And it was nice to know that there were other people here who shared Thedas with him, in dreams. “Oh, I’ve heard - one of our closest friends in Kirkwall was a furiously brooding elf, a former slave,” Garrett reminisced. If Fenris were here no doubt he’d be chucking all the precious merchandise at the wall, and, well, could he blame him? Stereotypes, however, were not absolute - not everyone in Tevinter was an asshat despite the reputation, and that was important to take into consideration. A perspective that could also be applied to any group. That’s how he preferred to look at things, anyway. He wouldn’t let a couple bad apples spoil the basket. “But you always seemed to be the good sort, different from all the nasty rumors that comes out of that place - being the exception is what will make a difference, mate. I can at least tell you that you won’t die a brutal death in these bloody things. You’ll get a chance to change things.” And as for the book. He set the beer down and pushed the book between the two of them, mage to mage. No doubt he was familiar with the practice hidden in these pages; he knew the Imperium disowned the art publicly, but the practices continued hush-hush. Or perhaps not so hush-hush. “This isn’t a religious text, however. You may eventually hear about Kirkwall’s blood mage problem, and this is one of the many cleverly hidden books on the forbidden school scattered throughout the city.” Some slaves (the ones in his own opulent home, for example) were treated well - they could provide for their families rather than rot in the slums, others even were trained in the ways of magic if they showed promise, but a good majority? Not so much. And the fact that some slaves were treated decently still didn’t make owning another person (or people) right. Dorian here understood that, and he was a little infuriated that his other self didn’t seem to grasp that yet - at least not fully. Maybe he understood it was wrong too, deep down, but after growing up in his ivory tower and having it be so normal, he needed a wake-up call to really let it sink in. Getting out of Tevinter would do him good. “That actually - well, I’m very glad to hear that,” he exhaled with relief. “That I do get a chance to change things.” He wouldn’t ask for details, not right now. Some things weren’t meant to be spoiled. The mention of blood magic, however, had him eyebrow raising. Intensely. “You’re a blood mage?” he asked, just to be sure. That surprised him. “Magisters sacrificed their own slaves as ritual fodder to perfect the art, to use to annihilate their political rivals. I don’t...people in Kirkwall practiced it too, but why?” Desperation, he would guess. Blood magic promised power. Yet it was an unfair advantage, at least that was how Dorian saw it. Oof, Hawke had to cringe there - because while ‘blood magic’ and ‘ritual sacrifice’ paired well (historically, of course), it had him squirm when expressed as a thought. “I don’t,” his nose crinkled first before continuing, “do the sacrificing thing, in my case. I use my own blood as fuel, but am careful enough to not run myself dry. But the mages in Kirkwall were receiving a kind of abuse that they thought to turn to that magic and for most it ended hideously. In the form of abominations.” That was his biggest fear when he developed the skill here. That he’d cock it up and open himself up to a possession on the other side, that maybe he’d have to be put down like a rabid fucking dog. Though while he was a bit of a shit, he was a smart, clever shit - he was careful, and he learned. Slowly. Carefully. “Best way I thought to really understand what we were facing was to understand the magic itself, and the more I understood, the less I feared. The more it simply became magic like everything else. A different flavor of it, yes, but a weapon where intent determines its use nonetheless.” And even until this day, he continued to learn - discover its uses in a way that didn’t attract demons, that didn’t involve puppeting people or influencing them. There was so much one could do with it, even heal. “Well, understanding is a good way to get over the fear of something - that’s always been the general problem with how mages are treated anyway,” Dorian said thoughtfully. Everyone thought they understood what it was like to have power, to be a mage, they thought they knew what was best for those in the Circles. But those outsiders simply did not. It just led to more hardships, more oppression and abuse. He fiddled with his now-empty glass, turning it around and around in his hand. “I suppose I can’t really act too outraged - I’m learning the art of Necromancy, from Alexius. Pulling spirits from the Fade for battle isn’t exactly as sunshiney as spirit healing.” Some were downright offended, in fact, but Dorian (and other Necromancers) held a great respect for the dead. Temples with gardens and other ornate architecture were built in Nevarra, where Necromancy first began, all with a great reverence for those departed souls. “I’ve seen it in the act myself and I agree, definitely not sunshine and rainbows,” he mused, holding his tongue about their dearest Inquisitor - nope, he’d keep that particular detail to himself for now. “And it’s definitely not mainstream magic around here. There’s much to learn about the secrets of the dead. If you’ve any reading to send my way I’d be happy to borrow.” Hawke knew one or two things of necromancy but Dorian seemed like he’d become quite the expert in due time. And why the hell not learn about all the magics detested by the Circle? It satisfied that rebellious teenager within himself he never got to let loose in his early years. Piss on that, Knight-Commander. Dorian wasn’t sure if he would get to the point where he’d want to read about blood magic, taking a gander at that forbidden tome Hawke had, but...he’d see. Maybe here, his thirst for knowledge and his curiosity would get the better of him. At the very least, he could promise to share necromantical readings. That was no big deal. “Well, I will keep that in mind - and let you know when I get something of note,” he promised. “I’ve not received anything so far, but oh, Thedas just has so many gifts to offer.” Some not so great. Like the Blight or something - fuck off. “I know this,” Hawke sighed. “You’re in good company, mate - I’ll have to introduce you to my wife, the notorious pirate of the Eastern Seas. Lucky her she didn’t get the mage gene, but she and others will be able to relate with you on how completely mad shit gets.” Blights, Politics, Holes In the Fucking Sky - ohhhhh, my. |