ᴀʟᴛᴜs, ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴇʀ, ᴍᴀɢɪsᴛᴇʀ (tevene) wrote in valloic, @ 2021-08-10 12:41:00 |
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Dorian was miserable - it was a fact. That misery was like a cart full of wood, just dropping, piling on top of him - he hadn’t taken the sudden breakup with Atreus very well, mostly because he still didn’t understand why it had to happen that way at all. For someone who was so utterly confident, a mask he wore to project that very image, on the inside he questioned if he was worth anything - even more so now. Why would you tell someone you loved them, move in together eventually, and then tell them it was all over mere weeks later? The whiplash gave him a headache. A backache. A neckache - everything hurt, and distracting himself with work to be done with any tutoring or tasks at the shop only did the job for so long. Especially since he was feeling off in general anyway - there was something in the air that felt oppressive, a blade hanging above all their heads or the breath of a mighty beast right behind them. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right. He was tired too, chalking that up to the lack of rest - he didn’t want to eat, he didn’t want to sleep; the shadows fell differently in his bedroom at Marina’s place, where he’d moved into recently because he couldn’t return to Skyhold. And he also couldn’t get used to the creaks and groans that differed from the home he’d shared with Atreus at the Sanctuary. It was the right decision though, because even the Skyhold library was difficult to be in - the wingback chair had made the trip from the castle to the Sanctuary and then back again. He tended to gaze upon the piece of furniture with bitterness and disinterest. Right now he sat in the small back area of Glorious Purveyors, attempting to work on some numbers and calculating expenses. But his eyes felt like they were going to fall out of his skull and - no, something else was wrong. It had to be. “Darling,” Gilmore started, employing one of the most deadly, fearsome weapons in his arsenal. The eyebrow arch. He came into the room how Gilmore always entered rooms, naturally entered anywhere, in a whirl of a silk robe and a tinkling of many, many bangles and chains. He summoned a delicate tea set (he bit his cheek from the strain of casting and very adamantly said no to that, thank you) and poured a fragrant brew of ginger, cardamon, clove and cinnamon into a cup. The cup went to Dorian and Gilmore went to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. And if that whirling was a bit too forced, his leaning against the doorframe more for support than actual poise, well, that was his secret to keep. Shaun was a sorcerer, magic came so naturally to him it may have settled in with the marrow of his bones. He felt it like a sixth sense, saw it interwoven with the very fabric of reality and had learned over time how to weld it to do things he otherwise wouldn’t be able to. So when something was so very indescribably wrong, he felt it in his joints, saw it in the shadows under his eyes that refused to go away with makeup or prestidigitation, and in the runes that showed only when he tapped into his last reserves of magic. It felt like fighting against a current, and having to work three times as hard to get a quarter of the distance. Nine hells, he was tired. “You may tell me if we can afford to expand next month, I have enormous plans as you know, and then you will go to bed,” he said. “Everything in here is replaceable, but you are not. I have a hibiscus extract serum that you’re taking too, I won’t hear otherwise.” Bed. That sounded equal parts tempting and terrifying - the first because fatigue currently felt like an actual physical burden, bricks or a slab of metal weighing him down. There was little capacity for activity left in his limbs, admittedly - and he was also only admittedly sitting here because getting up was something he was only sixty-percent certain he could do. But alas, the terrifying part. Dorian didn’t want to close his eyes and think of all the things he must have done to drive Atreus away so suddenly. It was a long list. A dark list. One he wouldn’t wish to go over with a fine-toothed comb, ever, but knew he would regardless. He thanked Gilmore for the tea, however, sipping it slowly and letting the hot liquid soothe him. “This is fantastic,” he complimented, deliberately avoiding the - ooh, hibiscus extract serum? Begone, under eye bags. “I promise that I want to go to bed, but I’m - I don’t know.” It wasn’t just his Broken Heart Syndrome causing him to experience these uncomfortable sensations. “Do you feel something? In the air?” he asked as he pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I’m sure that sounds absurd. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We can afford to expand next month, by the way.” Gilmore inclined his head in thanks, the action causing him to glance down at the ring on his middle finger that served as his arcane focus. Not all of the jewelry he wore was enchanted, and perhaps surprisingly, the more subdued pieces were the most powerful, both magically and personally. The gold ring with the large purple stone had been a market find, and with enough tinkering he’d turned it into a channel for his magic. Typically, the amethyst in the center was difficult to look at, as something arcane swirled and churned just below the surface. Now? It was distressingly still. “I had thought it was with me,” he confessed, finally. “I’ve not been feeling my most...glorious self recently.” And that was not fun to admit. Even though the bravado and showmanship was very much who Gilmore was, those who knew him best knew they had to look twice to determine what he was actually feeling about something, even harder if he was trying to cover up something like weakness. “Divination isn’t my area of expertise,” he continued, and flicked his fingers to the tea set again to draw it to him. The first time was with the casual ease and elegance that Gilmore did many things, and when it refused to obey the magical pull he frowned and crossed the space to pour it himself. The warmth did little to settle the chill in his hands. “So I don’t know that I think something is arriving, because I doubt I have the sensitivity to discern it. But--” he cut himself off or lost the thought entirely, as the entire store seemed to reverberate. Not in the physical sense, but in the same nerve grating sense of a too high violin note, the enchantments that held the place together and in all of the items and potions themselves shook. Gilmore’s palms glowed with a pulsing light.that continued on even after he blinked himself out of a trance. “Something that has already made its presence very known, yes, darling, absolutely.” Dorian nodded - and it wasn’t as if he was a divination expert either, but. The dread felt as if chunks of ice had made a home in his veins - and it had nothing to do with the elemental magic he wielded almost effortlessly. In fact, he couldn’t feel much of that magic at all - mana was something mages back home considered ‘energy,’ it was what allowed them to cast and if they were too drained of that energy (like from not eating or sleeping as they should, for example) then they’d run into trouble. It was different now, and he knew that to be true. “I can’t sense spirits - not how I usually do,” was his own confession, gently placing the teacup back down. Gilmore was uneasy, their artifacts were uneasy - the magic within these walls shook and moaned lowly with them, it seemed. “What are we going to do?” He managed to rise from where he sat, reaching out and placing his hand upon Gilmore’s arm - the touch and pressure of friendship, something that said he was a bit fearful but despite that, Dorian wouldn’t leave him. “We’re going to be fabulous,” Gilmore promised, with all of the confidence in the world. He set the tea aside, needing it more for the warmth and routine of it rather than actual desire for the drink itself and returned a warm and firm shoulder squeeze. That part was simple. Even in the face of his own uncertainty, he never failed to find reserves of strength for others. And a part of that was finding something to do! He took a breath, the light in his palms retreating for just a moment before returning. Shaun felt it internally too, like a dike that was leaking water and every time he stopped one hole, another one took its place But with his own magic, it was being pulled to the surface without his say so, flowing up and out of him unbeckoned. Leeching. He thought he could sense all of the items in Vallo he’d enchanted, some just feet away and others, like Vax and Vex’s bracers, Velora’s necklace, could all but see the threads of magic that were flowing to them. Gilmore gripped the table to brace himself until he could come up with words against a relentless throbbing in the back of his head. “Let’s eliminate things. Did we come across something recently here? An item that is more than it appears, a curse I may have missed?” He didn’t think so, though. Cursed items, on the whole, gave Gilmore the heebie jeebies for lack of an elegant turn of phrase. He didn’t source them, and he certainly didn’t create them, but that didn’t mean that all of the magical items played nicely together. “I don’t believe so,” Dorian frowned - and he thought back, he really did. He tried. But even those pesky cognitive processes had sort of ceased to function too - synapses weren’t firing, everything was foggly, a veil between the world and his own thoughts and his magic. Maker. He had been bred specifically for his chances of becoming a powerful mage (the product of an arranged marriage between two people who could barely stand the sight of each other, how romantic) - and he hadn’t disappointed in that regard. Disappointed in other ways, yes, but his potential as a mage? Absolutely not. Altus bloodline, Enchanter distinction, Magister finally - and now here he was, about to topple over because there were suddenly two Shaun’s in the room instead of one, Dorian’s vision blurring. Point was, he didn’t know who or what he was without his magic. “It could be - I’ve heard murmurings from Beketh. Something that drains pulls magic and life force from other sources to feed its own - I don’t know much beyond that. It feels like that though - like everything’s being taken from me.” His magic, his life, his breath, his will to even continue standing here. “I can’t stay awake,” he added, mumbling. Perhaps going to bed would happen after all. “Just a while longer, darling,“ Gilmore promised, looping Dorian’s arm around his shoulders to get him to stand. He thought about helping Dorian to the back room that Gilmore used to reside in himself, but now that he lived at Xhorhaus with the others that space was slowly being converted into storage and a workspace. And if something had been contaminated in the store, it was best to remove him from the situation entirely. Teleporting would be the quickest way--and the hardest. Getting back to Xhorhaus would be easier, it would require a different spell. Two spells, Gilmore had it in him, or at the very least, he’d will it into being. He twisted a ring around his finger to boost his magic and it felt like a temporary balm of numbness, but it also felt like every bit of him was being cracked open and magic was pouring out. Two runes ignited on both sides of his neck and one on his forehead, and in a flash of arcane purple light, they were standing where Dorian had been staying for the past few weeks, at his friend’s house. “You’re wearing turquoise,” Gilmore panted out, as if he’d run three marathons back to back to back, instead of casting a spell. “I could not let you falter.” Marina’s penthouse was a welcome sight - Dorian wasn’t certain how they got here, but oh. It had been Gilmore, hadn’t it? He’d used the last vestiges of his magic to bring them someplace safer - a wave of affectionate friendship (and fatigue, that too) washed over him. He clung to Shaun, also trying to catch his breath - as if he too had run the marathons. However, no - it was simply that everything was going dark and if this was going to be how he went out for good, and met the Maker, then fine. There were worse ways to die - worse ways than being in a place that you were beginning to help turn into a home when he sorely needed one; because Marina had invited him in, to both her penthouse and her icy-cold heart - he would never forget that. He didn’t ever forget, when people did kind things for him. They were in the living room and he sat on the couch, hanging onto Gilmore’s robe to keep himself steady as he arranged himself to lay down. “You would never let me falter,” he said, sure as anything. “We would never let each other falter.” He made room for his friend as well - the couch was big enough, if Gilmore wanted to rest. “Sit, please.” Though in all actuality, Dorian was going to insist upon it. As much as anyone could insist in this position. “Stay here a little while.” Magister Pavus wasn’t clingy very often - it was not something that was allowed, not in the likes of Tevinter. But many things weren’t allowed in Tevinter, that were acceptable in Vallo, and he felt sick and terrified and he didn’t want to be alone when he succumbed to whatever this was. “For a while, darling, I’m here,” Gilmore promised, although he was already a boneless heap on the couch when he did so. What made the most sense to do immediately was return to the shop to re-examine every item and enchantment that held the place together and then go to Xhorhaus and check on the magical protection there. But he was tired, so bone wearily tired it was difficult to remember that he had enchanted chalk on him for a teleportation circle. Later, he’d rouse himself enough to place a throw pillow underneath Dorian’s head, later he’d teleport home through sheer force of will even though the action made him feel like he was being split in two. He’d offer Vax a mumbled apology before all but collapsing on their bed, completely drained and unresponsive except for the glowing arcane runes on his body that refused to extinguish. That was later. Now, he patted Dorian’s shoulder and let his eyes droop shut. Just for a while. Just for awhile was all Dorian was hoping for as well. He let his eyes close and, comforted by the presence of another person, he allowed himself to drift off. It wasn’t sleep, exactly - no, that involved dreaming on occasion (and, if he were home, it would involve battling demons that were looking to possess him when he entered the Fade - they were always naturally attracted to the likes of a Necromancer). This involved darkness that was like a tide, rising fast and covering him - it swallowed him whole, erasing all that he was similar to the way the sea erased footprints on a beach; he was just empty now. Nothing mattered. There was no magic. No life force. No jovial laughs or twirls of that mustache - no research projects to obtain, to dive into, no new enchantments to look forward to at the shop. He didn’t know or remember any of that. He was barely even here. When it was all over, he would awaken. But for now - nothing remained. |