As they fall, Dorian is reasonably sure his short life is coming to a very violent end.
It's the easy assumption to make. He had, after all, dedicated a portion of his last moments of life to calculate how long one might take to plummet through the cavern they had found. He's a little sorry for that. There are a thousand different, better ways he could have spent that time.
The Bull is too far away, or else Dorian would have tried to pull them together, to shove every last bit of mana he has left to create one large shield for the both of them. The light of their barriers catches on something beneath them – illuminates the edges of architecture. More ruins.
It's not ideal, Dorian thinks, but at least it's better than an endless fall into blackness.
Later, he'll realize how lucky he is – that he's plummeting toward a hole in what was probably once a high ceiling, instead of splattering into stone. It gives him time to react, and he focuses, front-loading his barrier to better absorb the impact. He throws his arms out to the side, grabs the Veil again and shoves it forward. The surge of force provides some recoil, slowing his fall ever so slightly. In those last bare seconds, he curls up, guarding his head, and slams against the stone floor.
He can't be entirely sure, considering when he blinks his eyes open, it's nearly pitch black – but he thinks he must have blacked out. He can't tell if it was the impact or if something fell behind him that knocked him unconscious, but in either case, his head throbs which is— something. Someone might say it was good, that feeling any sort of pain means he's not dead, but at the current juncture, Dorian would find himself hard pressed to agree. For a few seconds, he lets himself lie there, dazed and aching, before a smaller, more rational part decides, That's quite enough of that. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, blinking into the darkness. Rocks and dirt fall away from him, and a bit of stone shifts beneath his hands. Oh, good, he thinks. What a nice thing to cushion my fall.
The hole in the ceiling admits the barest hint of light from the fissures at the surface. This might have been an office once, he thinks, squinting in the darkness. What would have been a doorway is almost entirely filled with large stones and other debris, and the idea of being trapped in this space nearly makes him panic until he realizes another wall has crumbled, leaving more than enough room for him to crawl into an adjoining space. Not exactly trapped, then, but only just.
Clumsily, he waves a hand, pulling a few wisps across the Veil, murmuring a soft incantation to bind them to him. They drift lazily around him like dust motes, their faint, pale green glow softly lighting the space. He forces himself to sit up, though it's not without a quiet groan and a hissed out, "Kaffas."
The next thing he notices is that faint smell, and his hand immediately covers his nose and mouth. Darkspawn have a distinctive stench. Decay and rot and something corrupted, something wrong. It's harder to notice when they fight the things on the surface, but here, where they spawn and swarm, it's far more noticeable. He immediately dismisses all but one wisp, and draws that final wisp closer to himself, curling his free hand over it and cupping it close to his sternum.
His face covering is gone. Of course it is. He has no face covering, and Renn was telling that delightful story about swallowing darkspawn blood, and oh, Dorian shouldn't flatter himself. He's more likely to be ripped apart than infected, but of course, of course Dorian would fall somewhere near a darkspawn settlement—
He jolts when he hears a distant noise. A thump. A choked-off grunt. The hiss and clatter of falling dirt and small rocks.
Dorian freezes, listening desperately, but when the sound doesn't evolve into the ugly growls or shrieks, he slowly gets to his feet.
"Bull?" It's as loud as he dares to speak, and he doesn't bother to to hide the unsteadiness in his voice. In the end, he admits he's not very loud at all. "Bull, please tell me that's you."
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It's the easy assumption to make. He had, after all, dedicated a portion of his last moments of life to calculate how long one might take to plummet through the cavern they had found. He's a little sorry for that. There are a thousand different, better ways he could have spent that time.
The Bull is too far away, or else Dorian would have tried to pull them together, to shove every last bit of mana he has left to create one large shield for the both of them. The light of their barriers catches on something beneath them – illuminates the edges of architecture. More ruins.
It's not ideal, Dorian thinks, but at least it's better than an endless fall into blackness.
Later, he'll realize how lucky he is – that he's plummeting toward a hole in what was probably once a high ceiling, instead of splattering into stone. It gives him time to react, and he focuses, front-loading his barrier to better absorb the impact. He throws his arms out to the side, grabs the Veil again and shoves it forward. The surge of force provides some recoil, slowing his fall ever so slightly. In those last bare seconds, he curls up, guarding his head, and slams against the stone floor.
He can't be entirely sure, considering when he blinks his eyes open, it's nearly pitch black – but he thinks he must have blacked out. He can't tell if it was the impact or if something fell behind him that knocked him unconscious, but in either case, his head throbs which is— something. Someone might say it was good, that feeling any sort of pain means he's not dead, but at the current juncture, Dorian would find himself hard pressed to agree. For a few seconds, he lets himself lie there, dazed and aching, before a smaller, more rational part decides, That's quite enough of that. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, blinking into the darkness. Rocks and dirt fall away from him, and a bit of stone shifts beneath his hands. Oh, good, he thinks. What a nice thing to cushion my fall.
The hole in the ceiling admits the barest hint of light from the fissures at the surface. This might have been an office once, he thinks, squinting in the darkness. What would have been a doorway is almost entirely filled with large stones and other debris, and the idea of being trapped in this space nearly makes him panic until he realizes another wall has crumbled, leaving more than enough room for him to crawl into an adjoining space. Not exactly trapped, then, but only just.
Clumsily, he waves a hand, pulling a few wisps across the Veil, murmuring a soft incantation to bind them to him. They drift lazily around him like dust motes, their faint, pale green glow softly lighting the space. He forces himself to sit up, though it's not without a quiet groan and a hissed out, "Kaffas."
The next thing he notices is that faint smell, and his hand immediately covers his nose and mouth. Darkspawn have a distinctive stench. Decay and rot and something corrupted, something wrong. It's harder to notice when they fight the things on the surface, but here, where they spawn and swarm, it's far more noticeable. He immediately dismisses all but one wisp, and draws that final wisp closer to himself, curling his free hand over it and cupping it close to his sternum.
His face covering is gone. Of course it is. He has no face covering, and Renn was telling that delightful story about swallowing darkspawn blood, and oh, Dorian shouldn't flatter himself. He's more likely to be ripped apart than infected, but of course, of course Dorian would fall somewhere near a darkspawn settlement—
He jolts when he hears a distant noise. A thump. A choked-off grunt. The hiss and clatter of falling dirt and small rocks.
Dorian freezes, listening desperately, but when the sound doesn't evolve into the ugly growls or shrieks, he slowly gets to his feet.
"Bull?" It's as loud as he dares to speak, and he doesn't bother to to hide the unsteadiness in his voice. In the end, he admits he's not very loud at all. "Bull, please tell me that's you."