Dorian keeps chalk in a pouch on his belt – one never knows when one will need to set a magical ward, after all – and as he climbs through the broken wall, he pulls it out. Well, he pulls the largest piece out, at any rate. It seems to have been cracked and crushed in the fall, and Dorian is hardly surprised. It's large enough for his purposes – that is, to mark his way in order to navigate his way back to the dilapidated office.
There's a dwarven embassy in every major city in the Tevinter Imperium, but Dorian has never had reason to step foot in one. It's not until his time with the Inquisition that Dorian has had reason to admire these underground settlements. There was an instructor at one of the many Circles Dorian attended who had a formicarium, where ants constructed delicate mazes and chambers. Dorian is reminded of it every time the Inquisitor has cause to bring him down into some all but forgotten thaig.
He's careful to keep quiet the entire time, trying to ignore the ugly stink of darkspawn, trying to ignore the sickening way his head throbs. He passes by rows of old rooms, by ancient stone furniture, by old shattered wooden carts. He passes by piles of skeletons – the former denizens of the thaig, Dorian wagers – and feels the weight of spirits pressing against the Veil.
Felix never told him what happened when he, his mother, and their family retainers had been attacked. An unbearable memory, Dorian had assumed. Felix hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Dorian now realizes with a twisting lurch that he hadn't wanted to listen. Dorian was an awful friend, he thinks. He wonders how it was that Felix could stand him, all those years.
But he remembers Felix at his worst. Remembers how pale and gaunt he had been, how weak he had become before Dorian and Alexius had managed their first small breakthrough. A combination of time magic and magical tinctures had managed to buy Felix a few more days – but that hadn't been enough for either Dorian or Alexius. Those days soon became weeks, then slowed to months, then finally became an extra year or two when they hit the limitations of their combined skills.
Neither of them mentioned the use of blood magic, but Dorian knew it was hovering distantly at the back of Alexius' mind. Nothing was ever enough.
He remembers, too, the sweat on Felix's brow, his ashen complexion, the shadows beneath his eyes and hollowing out his cheeks when he surged into Dorian's little camp on the outskirts of Redcliffe. Felix had told him of the Venatori's plans to march on Haven, rushing to stuff Dorian's pack with extra rations, extra supplies, before Dorian even had a chance to react.
Dorian nearly refused to abandon Felix a second time, but as he shouldered his pack, as he prepared himself to run, he grabbed hold of Felix's elbow, had said, "Try not to die."
"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," Felix had told him.
And now, Felix is gone. Dorian refuses to fail anyone so spectacularly ever again.
The Bull is wandering in the dark, injured and lost, and Dorian won't fail him. If Dorian dies, then the chances of the Bull's survival plummet almost exponentially. His stomach twists at the thought before he forcibly shoves it from his head.
Dorian's wandering finally brings him to a dead end, and he curses, feels frustration and real fear starting to curl up and grip his throat, making his eyes sting and water. One side is completely collapsed, and the side that remains intact is made almost impassable by the fallen debris. The lyrium lamps built into the columns that remain still glow gamely, and an idle part of Dorian wonders if this was an area of some import to have gone to such efforts to light it.
He turns to double back when he hears it – the distant crash of something heavy falling. He freezes, pressing himself into a shadowy corner and curling his hand around the wisp to conceal the light. There's no movement around him, and he allows himself a deep breath before pushing away.
It's impossible to ignore – the screech and hiss and guttural shouts of darkspawn finding prey. The abrupt familiarity of the Bull's battle cry. The clash of metal against meat and bone and more metal. The stone distorts the sound, makes it impossible to tell how close or far, but the wisp floats away from him, hovers near a heavy stone door blocked by rubble. Somehow, Dorian just knows, and terror churns in his gut, freezing his heart, before determination burns through him.
The time for stealth is done, it seems.
Which is just as well, because Dorian acts on instinct. He shoves both of his arms forward, the head of his staff aimed at the pile of stone, and shoves. The Veil reacts, a wave of force sending the stones scattering with a thunderous boom and clearing his path. He rushes forward, and when another heavy stone door blocks his way, he presses his fingertips to his temple, shoves out another telekinetic wave to force it open.
Better to be angry, and so Dorian is. Better to be focused, and so Dorian is that, too. Better than being terrified. Better than thinking about being torn apart. Better than thinking about helplessly wasting away. Better than living with the thought of surviving by selfishly abandoning and betraying the Bull.
From this close, the darkspawn stench is horrendous, trapped in by the stone around them, and Dorian concentrates on keeping his mouth shut – a helpful tip, Lieutenant Renn, thank you. They hardly seem distracted by his abrupt entrance, focused they are on their current target.
His spells come out with a near dizzying speed. First, a barrier to coat the both of them in flickering blue light. Then, a column of fire to take out the genlock attempting to take advantage of the Bull being knocked to the ground. Then, a Fade Step to close the gap between himself the Bull, and Dorian swings his staff down, slamming the focus against another genlock's head, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.
no subject
There's a dwarven embassy in every major city in the Tevinter Imperium, but Dorian has never had reason to step foot in one. It's not until his time with the Inquisition that Dorian has had reason to admire these underground settlements. There was an instructor at one of the many Circles Dorian attended who had a formicarium, where ants constructed delicate mazes and chambers. Dorian is reminded of it every time the Inquisitor has cause to bring him down into some all but forgotten thaig.
He's careful to keep quiet the entire time, trying to ignore the ugly stink of darkspawn, trying to ignore the sickening way his head throbs. He passes by rows of old rooms, by ancient stone furniture, by old shattered wooden carts. He passes by piles of skeletons – the former denizens of the thaig, Dorian wagers – and feels the weight of spirits pressing against the Veil.
Felix never told him what happened when he, his mother, and their family retainers had been attacked. An unbearable memory, Dorian had assumed. Felix hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Dorian now realizes with a twisting lurch that he hadn't wanted to listen. Dorian was an awful friend, he thinks. He wonders how it was that Felix could stand him, all those years.
But he remembers Felix at his worst. Remembers how pale and gaunt he had been, how weak he had become before Dorian and Alexius had managed their first small breakthrough. A combination of time magic and magical tinctures had managed to buy Felix a few more days – but that hadn't been enough for either Dorian or Alexius. Those days soon became weeks, then slowed to months, then finally became an extra year or two when they hit the limitations of their combined skills.
Neither of them mentioned the use of blood magic, but Dorian knew it was hovering distantly at the back of Alexius' mind. Nothing was ever enough.
He remembers, too, the sweat on Felix's brow, his ashen complexion, the shadows beneath his eyes and hollowing out his cheeks when he surged into Dorian's little camp on the outskirts of Redcliffe. Felix had told him of the Venatori's plans to march on Haven, rushing to stuff Dorian's pack with extra rations, extra supplies, before Dorian even had a chance to react.
Dorian nearly refused to abandon Felix a second time, but as he shouldered his pack, as he prepared himself to run, he grabbed hold of Felix's elbow, had said, "Try not to die."
"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," Felix had told him.
And now, Felix is gone. Dorian refuses to fail anyone so spectacularly ever again.
The Bull is wandering in the dark, injured and lost, and Dorian won't fail him. If Dorian dies, then the chances of the Bull's survival plummet almost exponentially. His stomach twists at the thought before he forcibly shoves it from his head.
Dorian's wandering finally brings him to a dead end, and he curses, feels frustration and real fear starting to curl up and grip his throat, making his eyes sting and water. One side is completely collapsed, and the side that remains intact is made almost impassable by the fallen debris. The lyrium lamps built into the columns that remain still glow gamely, and an idle part of Dorian wonders if this was an area of some import to have gone to such efforts to light it.
He turns to double back when he hears it – the distant crash of something heavy falling. He freezes, pressing himself into a shadowy corner and curling his hand around the wisp to conceal the light. There's no movement around him, and he allows himself a deep breath before pushing away.
It's impossible to ignore – the screech and hiss and guttural shouts of darkspawn finding prey. The abrupt familiarity of the Bull's battle cry. The clash of metal against meat and bone and more metal. The stone distorts the sound, makes it impossible to tell how close or far, but the wisp floats away from him, hovers near a heavy stone door blocked by rubble. Somehow, Dorian just knows, and terror churns in his gut, freezing his heart, before determination burns through him.
The time for stealth is done, it seems.
Which is just as well, because Dorian acts on instinct. He shoves both of his arms forward, the head of his staff aimed at the pile of stone, and shoves. The Veil reacts, a wave of force sending the stones scattering with a thunderous boom and clearing his path. He rushes forward, and when another heavy stone door blocks his way, he presses his fingertips to his temple, shoves out another telekinetic wave to force it open.
Better to be angry, and so Dorian is. Better to be focused, and so Dorian is that, too. Better than being terrified. Better than thinking about being torn apart. Better than thinking about helplessly wasting away. Better than living with the thought of surviving by selfishly abandoning and betraying the Bull.
From this close, the darkspawn stench is horrendous, trapped in by the stone around them, and Dorian concentrates on keeping his mouth shut – a helpful tip, Lieutenant Renn, thank you. They hardly seem distracted by his abrupt entrance, focused they are on their current target.
His spells come out with a near dizzying speed. First, a barrier to coat the both of them in flickering blue light. Then, a column of fire to take out the genlock attempting to take advantage of the Bull being knocked to the ground. Then, a Fade Step to close the gap between himself the Bull, and Dorian swings his staff down, slamming the focus against another genlock's head, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.