inachinashop | psl post

"That's too bad," the Bull says, wishing a little that they were somewhere they could take all this cloth off their faces but because of Dorian's expression, this time. There's something a little unsettling about it, being so used to reading people's faces and then not getting anything there at all. It's not like body language is gone, he still has that, and maybe if he was anywhere else that would be enough, but-

Ah, nevermind. There's no point in hammering those kinds of thoughts deeper into his mind than they've already gone. The wistful tone to Dorian's laugh there is what the Bull has right now, and that will be enough until they make it out of here.

"Bet you looked great in them. What kind did you used to wear? The same kind of stuff you want me in, minus the eyepatch?"

"Imagining me again?" Dorian asks with a laugh. He glances over, and while his smile isn't fully visible, there's still a hint of it at the corners of his eyes. He quirks an eyebrow. "Careful, Bull. You're making a habit of that.

"It was all horribly impractical and showy, as I'm sure you can tell. A duel in Tevinter was as much a battle as it was a performance. I doubt you would have approved of my sartorial choices or my accessories. I'm sure you'd tell me they were far too perilous to wear, were I to face an enemy in close quarters combat. I had this decorative earpiece in the shape of a snake that would curl around my ear, and I'm sure you'd remind me that an foe could yank it right out."

He traces the shell of his ear with his fingertip, tapping against the lobe.

"I was rather fond of my old necklaces, though. I would layer them together, and they were the perfect length so that my family's birthright would hang above them all."

And here, his hand falls to his sternum, just beneath the dip between his clavicles. He pauses, briefly wishing that Ponchard de Lieux might fall and expire in a ditch somewhere, before letting out a breath.

"I would look magnificent, though that goes without saying. I can only hope I inspired some budding artist to commit the image of me to canvas."

There we go - snakey, just like he'd thought. The Bull watches Dorian imagining it, Dorian's hand on his sternum where the necklace isn't. Then Dorian finishes, and the Bull makes an amused noise. "Would be a crime if they didn't," he says. "I wouldn't get onto you for it like that, though; yeah your fighting style's pretty showy but you know the difference between what we do out here and what you did in those duels. It would be weird to see one, though. You're still trying to kill each other, right, one on one? It's just that you're trying to look good doing it, have the flashiest magic, all that? If it weren't a magic duel I'd say that sounds like it's all about agility, so you make sure you never look ruffled or anything. Is it the same thing with a magic one, or does that change the game at all?"

"You have the right of it," he says, letting his hand drop to his side. "It was a matter of agility, both physically and magically. Can you cast a Barrier in time? Can you inject enough power into it to absorb his next few spells? How quickly can you dispel your opponent's mines while he's actively menacing you? Can you cast two spells to your opponents one? How quickly can you end this to meet your companions for celebratory drinks?

"The rules were established at the start, and appointed intermediaries would ensure those rules were followed. Generally, no one ever wanted to fight to the death – the duelists would decide that the victor might be the first to draw blood, or the first to force the other to yield. But there's no accounting for accidents, or 'accidents.'" And Dorian places a bit of irony into the latter.

"'Oops, so sorry. I didn't hear his screams to surrender. I was far too busy setting him on fire, you see. Goodness, look at all these scorch marks. Shall I pay for the repairs?'"

"I bet. Pretty good way to deal with anyone who's giving you trouble. You do a lot of that, or were you just in it for the thrill?" He doesn't sound like he's judging, because he's not. Tevinter is what it is. It's not the kind of thing Dorian would do here, away from all that, and that's what matters to the Bull. It's interesting though, Dorian's time there, who he was in Tevinter versus who he is here. It's not a part of Dorian that the Bull needs to know, exactly, but there's no harm in being curious.

"Did I do a lot of which, duels in general or killing?"

He asks the question without hesitation, and neither does he ask it with any particular inflection. A clarifying question, and little more.

"If you mean the former – well. I excelled in my magical studies at quite a young age, and I was a lethal combination of opinionated and stubborn. Perhaps that wouldn't have been any cause for friction, but I also had a sharp tongue, and had trouble determining the best time to keep my mouth shut. I incited quite a few fights and never had the wisdom to know when to bend.

"If you mean the latter, then no. I was never out to actually kill anyone, only to prove my superiority. I always adhered to the terms of the duel, but if my opponent broke the terms – say, continued the assault after they had clearly lost – then I did what was necessary to defend myself."

"Makes sense. Sounds like you were a terror when you were a kid, huh?" He grins, sounding admiring. "I can see it."

Dorian breathes out a laugh, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "Some might tell you I'm still a terror now."

And Dorian would feign offense only for a moment or two before quietly agreeing.

For a few seconds, Dorian allows them to walk in silence before he slowly ventures, "And I'm sure you were an absolute sweetheart as a young boy."

A statement, rather than a question. Dorian isn't entirely sure if it's by design that the Bull was so quiet about his past, or if it was simply a matter of no one bothering to ask. In any case, Dorian admits to some curiosity, but he phrases his prompt in such a way to let the Bull drop the thread of conversation, should he choose.

The Bull makes an amused noise, happy enough to answer a direct prompt from a friend like that, even if there's a faint edge of distraction in his voice as part of his mind starts pulling back toward the view in front of them, thinking more about just where they are.

"If you like kids who think they know better than you do, sure. That's a lot of kids I guess, but in our group I was always the one who thought the tamassrans needed me to tell them how to handle all the others, finding loopholes in the rules, figuring out ways to get out of doing stuff I was supposed to and getting involved in stuff I wasn't. Tamassrans aren't strict with their kids in the same way people are out here so we weren't all supposed to be 'seen and not heard' or whatever, but I didn't always make it easy. How about you? If I know you, I'd say you were probably as much of a terror to the authorities as you were to the other kids. Hopefully with fewer duels involved, though."

"Ah, so you were a delight." His tone is teasing, at least. It's difficult to see the Bull as anything but the Bull, but Dorian manages to conjure the image of a small, pudgy little child with little bumps where the horns should be. "You haven't outgrown the habit of sticking your nose into things, I see."

Especially now, with the Bull involving himself in all of Dorian's affairs. A consummate problem solver, this one.

"Aside from my various squabbles with the other children, my instructors and tutors would say I was a joy to teach. 'So attentive, is young Lord Pavus. So intelligent! So diligent! If only he could apply himself more evenly, he would be a wonder!' At least, that's what they would say to my parents. Otherwise, I'm certain they would have said I was an insufferable little braggart and were only too happy to see me shipped off to a new Circle, if they hadn't feared my father's influence."

Well yeah, the Bull could have told him. There's a reason they didn't put me into the antaam, and made it my whole job to stick my nose into other people's business. Everything in its place, especially if there's a way to use it.

"So, you were kind of a terror to them too. Or was it just trying to make sure they all knew how great you are? It doesn't sound like either of us have changed all that much. Put a bunch of fancy jewellery on you and set some 'vint asshole in front of you, you think you'd be right back to duelling?"

"That depends," he says, feigning a moment of thought. He taps his chin over the face covering again, head tipped back so he can regard the rough, stone ceiling.

"How much of an asshole are they, and how fancy is this jewelry?"

"Really fancy." The Bull glances at him. "Why? That make you want to fight more? Let's say you're about as done up as you can get, but the other guy is - I don't know, at whatever level of asshole is normal for Tevinter. He's not anything special, but you look like a walking fortune. That going to make you more likely to pick a fight?"

"Would it surprise you to hear that would make me less likely to start a fight?" Dorian laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly. "Ah, I'm getting old. Doubtless Felix would be cackling at me for becoming so reasonable with age.

"It would be like if you arrived fully kitted, armed with your favorite battleaxe, and started picking fights with anyone who managed to breathe offensively in your general direction. Meanwhile, your opponent is armed with only a rusted pitchfork missing half a handle. There's no way for you to come out of that fight favorably. Best case scenario, you're no better than a cackling villain, liable to snatch sweets from blubbering babies. Worst case scenario, you're trounced by a plebeian.

"No, the good jewelry is reserved for the special types of assholes. The ones that, say, claim to have entered the Golden City and wish to rip open the Fade to instate themselves as a new god."

The Bull notes the part about Felix. Not because of what Dorian's saying about him, particularly, but because he's saying it at all. If Dorian's mentioned anyone else from Tevinter, it's never been like that - fond, and warm. Someone who actually looked out for him. The Bull isn't going to pry about the guy, but is going to notice it now whenever Dorian mentions him.

"So," the Bull says. "The Inquisition's going to have to find you the good stuff soon, then, unless there's more than one of those kind of guys wandering around for you to get yourself all dressed up for. It seems like a shame to make yourself look that good for such a shithead, though."

His laugh is more genuine this time, as he casts the other man a sidelong glance.

"Can you imagine? 'Ser Morris, Lord Dorian Pavus requires new battle regalia, to whit: no less than eight gold bracelets (the more jingly, the better), no less than six gold necklaces of varying sizes and lengths, the most intimidating ear cuffs money can buy, and as many rings as might fit upon two hands. And don't you dare be a miser about it.'

"In any case, one must always look his best whilst crushing his enemies beneath his heel. You never know what artist might take inspiration from your victory."

"So that's always the goal, then? You don't just want to win, you want to win and have everyone know how good you looked doing it. Are songs good too, or is it just the physical stuff? Paintings, statues, maybe a fashion fad or two, that sort of thing?"

"The goal is to win and to look flawless in victory. Paintings and statues are preferable. Starting a trend wouldn't be awful, and I suppose I wouldn't mind a ballad or two."

Then, as if realizing who he's talking to, Dorian hastens to add, "That's not an invitation for you to write one."

The Bull is too busy keeping an eye on all the heavy, unmoving rock above them to look over at Dorian, but he does give a low chuckle. "Get a couple drinks in me and I'd take that as an invitation."

Maybe he normally wouldn't even need an invitation, but - well. Once he can focus on it a little better, maybe.

"So, I'm guessing you wouldn't want it to be a song about your ass? Or your legs or your nose or your staff? And it can't be only about your jewellery. So what kind of ballad would you write, if you got to choose your own?"

Dorian wants to say it's a relief that the Bull doesn't take the comment and run with it, doesn't turn it into the obvious joke it well and truly should be – but it isn't. He frowns for a moment, wondering if maybe his distraction hasn't been as successful as he had hoped. They both need to keep their wits about them, of course, but there's a difference between remaining aware and wallowing in— whatever in the world this is.

"Ah, well. Something that emphasized my devastating good looks and my magical prowess, I suppose. Or else something that talked about how soundly I beat my enemies into fine powder. I should hope there would be a few lines about how my fine figure was haloed in golden sunlight.

"I expect you would want something ribald that would fit comfortably in a tavern. The bawdier, the better?"

"Ha, yeah. If it was supposed to be about some battle I guess it would have to be all metaphor, but that's alright. I think some of my guys like those songs with all the innuendo even better than the outright raunchy ones anyway. And it would have to make sure the Chargers got some play too; a ballad could probably get us some good business if it got popular enough. Might not happen if I'm fighting next to you, though. All that sunlight shining off your... add in a bunch of rings and it's, what, thirty, forty-six pieces of gold hanging off you? Any ballad writer's definitely going to get blinded by you before they even think about how badass I am."

He smiles at that slightly ridiculous mental image, of him literally blinding potential onlookers. Varric would surely laugh and point out the aptness of his nickname for Dorian.

"Am I mistaken, or isn't there a song for your Chargers already?" he asks. Or at least, Dorian certainly remembers the Chargers drunkenly slurring something, all of them vaguely following the same tune. "Something about 'horns pointing up'?"

It's the only line that they manage with any sort of clarity, most nights.

"Yeah," the Bull says, some deep fondness in his voice that, for a second, nudges at the weight settled in over his mind. Horns pointing up. As a rallying cry, it's not half bad. His boys have really taken to it. "Yeah, we've got that one. But that's for us. Good for team cohesion, and all that stuff. We could use a couple more for business. Moot point, though, since we already covered that if any of us is getting a song - aside from the boss, pretty sure she's already got at least one - then it's going to be you. Only the bravest 'vints are going to come up and duel you then."

"Well, yes, but I'm trying to offer some consolation, here." He's teasing, still, and making an effort to maintain the lightness in his voice, in answer to the warmth in the Bull's. "After I've ground Corypheus' face into the dirt, the bards may be scrambling over themselves to pen dozens of songs about me, but you, at least, technically already have one.

"And besides, at this current juncture, I haven't even got one, whether it's for personal use or public enjoyment. So you could consider yourself to be winning the race, at present. Even Sera has inspired a song before I have. It's practically criminal, honestly."

The warmth in the Bull's voice doesn't quite last. Not that deep, genuine part, anyway. He still sounds friendly, a part of him enjoying the conversation well enough and the distraction it provides, but he isn't really putting his back into the act. If the Chargers were actually here, he would - but that would take a lot right now. Might do the Bull more good just thinking about them than actually having them here. "Hey, you could always write yours, like we did. Or commission someone. Don't you nobles like doing that anyway? Pay Varric to help. I bet he could come up with something fun."

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