inachinashop | psl post

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."

"Maker," and there's a touch more dread in his voice than fully necessary. "I've read that man's writing. I don't want Varric anywhere near a song about me."

Ahead of them, the Inquisitor lets out a sound of triumph when her scavenged gears open yet another door, this one spilling out into a cavern. Dorian pauses as he regards it. It's breathtaking, admittedly, with old dwarven statues illuminated by fissures in the land above, and all that expansive emptiness stretching out beyond them.

In a whisper meant mostly for the Bull, "Well. I'm not sure whether to be humbled or horrified."

The Bull gives an unhappy grunt, pausing next to Dorian to take the whole thing in. "Dwarven architecture," he murmurs back, gamely. Well, a little sullenly. But he says it, instead of complaining. "This is the kind of place tama would have insisted on bringing us, if it was aboveground."

He lets a hard breath out through his nose, trying to shake off the way Dorian just admitted that this place is getting to him, too. Yeah, the Bull had a sense outside all his own crap that there have been a couple moments when Dorian seemed to be trying just a little too hard, and there's probably a reason that he's hanging back here with the Bull rather than going up ahead with the rest of them and getting involved. But there's something about outright hearing it.

Doesn't matter. He isn't going to let his own shit turn itself into weakness again, get in the way of his willingness to do what needs to get done. "Come on," he says a little louder, and tilts his head toward the doorway as he steps up through it.

"I know this place is big," he starts once he's through and looking around, unable to keep himself from trying to ask. "But we've got to be getting closer to what we're looking for by now, right? Feels like we've been down here for a while."

"Or there's rather more to go. They're called the Deep Roads for a reason."

But he steels himself, following after their adventuring party. Shaper Valta seems rather enthused, making her guesses as to the area they've stumbled upon. Heidrug Thaig, she calls it, a place thought lost to the ages. How she can tell is beyond Dorian, but she is a Shaper. She's meant to be able to sense these things, he thinks.

Valta is discussing the place's history to an attentive Evelyn, while Renn and Cassandra are markedly less fascinated behind them. Cassandra says something about taking care around raw lyrium veins, and Dorian just peers out over the wide, cavernous expanse, imagining how long it would take someone to fall from that fissure at the surface before they hit something solid.

A long time, it looks like. What a terrifying thought.

He tears his gaze away from the cracks above them, away from where the light is spilling in, and focuses on the path the Inquisitor is forging. He doesn't quite clear his throat, but he does, at least, make a small sound.

Quietly, he prompts, "I'm thinking of a place."

The Bull grunts again, this time sounding more acknowledging than unhappy. It's nice to think that Dorian's saying that more for his own sake than for the Bull's. Which isn't a kind thought, but it's one that puts a little steel into the Bull's spine, so he might as well use it. It's a little easier to keep up the act when it's someone else who needs him to.

"Yeah?" he asks as he keeps himself walking forward, the mask over his own nerves a little more convincing than it was a couple seconds ago. He moves over as he walks, just a little, to bump his arm into Dorian's shoulder without looking at him. "Any place I've been?"

Dorian hesitates for a second, then, "I'm afraid I can't give a 'yes' or 'no' to this one, but I'll offer that it's not beyond the realm of possibility."

It's darker here, even with sunlight lancing in through the cracks above. In the distance, in little pockets of what was once ancient dwarven civilizations, those lyrium-laced lamps are still glowing gamely.

"Darkspawn all over the place," Lieutenant Renn grits out. "You can see their torches."

... Ah. Not lamps, then.

"Even darkspawn appreciate a little mood lighting," Dorian says, feigning some amusement.

The Bull just frowns into the distance. Knowing the darkspawn are close has him automatically cataloguing all the weak points in their new armour, all the ways he can fight a little differently to give blood spatter less of a chance to get in to them. It's good, he tells himself, that he's one of the ones the rest of them count on to wade into the thick of the fighting out in all the blood and guts, so the ones who can do their thing from a distance get a chance to do it. It's good that a part of him's thinking about ghouls, about the chance of the taint turning his mind that way - or, it can be a good thing, that little, persistent thought. It'll make him careful.

This feeling doesn't have to turn itself into a weakness. It can be useful. Help him do what needs to get done.

They're prepared for this, anyway. As close to it as they're going to get.

Focus. Darkspawn aren't close yet, and Dorian still needs distracting. "So," he murmurs, just for Dorian to hear. "This place you're thinking of. We're talking countries, right? So it's no country we've ever been to together, instead of some library or whorehouse or something you just really like."

Dorian is largely unconscious of it, but he adjusts his mask again. Ahead of them, Lieutenant Renn is telling a cautionary story about a soldier who had accidentally swallowed darkspawn blood – and Dorian is doing his absolute best to ignore the man.

His voice is a little louder in response – whether to force the brightness in his tone or to drown out Renn's story, it's difficult to say.

"I'm not sure any of that was a 'yes' or 'no' question, Bull." That imperiousness is back in his voice, though he lilts the words to take away the bite. He pauses, running through the Bull's comments again, before Dorian lands on an appropriate response. "As utterly charming as I've found Ferelden, yes, my mind strays to another country."

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