"Yeah," the Bull murmurs, focusing on Dorian's voice, on what he can see of him. It's not a great time for the Bull to have this conversation, even though this might be the only time that Dorian could; it's taking so much to hold off the stupider parts of his mind, still yelling about the weight above him and the pressure against his shoulders and the dark, like he hasn't already noticed any of it, that it's hard not to feel like he isn't handling this like he should.
He tucks Dorian's words away, just in case. If he says the wrong thing now it's not like he can take it back, but he can at least try to figure out the right thing, later.
If he can't figure out how much sensitivity or sympathy Dorian needs right now, he might as well just say what he's thinking. Not saying anything would probably be worse, after Dorian shared all that.
"It's harder to deal with when you're never really going to know," he says and, though it might be halfway hidden by all the tension in the Bull's voice already, the words have the weight of his own memories behind them. "Especially when it's someone who was good to you like that."
There's some things even the Ben-Hassrath aren't good enough to find out. That applies to this, too; their spies aren't exactly the kind of people who get welcomed in by the Venatori, so there's not a lot of sense in offering to have his people try to look into it. Or maybe there is. Maybe there's still something there to find, if Red's people haven't looked already. Another thing for the Bull to tuck away and think about once he can.
"Don't know if this helps or not," he says, still kind of flying by the seat of his pants on how to handle this, "but if it was me, that's how I'd want to go out. Going up against some evil assholes to save a good man's life, not getting sicker and sicker till I died in bed."
Well. The Bull had to go and say that, didn't he? "Save a good man's life," when Dorian has been foolish, selfish, and churlish his entire life. Felix, on the other hand, had never been anything but a kind, generous man, who deserved far more than the universe saw fit to give him.
It should have been Dorian to make the choice to stand his ground and send Felix ahead. It should have been Felix who warned the Inquisitor of the impending assault.
It should be Felix here, trying to make light of this shitty situation. What's the worst that could happen? Felix would ask. I can't be more blighted.
Dorian carefully folds that thought away, pushes aside the guilt along with it.
Instead, he glances over his shoulder, sympathetic and a little curious. Gently, he asks, "Who was it you lost?"
"Uh-" He shouldn't be surprised, should he, that Dorian asks. The Bull had practically offered, answering the way he had. He hadn't really meant to. Hadn't been thinking. He stares at the walls ahead of them, feels the stone against his skin, tries to figure out the right way to answer.
Is it shitty of him to be a little glad the honest answer is also the one that means he doesn't have to bring up any one specific memory? Maybe not. He can still drag it all up in one big ugly wad of crap and maybe Dorian will see the honesty in it all the same, won't think the Bull's trying to wiggle out of uncovering the same parts of himself that Dorian just did.
"You going to think less of me if I tell you I can't remember all their names? You kind of..." 'After year five it kind of starts to blend together' is the course his mouth's trying to run down, and his mind changes itself at the last minute. There's giving a genuine answer, and then there's going down a road that's going to end in a lot more detail than the answer really needs. Hopefully whatever it is he ends up saying instead will be enough.
"I don't know," is the 'whatever' that comes out. Maybe he's not dragging up the whole ugly wad of crap after all. At least, out loud. Who knows, maybe he did. Maybe implying it is enough. "I'm not saying having it happen in front of you is better, but it's... there's something there. You know for sure there's nothing else that you can do. They just don't come back one day, it slows that down. Gives some part of you something else to chew on."
He's quiet for a moment. Focuses on the pain that hasn't let up in his leg, the sound of the brace the Chargers gave him dragging across the stone, the bits of loose rock and dust under his hands. No sound of waves here, no smell of salt and old fish and that one particular kind of spice. Nothing but the dark and his mind still yelling at him about things that aren't worth yelling about, the musty, damp smell of a dark space gone too long without the open air and not being able to enjoy Dorian's ass just a couple feet in front of his face.
The Bull's not exactly safer here and now, but even with the darkspawn, he thinks maybe the company is better.
"You asked Red to look into it? She might be able to get something out of your contact that you can't." And then a little piece of his own crap, in case that makes this feel less like the Bull skipping out on an answer and more like the only answer he has to give: "Sometimes it... changes things a little, once you know for sure. Not every time, but sometimes."
Dorian makes the logical leap – the Bull is talking about Seheron, then. Or, perhaps more accurately, the Bull is thinking about Seheron, considering he didn't offer much of a response to Dorian's question at all. The lack of an answer is unsurprising, at this point; for as much as the Bull seems to enjoy prying truth out of the people around him, he's never quite as forthcoming with it, himself.
Now, however, isn't exactly the time to try and probe the Bull for more information. The name of the game, at the moment, is distraction. Filling in the terrible, yawning silence. Dorian files the information away, however.
Dorian continues crawling through the narrow space, chewing over the Bull's final question. He had not, in fact, considered it. For one, utilizing the Inquisition's resources, tying up someone else's time with answering his personal questions feels selfish. For another—
Well. If he's honest, as much as he knows the answer, he almost doesn't want the concrete confirmation. A small, whimsical part of him almost wants to leave open the possibility that Felix had survived; that he was in hiding somewhere, biding his time before making his triumphant return.
"I'll consider it," he says slowly. "Though I'm sure her time and efforts are better spent elsewhere."
"She knows how to prioritise," the Bull points out, more to make sure Dorian knows than to push him. This is Dorian's loss, and Dorian's decision about what he needs in order to deal with it. Still, it's something to say. Need something to say that's worth focusing on, instead of something to look at. Having Dorian here is good, but not even he can do enough to improve the view.
The Bull's gaze roams over what space there is in front of him, fruitlessly. His horns scrape against stone when he moves. The sound of it, the feeling, fills the little box in his mind where he's keeping all the useless crap contained, pushes its lid just far enough aside that a little shudder slips out.
He holds himself still, muscles tense. He keeps on crawling. Focuses. A few seconds later than he'd intended to, the Bull keeps talking, jaw as tense as the rest of him, eye fixed on the back of Dorian's head, on Dorian's shoulder washed in the spirit's bizarre, lame little light. "She wouldn't send anyone to check it out unless she could spare them."
The Bull takes a slow, very even breath. He tries to find whatever solid foundation just slipped out from under his voice so he can shove it back in and realises he's clearing his throat as he hears himself do it, a tell that was supposed to be trained out of him decades ago. He was fine a second before. Couldn't answer Dorian's question right.
He was managing before, anyway.
He's managing now. He's good. It is what it is. And that's fine. "If this is like the, uh-"
Like the other crawlspace Dorian left him in, or whatever the tiny little hallway was originally meant to be. Like the one it kind of feels, right now, like he never left. Shok ebasit hissra. The line's already pushing itself, urgent, inside his thoughts by the time he knows he's thinking it.
Kind of macabre, that a line from a death prayer's the first thing his mind latches onto right now - he's probably got their conversation about losing people to thank for that - but parts of it actually aren't far off here; in a pretty literal sense, there's nothing in here to struggle against at all. It's fine. He'll be fine. The only thing that set this off was the stray scrape of a horn against a wall where he'd thought he had open space, and it's going to pass just as easy into something he can manage again.
"-that other place I was in," he finishes, again a couple seconds after he meant to. Some detritus of what's happening in his head makes it out into his words, nerves thicker in his voice than he'd wanted. He keeps pushing through anyway. Finish what he was saying. "Cause it kind of looks the same, uh, then there might be a dead end up ahead. If the layout's the same. Couldn't tell if there was a door in all that rubble though, but. You know. Probably."
It's not like a door just isn't going to be there. That would be a dumb way to design a building, and dwarven architecture is anything but dumb. Could be blocked, though. If there is one, and it's blocked-
They'll deal with it. If it is, they'll deal with it. The Inquisition's pretty good at that, dealing with things. Going to be fine.
The scrape of the tips of the Bull's horns is sharp, not unlike nails on a chalkboard, and even Dorian finds himself grimacing at it. It's only after the Bull starts speaking that he manages to notice the brief lapse, the hesitance and trepidation in the other man's voice.
Is it better to draw attention to it? Obviously not, Dorian decides. It would be rather like if the two of them were on a sinking boat, and Dorian said, "I notice you're quite uncomfortable with all this water. Do you want to discuss it?"
Ridiculous. Of course the Bull is uncomfortable here. Who wouldn't be?
Dorian keeps pushing forward, though, letting the Bull work his way through whatever it is he's trying to say. Dorian could helpfully point out that all crawlspaces look rather the same, really, and there's no way of knowing where this one may lead – but perhaps that's too blindly optimistic. Better to present something definite, a plan of action.
"If the way is obstructed, I'll move the stone," he says. In his time with the Inquisition, he's moved enough stone both magically and physically that he wonders if he might have been better suited to construction than politics. "If there's a dead end, I can try to blast us a suitable exit. Failing all else, we'll go back the way we came. I refuse to be thwarted by a dilapidated building."
"Right. It's, uh- it's not that long back to uh, the way that we came in. We can just- turn around." The Bull only just manages to stop himself from clearing his throat again. Feels like he needs to do something, at least, to clear all that badly-hidden dread out of his voice and even if that something is just a bunch of crap that his mind is making up to try and make him feel a little less shitty, it's not like feeling less shitty right now's really going to hurt. He swallows hard, trying to satisfy the urge in a way that's going to make at least a little bit less noise.
Ride this out. Either he gets eaten by darkspawn or they get back up to the surface to fight another day; no matter which future's in store for him, patience is going to carry him out of this. He only has to let it. Even if he has to go all the way back the way they came, in front this time, without even Dorian ahead of him to focus on-
"So," the Bull makes himself say, like he can't tell how fake his casual tone sounds right now, "that pile of crap up there's not about to thwart us, then? You've got two eyes, maybe you can tell me if that big shadow right next to it's a left turn or a dead end." And if it is, that's... fine. It's going to be fine. Right up until they have to start worrying about darkspawn again.
Not going to think too hard about the darkspawn yet. One pile of shit at a time.
The unease in the Bull's voice is disconcerting, to say the least.
Silly, how Dorian's become so satisfied in letting the Bull be the unshakeable one. That cold sense of worry continues to twist in his chest, and he wonders if he should bring this up later, if he should try and talk to the Bull about this, should mention it in the safety of camp or some tavern.
He supposes that's rather contingent upon their ability to survive this – something that Dorian prefers to take as fact, rather than chance.
He continues forging a path – he has little choice in the matter, admittedly – and he reaches the big shadow the Bull has helpfully indicated.
It is, in fact, a left turn, but Dorian has no time to feel relieved.
That path continues on for a foot or more before it terminates at rather sizable blockage of fallen masonry.
Dorian lets out a breath between his lips, that cold feeling turning weighty and sinking into his gut.
"Well," he says, and while his tone is as bright as ever, there's a bitter undercurrent there, too. Above him, the wisp casts the slabs of stone in green light. "I suppose now is the time to offer you a choice of good news and bad news."
Dorian needs the Bull to acknowledge he understands that so he does, grunts. Lets his eye move over and away from what's ahead. From what isn't ahead. Doesn't think too much about anything. He holds himself quiet, holds himself inside a moment that feels like it stretches. He keeps himself still. He needs his thoughts pressed flat and formless inside his mind, keep them like that long enough to shut them away. For a while - as long as he needs to - he can pretend he doesn't hear all those things shut up all silent in his head hurling themselves against the doors.
Hold himself still. Everything inside him now needs to be flat and still, pressed far enough away to make it easier to manage.
Yeah. Like that.
He knew this was a possibility. The feelings, the thoughts he'd been having about that possibility just a few seconds ago don't matter; he knows what he needs to do. Dorian's offer to make them a way out was just meant to make him feel better. Too big, too loud to follow through on. The Bull couldn't afford to pay much attention to the offer then, and he can't now. There's only one way out. Getting there is simple.
"Give me a minute. Not a lot of room for-" Making his head go quiet, or quiet enough, helped his voice out too, until he was stupid enough to say the problem out loud. He picks his voice back up where it dropped out from under him, makes sure the second half of the sentence comes out as flat as the first half did. 'Flat' isn't really ideal. Takes him, if anything, further away from sounding any kind of casual. It's what he can do. "-moving around that quickly. Gonna take a minute."
The walls scrape at his shoulders. To turn around, he's going to have to sit up. He finds himself doing it in inches, then pausing, expecting to meet the ceiling too early, taking in a sharp breath to brace himself, letting it out slow while he does the whole thing again. And again. One more time. Don't keep track. Don't count anything. Keep going.
When he does meet the ceiling his horns make that scraping sound again, the one he can feel inside his bones. Stupid that that stops him. They're going to do the same thing again when he turns. After one second, or maybe the second after that, he makes his breaths harder and sharper to stop them from shaking.
It's not that much of a production. It doesn't have to be. He's just turning around. The walls pressing against all of him are stable. The rest of it doesn't matter. What happens afterward, still pressed inside here in the dark, that doesn't matter right now either. Turn around.
(ooc: if Bull needs to do/say something else before Dorian would say something or react, let me know and I can edit)
Dorian grits his teeth as the Bull struggles to turn. In such a small space, even something as simple as reorienting seems an impossibly large task. Dorian could manage it with some mild discomfort, he thinks, but the Bull is considerably wider and, more to the point, injured.
But is it the best option, going back the way they came? They know there were darkspawn wandering about, and even if those beasts have wandered off from where the Bull and Dorian had been, there's no guarantee they wandered far. And there's no telling how many of the things might be there.
From the blockage, Dorian feels the slightest breeze slipping through the gaps in the masonry. The Deep Roads have been unnaturally still, in all fairness, but the wide, open spaces and the fissures in the earth above have admitted something akin to wind. There's space on the other side, then.
So – they could return to a location where they know darkspawn will be.
Or—
The Bull's horns scrape against the ceiling again, and Dorian grimaces – both from the sharpness of the noise and in sympathy. When the Bull stops, when his breaths deepen and roughen, Dorian makes his decision. Perhaps it will prove to be a poor one. Or maybe it won't.
He reaches out, placing a hand on the Bull's shoulder to stop his progress. Dorian shuffles further into what space is left before the blockage, just to give himself room to move. He pushes himself up to kneel, one knee lifted to lend more stability to his stance. Taking a deep breath, he moves his arms, folding the Veil. The energy he draws from the Fade wreathes around him, winding around his arms, before flowing out to the slabs of stone blocking their way. Dorian raises both arms with effort, gritting his teeth, and the masonry shifts. A cloud of dust puffs out as the slabs grate against one another, and Dorian flattens both palms, pushing against an invisible wall. Slowly (and more loudly than Dorian cares to admit), the slabs slide outward, falling into the empty space beyond the blockage.
It's not exactly fresh air that flows into the crawlspace – it's a bit saltier, a bit colder than Dorian likes – but it's far better than the stale stuff lingering within the ruins.
(ooc: hope this is cool! lmk if you need more to work with.)
When Dorian touches his shoulder the Bull's body flinches. Strung too tight, too in his head, not aware enough of his surroundings- forget it. It doesn't matter. He focuses on what's actually happening around him right now, what Dorian's trying to tell him, what Dorian's trying to do.
He moves back, slowly, as he watches. Hadn't let himself consider that Dorian would do this, use that freaky, glorious magic of his to get them the fuck out of here. Cause if he considered it he'd start thinking he needed Dorian to do it, maybe needed it more than they both needed to decide whether it's safe. Maybe needed it enough to push Dorian to do it, whether it was actually a good idea or not. But Dorian's wrapped his arms in magic now all on his own and wrapped all that loose stone up in it too and the Bull watches it, tries to point his mind toward that while his body does the slow, too-careful work of turning himself the other way again.
That magic is the best thing happening in this damn tunnel and isn't that messed up, that that's what he has to hold on to but it's here, and then there's airflow, what passes for an actual breeze and he holds himself still, doesn't charge on past Dorian out into the open but waits for Dorian to go, to make room, and then stops once he's out there, trying to make his breathing slow down again as he leans against the wall.
Weight on the palms, swing the right knee up quick so the left doesn't have to hold him up for too long, and now upright. Upright, don't let the part of him that expects to hit a wall, a ceiling, make him hesitate, doesn't matter how tensed up he is as long as he gets it done, balance with the wall, hop up. Stand up, or get closer to it. No extra weight on the leg, but keep trying to use the pain. And if his body's still a little worked up, thinks there's something it needs to come down from - well, his body's a little stupid sometimes. Doesn't know what it needs. He knows what it needs. What they both need right now, for the Bull to be as close to reliable as this leg's going to let him get.
His breathing pulls in and out unsteady for a couple seconds more, and then doesn't shake at all. He lets himself swallow exactly once. And then the Bull looks around. Focuses. He can focus a little better now, feels it coming easier. It isn't taking as much work.
Things smell just a little worse out in the sort-of open air, but he's learned that he can't trust his nose down here as much as he thinks. What else can he figure out? They're not in the middle of these ruins any more, it looks like. Closer to the edge, nearer to that cliff wall. Not necessarily good news, but it could be.
"Your little... light thing," he says as he glances back at Dorian, voice steady and sure, mostly. "How far can it go? The quicker we see everything we're working with, the quicker we get out."
(ooc: That works! Bull's state of mind gave me plenty to say, and as soon as they start moving we can have the darkspawn come too so that should give us plenty)
Dorian is quick to exit the small space once there's room enough. He thinks he probably managed to tolerate it better than the Bull had – and little wonder why, considering the difference in their statures – but that hardly means he appreciated it.
He's a little shaky once they've escaped the little tunnel – the same, strung-out feeling as before. A spell like that would normally require only a quick moment to catch his breath, but now, having expended so much of his mana on spell after spell, Dorian knows he's in dire need of rest – a few days' worth, at least.
That doesn't stop him from turning back to the Bull, once the other man has pulled himself out, once he attempts to maneuver himself onto his feet. Dorian hovers uncertainly, hands out as if he means to catch the Bull if he stumbles; the Bull seems to manage it, but Dorian is still worried.
He masks it well enough when the Bull turns to look at him, hands dropping to rest on his waist in a close approximation to his usual stance. He glances at the wisps in question – the two that he dared to allow to remain, at least.
"Not too far, unfortunately. And they cast only a modest amount of light, at best."
Still, he frowns in thought for only a breath before he whispers a few words, lifting a hand to pull a few more wisps across the Veil – a half dozen in total. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he sends all of the wisps away from them, illuminating their surroundings in flickering, green light. The cliff's edge to one side, the ruins to another – but in one direction, there seems to be the remains of what might have once been some sort of path or road, leading up and away from the ruins.
A small, relieved laugh escapes him, tired around the edges though Dorian would refuse to admit as much. "That seems promising."
"Shit yeah it does." The Bull digs up a smile - easier to do with Dorian sounding tired like that, like he needs something worth smiling about - and then his eye darts over the path, all the open space between him and it. He shifts his weight carefully, testing, holds his breath for a couple seconds to make sure he keeps quiet, then shifts his weight back.
"Want to take your staff out again?" he asks like it's not a big deal, like his need isn't a risk that's going to slow them down. Or worse. The need is there whether or not he wants it to be so he might as well try to keep things light, might as well throw Dorian a wink when he says, "I might want to grab it a couple times. I'll let it go if you need to use it. "
If Dorian is surprised that the Bull manages to strike that all too familiar cadence, or that he manages to offer that ridiculous wink that Dorian refuses to find a little charming, he doesn't say so aloud.
"Really?" And Dorian's tone, this time, is tired in a completely different way – exasperated and impatient, though almost entirely for show. "You want to do this even now?"
But as he asks it, Dorian frees his staff from its place at his back, letting its base rest against the ground before he offers it to the Bull. He maintains his hold on the cool metal grip until the Bull takes it, until he's certain the Bull can maneuver himself to let the staff take his weight.
"Why not now?" the Bull asks with a little smile. "You want me to wait and tug on your special staff later?"
Not that any flirting right now is more than show. Not that they both don't know it. The flirting's kind of nice, though, all the same, distracting in the ways they both need it to be. Still feels a little weird, reaching out and grabbing the thing on purpose, but in a more residual way this time, because he's done this before. There's no magic sitting in it waiting to reach out at whoever grabs it. Staves don't work that way. He did this not that long ago and no weird crap happened then either, did it? And it isn't going to. The parts of his mind that don't really believe that probably wouldn't be as jumpy about it if he wasn't already all worked up, so he can ignore them. It's fine. Not that there isn't a problem with the Bull standing here holding Dorian's weapon, but that problem doesn't have anything to do with whether or not having it in his hand just feels a little bit creepy.
"Keep your hand on it too, or near it or something," he says, taking a few experimental steps. He won't have to go so slow once he's found the rhythm of it again, and that won't take long. "Don't want to slow you down if you need it."
He looks up at the path, the little spirit things Dorian's got lighting up the way, keeps his breathing deep and regular as he starts to move, gets into the pattern of it-
-and of course, once he gets out in the open, once he starts thinking he might make it onto that path and get a little cover, maybe lean against the wall, he starts to hear it. Darkspawn must not be all that good at sneaking, the Bull finds himself thinking, but they're good enough, aren't they? Good enough to take the Bull by surprise twice now, not give him enough time to hide. Shit.
He has time to glance at Dorian and try to shove the staff at him but not enough time to argue about it; if Dorian takes it back, great, if he doesn't, the Bull's still going to try and run for it, or come as close as he can get without the shitting ankle giving out. He's gone too far to get back to their little tunnel, it'd take too much time to get in and so the only hope is forward, get around that bend, hope there's something they can use there. Somewhere to hide, some solid cover - anything. The smell is getting stronger, the chitters and shrieks behind them louder and more excited, and the urge to turn and pull out his axe tugs at the Bull's mind. But if he did that it'd be the last thing he ever did and Dorian wouldn't even be smart enough to take the distraction and run, besides. Dorian would stay if he stayed, and die trying to protect him. Sometimes it's a real pain in the ass, fighting with good men at your back.
So the Bull keeps moving. Everything he had been putting into sounding like moving didn't hurt is going into speed now and rhythmic, pained noises start making their way out of him, noises it's getting harder to hear over the darkspawn but the bend in that path is getting closer, too, along with whatever's behind it. Because there has to be something behind it. He has to believe there's something behind it, anyway, believe enough to keep him moving at this stupid, hobbling pace, the bent up brace twisted around his ankle the only thing keeping him up, and if there's nothing once he gets there but more open space, well -
He'll deal with that once he sees it. He's had enough last stands already, or moments that were supposed to be. He knows how they go.
Dorian rolls his eyes at the Bull's all too obvious attempts at levity, but a small part of him appreciates it – that call to something approaching normal while they're hip-deep in shit. He only offers a curt nod at the Bull's direction, but he doesn't keep a hand on the staff. Instead, he continues to hover around the other man, using the Bull's suggestion as a guise for his hovering.
The Bull, of course, notices before Dorian does – and only when the Bull seems to tense, when his expression tightens, does Dorian hear the inhuman sounds of the darkspawn's mockery of language. The Bull tries to shove the staff back into Dorian's hands, but Dorian only spares the man a glare shoves it right back. In this case, Dorian is absolutely certain the Bull needs the implement more than Dorian does, and no mage as powerful as Dorian has ever needed a staff to be dangerous.
He grits out, "Go," and guards the Bull's back as the man hurries ahead.
A small, selfish voice reminds him that he is the one with knowledge of a treatment for Blight-sickness, that he is the one best able to defend himself, that he has talent and genius and so much potential. If anyone should survive, shouldn't it be Dorian? If Dorian simply hurried on ahead, certainly no one would blame him.
Be practical about this, Dorian, that voice says, and it reminds him so much of his parents that Dorian nearly wants to be sick.
The stench of decay, cloyingly bitter and sweet and wrong, hits him full force as the first few darkspawn comes into view, clambering over the rubble of some once ancient building. Dorian mutters under his breath, hands moving in a blur to trace an intricate pattern in the air. He throws both arms out to his sides, and a glyph appears before his chest, sending out a salvo of fireballs. The flames catch and set the creatures alight; they screech in agony, twisting and falling.
He immediately senses it, the transition from life to death, and once that awareness snaps, he curls one hand into the air, drawing spirits from the Fade and pressing them into the darkspawn corpses. They stand, wreathed in the purple light of Dorian's magic and the fire still burning their dying flesh, and turn on their brethren.
Five against some innumerable horde are hardly good odds, but it's better than what they had before.
After that, Dorian sinks into muscle memory, casting out basic spells to keep the darkspawn from closing in. Casting without a staff is demanding – it requires far more focus to aim his skills correctly, to temper them so he doesn't end up burning or freezing his hands with every spell he casts. He's balancing a difficult line, trying to conserve his energy while also trying to dispatch the monsters as quickly as possible. If he can keep the darkspawn at a distance, if he can prevent the two of them from being overrun, they stand a much greater chance.
"Dorian!" the Bull shouts the moment he makes it around that bend, not sparing an instant to glance back but trying to listen, trying to hear Dorian over the shrieks of the darkspawn to know whether he's still alive. "Got a lift back here! Move!"
Because it doesn't matter, now, if the thing works or not. Green light shines off exposed gears, jagged chunks of rubble and broken stone, and that lift is the only thing that this path leads up to. Either it works and they both make it up together, or it doesn't and they go out together, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn't like the idea of going out like this, like he is now, running away while someone else stays behind to cover for him. There's not any time to explain any of that, even if any of it really mattered.
He steps wrong, foot landing crooked on a rock, and he goes down. The noise he makes is pain, not surprise, and the moment he lands hard on the ground he hurls Dorian's staff onto the platform ahead of him, teeth gritted, and drags himself closer.
Still no point in looking back. The part of him that needs to know if any darkspawn made it past Dorian is the same part of him that wouldn't shut up back in that tunnel, the part that reacts, doesn't think, except this time he already knows the threat's right here behind him, able to put a stop to everything he's ever been with just one lucky hit. That makes it easier. Might sound weird if he tried to explain that out loud, but it's true.
This might be up there with the worse fights he's been in, but that doesn't matter much. What matters is that he can still move, that he doesn't waste any time.
He stops trying to hear whether Dorian's still fighting. He stops thinking about anything. If this thing doesn't move them in time nothing else is going to matter so he lets the threat behind him be what it is and turns his mind forward, watching that eerie green gleam off the pieces of the lift ahead while darkspawn howling fills his ears. He heaves himself forward one more time onto the edge of the platform, reaching out for one big, exposed gear and leaning his whole weight onto it, waiting for a still, endless moment until he feels it start grinding against something.
Only then does he try to focus on Dorian. If he didn't do everything he could to get this thing moving, how Dorian was doing wouldn't matter. But if Dorian took too long to get back here, or didn't come at all, or gets back with that bare, uncovered face coated in darkspawn blood because the Bull hadn't been able to watch his back-
He has time to look now, just for an instant. He'll decide what to do from there.
For a moment, Dorian can only spare a wordless noise of acknowledgment, a curt nod – one that he isn't entirely certain would be visible in the gloom. Still, he wastes no time in determining whether the Bull understands, and trusts, instead, that the Bull knows that Dorian's intention is to follow.
He immediately returns to casting, feeling the weight of the Fade as he reaches across the Veil, again and again. He sticks to the basics, to the rudimentary spells they teach young initiates learning to control their abilities, in a bid to conserve what's left of his pool of mana. His earlier efforts had been draining, and while he hasn't fully depleted his energy, he fears he's getting dangerously close.
The Bull is no small man, and when he falls, Dorian whirls around.
"Bull!"
He takes an aborted step toward the other man before his good sense catches up with him, reminds him that granting the darkspawn even that breath will cost them both dearly. A small, impractical part of him wants to rush to the Bull and help him onto whatever lift the other man might have found; the reasonable part of him, the tactician his parents trained him to be, says that if Dorian falls back now, they're both doomed.
Gritting his teeth, he turns, continuing to cast, trying to keep them at a distance. His more demanding spells are used only when a darkspawn gets too close for comfort – healthy applications of fire to cauterize any wounds and minimize the risk of contamination. He draws the spirits of the fallen toward him, only occasionally using them to replenish his mana, preferring instead to use them to reanimate the dead. He remembers, once, during one of their rare civil conversations, that Solas had suggested he use a less "flashy" style to conserve energy. And at the moment, very few of Dorian's usual flourishes are on display, favoring efficiency above all else.
The screeching and grinding of long neglected gears catches his attention, but Dorian doesn't turn – not immediately. Instead, he continues to back up, sending out bursts of flame to distract the creatures. Once he considers himself close enough, he uses the last bit of his mana, murmuring under his breath as he weaves his hands through a half-familiar mnemonic. Without his staff, he instead channels the spell by stomping on the stone path, and a glyph blossoms out from the impact, the glow of it nearly blinding in the darkness of the caverns. Once it flashes, Dorian spins around, running toward the lift. Any darkspawn foolish enough to attempt crossing the glyph are blown back, as if struck away by an invisible force.
When he makes it to the lift, Dorian is flushed and sweating, gasping for breath.
"That won't last long," he pants out, and true to his word, the edges of the glyph have already started to flicker and dim. While he's visibly drained, Dorian is still tense, ready to spring back into the fight. He offers the Bull a wan smile. "Starting to feel a mite exhausted."
It's a joke, an admission, and an apology, all in one.
He's here. Doesn't look hurt. No darkspawn blood. The Bull's eye flickers over him and then he looks back to the gear, leaning on it with all his weight. He doesn't have a grin or a joke to keep Dorian's spirit up, not right now. It's not like he's not used to looking at the guy fighting next to him and knowing it might be the last time he sees whoever-it-is alive, but he can tell by the something - something he doesn't have enough time right now to pin down and identify - that rushes through him when he sees Dorian alive and probably-well that all this is going to hit him different later, if they both get a later. Different than he's used to. He has just as much time to figure out the why of that as he does to pick apart the feeling in the first place, but it doesn't take a genius to realize what a fucking shitty day it's been, and to connect the two. If he doesn't get a good fight later, work all this crap out of him, he's going to-
He won't get that though. Not for a while. The leg.
Wait on all that. Try to keep living first.
"Little longer," he says, instead of the semi-joke he should maybe meet Dorian's tired smile with. The gear shrieks under his hands with every new turn, the noise getting just this side of painful as the ancient, broken lift shakes, jerks, lurches its way upward, unsteady but moving fast. "We get up there, make sure they can't ride this thing back up, find a-" The next word's cut off with a harsh, wordless noise and a, "Shit!" a hand, an arm, an ugly, snarling face rises over the edge of the lift, the whole thing lurches underneath all of them as the Bull reaches instinctively for his axe and the stubs on his other hand scrabble against the gear like he's still got five fingers to hold it in place instead of three and two halves and the gear slips, the darkspawn takes a leap forward just as the lift falls and the Bull grabs at it with both hands and heaves at it, no last thoughts inside his head, just his breath harsh inside his throat, his teeth pressing hard against each other, this faint, disbelieving shame that this is how he goes out, this, after dragging through this whole fight like a ball and chain on Dorian's leg and dying without a weapon in his hand, and he'd always counted on dying angry and taking something else out with him but not Dorian, not when they're too high up for a lift this heavy to fall right back into a crowd of the things, and Dorian's the one who's going to suffer if he lets go now. So he doesn't let go. He's got no room to move, no hands to fight with and, quick as he usually is, no time to think anything else.
Dorian offers only a little nod at the Bull's reassurance. The lift shudders a little as they rise, and the scrape of metal draws Dorian's attention to the staff left lying on the platform. He turns, scooping it up, resisting the urge to let himself fold over completely from exhaustion.
The platform jerks, but Dorian has already spun around at the Bull's curse. A spell jumps to the tip of his tongue – though a distant, rational part of him knows he has no mana left to cast it. The sudden fall and the abrupt stop tells him that the Bull has his hands full with the lift, and—
The darkspawn charges, and so does Dorian. He can almost imagine his ancestors screaming at him from beyond the Veil. Leave him, you half-wit. Protect yourself. He's nobody. And he can feel the thoughts flying around in his head, can feel his mind going through the brutal calculus of battle, of practicality and self-preservation.
Rather conveniently, he can't hear any of that over the rush of blood in his ears, over the constant chant in his head: save him save him save him
He skids to a halt in front of the Bull, arms flung out to shield him. The darkspawn lets out a guttural cry as its chipped, rusted sword swings down, and Dorian watches with grim resignation, teeth gritted and eyes hard. Had a decent run— a stray thought, rising to the surface. Could've done with more wine and fewer darkspawn, though.
But Dorian isn't cut down. Instead, the darkspawn screeches, reeling back and letting its sword drop to the platform. It's only when the darkspawn reaches up with both hands to grip its hilt that Dorian notices the knife sunk deeply into its eye socket. The darkspawn yanks the blade out with a wild shriek of pain, and Dorian only just manages to turn his head away from the spray of blood. He still feels it splash against the side of his head, thick and unnaturally hot against his skin, and he shudders with disgust.
Not a blink later, a second blade flies down, and with a wet squelch, it sinks deeply into the darkspawn's throat.
When he thinks about moments like this - and you have to think about them sometimes, it's not the kind of thing you get to completely bury, not unless you want it to turn into something worse - he always thinks if the Qun hadn't taught him to keep from going too deep into the fade when he slept, if it didn't usually work, this is what nightmares would feel like. Watching another one die for him in that slow, inevitable way where his mind's moving quicker than his body ever could and he knows just how the next moment's going to play out and he knows just how it's going to feel afterward and his mind's already going through the familiar motions of remembering who was closest to the dead guy, who's going to need to be told sooner, who's going to need to be watched because of this cause they can't be trusted on the field any more - that whole thing. Procedures, practicalities.
He's talked to people about nightmares, what they do, what they feel like. At one point he'd decided that's what his nightmares, if he had them, probably would focus on, really make it stretch out. That moment where he feels the levers inside his mind pulling themselves and the gears turning all on their own, the instant just before they're done and the guy who just died beside him isn't a person any more.
Dorian ending that moment by not dying instead doesn't make it better, exactly. The Bull doesn't get a moment of realising the darkspawn's shitty, rusty sword isn't about to cut through Dorian after all because he sees Dorian turn his head first while the thing shrieks, sees Dorian shudder, knows more about blood spray than a lot of the people he's ever fought next to and he's sure - right then, he doesn't doubt at all - that the moment when he feels himself disconnect is still coming, it's just been put off for a while.
How long does it take one of the tainted ones to die, or turn? Longer for Dorian, probably. He's got experience with that already.
"Kick the fucking thing off the edge!" he hears himself say, harsh and angry. His hands are still. Another moment passes, and things don't go back to the way they were. And they aren't going to. So he goes to work on the gear again, for lack of anything else. He heaves all his weight onto it, and he grits his teeth. And they make it to the top.
"Don't touch him!" the Bull snaps once they do before the boss, still waiting for them at the edge, can say whatever she just opened her mouth to. "Don't know where all the blood hit. We need him disinfected, get a healer down here."
His voice is still harsh, abrupt, and it gets everybody moving. The boss isn't the type to take exception to someone else snapping orders, and everyone else is smart enough to know where the priority is when it comes to injuries. He gives the gear one final push, hears it lock itself into place, waves away the few who stick around trying to help him out and focuses on the slow process of moving himself over somewhere to sit and wait for whoever's going to figure out how to get his big, useless bulk up to the surface again.
He does some breathing exercises, at first. Gives up on them. Ends up taking them up again, mostly for something to do. He's settled in and waiting. Waiting as he sits there, as he leaves and gets out of the whole damned place and looks up and sees the sky again, waiting as he sits in the back of a cart rolling its way back to Skyhold and watches someone leading his nuggalope off there in the distance. At least this shitting ankle's good for that, keeping him from riding and giving him some distance from everyone else. It's not like he's the only one feeling this way but the boss is twitchy with it, up and moving all the time, flitting between him and Dorian but spending most of her time there, darting back once or twice to ask after his leg and tell him about the semi-isolation and the guards she's sure Dorian doesn't need. In this mood she's pretty easy to redirect so she doesn't end up asking about the Bull much, and easy to distract so she doesn't end up sitting with him all that long. It's not like he can't put the right face on for her but he isn't really in the mood, and right now doesn't really have to be. He's taking it easy, after all.
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He tucks Dorian's words away, just in case. If he says the wrong thing now it's not like he can take it back, but he can at least try to figure out the right thing, later.
If he can't figure out how much sensitivity or sympathy Dorian needs right now, he might as well just say what he's thinking. Not saying anything would probably be worse, after Dorian shared all that.
"It's harder to deal with when you're never really going to know," he says and, though it might be halfway hidden by all the tension in the Bull's voice already, the words have the weight of his own memories behind them. "Especially when it's someone who was good to you like that."
There's some things even the Ben-Hassrath aren't good enough to find out. That applies to this, too; their spies aren't exactly the kind of people who get welcomed in by the Venatori, so there's not a lot of sense in offering to have his people try to look into it. Or maybe there is. Maybe there's still something there to find, if Red's people haven't looked already. Another thing for the Bull to tuck away and think about once he can.
"Don't know if this helps or not," he says, still kind of flying by the seat of his pants on how to handle this, "but if it was me, that's how I'd want to go out. Going up against some evil assholes to save a good man's life, not getting sicker and sicker till I died in bed."
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Well. The Bull had to go and say that, didn't he? "Save a good man's life," when Dorian has been foolish, selfish, and churlish his entire life. Felix, on the other hand, had never been anything but a kind, generous man, who deserved far more than the universe saw fit to give him.
It should have been Dorian to make the choice to stand his ground and send Felix ahead. It should have been Felix who warned the Inquisitor of the impending assault.
It should be Felix here, trying to make light of this shitty situation. What's the worst that could happen? Felix would ask. I can't be more blighted.
Dorian carefully folds that thought away, pushes aside the guilt along with it.
Instead, he glances over his shoulder, sympathetic and a little curious. Gently, he asks, "Who was it you lost?"
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Is it shitty of him to be a little glad the honest answer is also the one that means he doesn't have to bring up any one specific memory? Maybe not. He can still drag it all up in one big ugly wad of crap and maybe Dorian will see the honesty in it all the same, won't think the Bull's trying to wiggle out of uncovering the same parts of himself that Dorian just did.
"You going to think less of me if I tell you I can't remember all their names? You kind of..." 'After year five it kind of starts to blend together' is the course his mouth's trying to run down, and his mind changes itself at the last minute. There's giving a genuine answer, and then there's going down a road that's going to end in a lot more detail than the answer really needs. Hopefully whatever it is he ends up saying instead will be enough.
"I don't know," is the 'whatever' that comes out. Maybe he's not dragging up the whole ugly wad of crap after all. At least, out loud. Who knows, maybe he did. Maybe implying it is enough. "I'm not saying having it happen in front of you is better, but it's... there's something there. You know for sure there's nothing else that you can do. They just don't come back one day, it slows that down. Gives some part of you something else to chew on."
He's quiet for a moment. Focuses on the pain that hasn't let up in his leg, the sound of the brace the Chargers gave him dragging across the stone, the bits of loose rock and dust under his hands. No sound of waves here, no smell of salt and old fish and that one particular kind of spice. Nothing but the dark and his mind still yelling at him about things that aren't worth yelling about, the musty, damp smell of a dark space gone too long without the open air and not being able to enjoy Dorian's ass just a couple feet in front of his face.
The Bull's not exactly safer here and now, but even with the darkspawn, he thinks maybe the company is better.
"You asked Red to look into it? She might be able to get something out of your contact that you can't." And then a little piece of his own crap, in case that makes this feel less like the Bull skipping out on an answer and more like the only answer he has to give: "Sometimes it... changes things a little, once you know for sure. Not every time, but sometimes."
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Now, however, isn't exactly the time to try and probe the Bull for more information. The name of the game, at the moment, is distraction. Filling in the terrible, yawning silence. Dorian files the information away, however.
Dorian continues crawling through the narrow space, chewing over the Bull's final question. He had not, in fact, considered it. For one, utilizing the Inquisition's resources, tying up someone else's time with answering his personal questions feels selfish. For another—
Well. If he's honest, as much as he knows the answer, he almost doesn't want the concrete confirmation. A small, whimsical part of him almost wants to leave open the possibility that Felix had survived; that he was in hiding somewhere, biding his time before making his triumphant return.
"I'll consider it," he says slowly. "Though I'm sure her time and efforts are better spent elsewhere."
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The Bull's gaze roams over what space there is in front of him, fruitlessly. His horns scrape against stone when he moves. The sound of it, the feeling, fills the little box in his mind where he's keeping all the useless crap contained, pushes its lid just far enough aside that a little shudder slips out.
He holds himself still, muscles tense. He keeps on crawling. Focuses. A few seconds later than he'd intended to, the Bull keeps talking, jaw as tense as the rest of him, eye fixed on the back of Dorian's head, on Dorian's shoulder washed in the spirit's bizarre, lame little light. "She wouldn't send anyone to check it out unless she could spare them."
The Bull takes a slow, very even breath. He tries to find whatever solid foundation just slipped out from under his voice so he can shove it back in and realises he's clearing his throat as he hears himself do it, a tell that was supposed to be trained out of him decades ago. He was fine a second before. Couldn't answer Dorian's question right.
He was managing before, anyway.
He's managing now. He's good. It is what it is. And that's fine. "If this is like the, uh-"
Like the other crawlspace Dorian left him in, or whatever the tiny little hallway was originally meant to be. Like the one it kind of feels, right now, like he never left. Shok ebasit hissra. The line's already pushing itself, urgent, inside his thoughts by the time he knows he's thinking it.
Kind of macabre, that a line from a death prayer's the first thing his mind latches onto right now - he's probably got their conversation about losing people to thank for that - but parts of it actually aren't far off here; in a pretty literal sense, there's nothing in here to struggle against at all. It's fine. He'll be fine. The only thing that set this off was the stray scrape of a horn against a wall where he'd thought he had open space, and it's going to pass just as easy into something he can manage again.
"-that other place I was in," he finishes, again a couple seconds after he meant to. Some detritus of what's happening in his head makes it out into his words, nerves thicker in his voice than he'd wanted. He keeps pushing through anyway. Finish what he was saying. "Cause it kind of looks the same, uh, then there might be a dead end up ahead. If the layout's the same. Couldn't tell if there was a door in all that rubble though, but. You know. Probably."
It's not like a door just isn't going to be there. That would be a dumb way to design a building, and dwarven architecture is anything but dumb. Could be blocked, though. If there is one, and it's blocked-
They'll deal with it. If it is, they'll deal with it. The Inquisition's pretty good at that, dealing with things. Going to be fine.
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Is it better to draw attention to it? Obviously not, Dorian decides. It would be rather like if the two of them were on a sinking boat, and Dorian said, "I notice you're quite uncomfortable with all this water. Do you want to discuss it?"
Ridiculous. Of course the Bull is uncomfortable here. Who wouldn't be?
Dorian keeps pushing forward, though, letting the Bull work his way through whatever it is he's trying to say. Dorian could helpfully point out that all crawlspaces look rather the same, really, and there's no way of knowing where this one may lead – but perhaps that's too blindly optimistic. Better to present something definite, a plan of action.
"If the way is obstructed, I'll move the stone," he says. In his time with the Inquisition, he's moved enough stone both magically and physically that he wonders if he might have been better suited to construction than politics. "If there's a dead end, I can try to blast us a suitable exit. Failing all else, we'll go back the way we came. I refuse to be thwarted by a dilapidated building."
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Ride this out. Either he gets eaten by darkspawn or they get back up to the surface to fight another day; no matter which future's in store for him, patience is going to carry him out of this. He only has to let it. Even if he has to go all the way back the way they came, in front this time, without even Dorian ahead of him to focus on-
"So," the Bull makes himself say, like he can't tell how fake his casual tone sounds right now, "that pile of crap up there's not about to thwart us, then? You've got two eyes, maybe you can tell me if that big shadow right next to it's a left turn or a dead end." And if it is, that's... fine. It's going to be fine. Right up until they have to start worrying about darkspawn again.
Not going to think too hard about the darkspawn yet. One pile of shit at a time.
no subject
Silly, how Dorian's become so satisfied in letting the Bull be the unshakeable one. That cold sense of worry continues to twist in his chest, and he wonders if he should bring this up later, if he should try and talk to the Bull about this, should mention it in the safety of camp or some tavern.
He supposes that's rather contingent upon their ability to survive this – something that Dorian prefers to take as fact, rather than chance.
He continues forging a path – he has little choice in the matter, admittedly – and he reaches the big shadow the Bull has helpfully indicated.
It is, in fact, a left turn, but Dorian has no time to feel relieved.
That path continues on for a foot or more before it terminates at rather sizable blockage of fallen masonry.
Dorian lets out a breath between his lips, that cold feeling turning weighty and sinking into his gut.
"Well," he says, and while his tone is as bright as ever, there's a bitter undercurrent there, too. Above him, the wisp casts the slabs of stone in green light. "I suppose now is the time to offer you a choice of good news and bad news."
no subject
Hold himself still. Everything inside him now needs to be flat and still, pressed far enough away to make it easier to manage.
Yeah. Like that.
He knew this was a possibility. The feelings, the thoughts he'd been having about that possibility just a few seconds ago don't matter; he knows what he needs to do. Dorian's offer to make them a way out was just meant to make him feel better. Too big, too loud to follow through on. The Bull couldn't afford to pay much attention to the offer then, and he can't now. There's only one way out. Getting there is simple.
"Give me a minute. Not a lot of room for-" Making his head go quiet, or quiet enough, helped his voice out too, until he was stupid enough to say the problem out loud. He picks his voice back up where it dropped out from under him, makes sure the second half of the sentence comes out as flat as the first half did. 'Flat' isn't really ideal. Takes him, if anything, further away from sounding any kind of casual. It's what he can do. "-moving around that quickly. Gonna take a minute."
The walls scrape at his shoulders. To turn around, he's going to have to sit up. He finds himself doing it in inches, then pausing, expecting to meet the ceiling too early, taking in a sharp breath to brace himself, letting it out slow while he does the whole thing again. And again. One more time. Don't keep track. Don't count anything. Keep going.
When he does meet the ceiling his horns make that scraping sound again, the one he can feel inside his bones. Stupid that that stops him. They're going to do the same thing again when he turns. After one second, or maybe the second after that, he makes his breaths harder and sharper to stop them from shaking.
It's not that much of a production. It doesn't have to be. He's just turning around. The walls pressing against all of him are stable. The rest of it doesn't matter. What happens afterward, still pressed inside here in the dark, that doesn't matter right now either. Turn around.
(ooc: if Bull needs to do/say something else before Dorian would say something or react, let me know and I can edit)
no subject
But is it the best option, going back the way they came? They know there were darkspawn wandering about, and even if those beasts have wandered off from where the Bull and Dorian had been, there's no guarantee they wandered far. And there's no telling how many of the things might be there.
From the blockage, Dorian feels the slightest breeze slipping through the gaps in the masonry. The Deep Roads have been unnaturally still, in all fairness, but the wide, open spaces and the fissures in the earth above have admitted something akin to wind. There's space on the other side, then.
So – they could return to a location where they know darkspawn will be.
Or—
The Bull's horns scrape against the ceiling again, and Dorian grimaces – both from the sharpness of the noise and in sympathy. When the Bull stops, when his breaths deepen and roughen, Dorian makes his decision. Perhaps it will prove to be a poor one. Or maybe it won't.
He reaches out, placing a hand on the Bull's shoulder to stop his progress. Dorian shuffles further into what space is left before the blockage, just to give himself room to move. He pushes himself up to kneel, one knee lifted to lend more stability to his stance. Taking a deep breath, he moves his arms, folding the Veil. The energy he draws from the Fade wreathes around him, winding around his arms, before flowing out to the slabs of stone blocking their way. Dorian raises both arms with effort, gritting his teeth, and the masonry shifts. A cloud of dust puffs out as the slabs grate against one another, and Dorian flattens both palms, pushing against an invisible wall. Slowly (and more loudly than Dorian cares to admit), the slabs slide outward, falling into the empty space beyond the blockage.
It's not exactly fresh air that flows into the crawlspace – it's a bit saltier, a bit colder than Dorian likes – but it's far better than the stale stuff lingering within the ruins.
(ooc: hope this is cool! lmk if you need more to work with.)
no subject
He moves back, slowly, as he watches. Hadn't let himself consider that Dorian would do this, use that freaky, glorious magic of his to get them the fuck out of here. Cause if he considered it he'd start thinking he needed Dorian to do it, maybe needed it more than they both needed to decide whether it's safe. Maybe needed it enough to push Dorian to do it, whether it was actually a good idea or not. But Dorian's wrapped his arms in magic now all on his own and wrapped all that loose stone up in it too and the Bull watches it, tries to point his mind toward that while his body does the slow, too-careful work of turning himself the other way again.
That magic is the best thing happening in this damn tunnel and isn't that messed up, that that's what he has to hold on to but it's here, and then there's airflow, what passes for an actual breeze and he holds himself still, doesn't charge on past Dorian out into the open but waits for Dorian to go, to make room, and then stops once he's out there, trying to make his breathing slow down again as he leans against the wall.
Weight on the palms, swing the right knee up quick so the left doesn't have to hold him up for too long, and now upright. Upright, don't let the part of him that expects to hit a wall, a ceiling, make him hesitate, doesn't matter how tensed up he is as long as he gets it done, balance with the wall, hop up. Stand up, or get closer to it. No extra weight on the leg, but keep trying to use the pain. And if his body's still a little worked up, thinks there's something it needs to come down from - well, his body's a little stupid sometimes. Doesn't know what it needs. He knows what it needs. What they both need right now, for the Bull to be as close to reliable as this leg's going to let him get.
His breathing pulls in and out unsteady for a couple seconds more, and then doesn't shake at all. He lets himself swallow exactly once. And then the Bull looks around. Focuses. He can focus a little better now, feels it coming easier. It isn't taking as much work.
Things smell just a little worse out in the sort-of open air, but he's learned that he can't trust his nose down here as much as he thinks. What else can he figure out? They're not in the middle of these ruins any more, it looks like. Closer to the edge, nearer to that cliff wall. Not necessarily good news, but it could be.
"Your little... light thing," he says as he glances back at Dorian, voice steady and sure, mostly. "How far can it go? The quicker we see everything we're working with, the quicker we get out."
(ooc: That works! Bull's state of mind gave me plenty to say, and as soon as they start moving we can have the darkspawn come too so that should give us plenty)
no subject
He's a little shaky once they've escaped the little tunnel – the same, strung-out feeling as before. A spell like that would normally require only a quick moment to catch his breath, but now, having expended so much of his mana on spell after spell, Dorian knows he's in dire need of rest – a few days' worth, at least.
That doesn't stop him from turning back to the Bull, once the other man has pulled himself out, once he attempts to maneuver himself onto his feet. Dorian hovers uncertainly, hands out as if he means to catch the Bull if he stumbles; the Bull seems to manage it, but Dorian is still worried.
He masks it well enough when the Bull turns to look at him, hands dropping to rest on his waist in a close approximation to his usual stance. He glances at the wisps in question – the two that he dared to allow to remain, at least.
"Not too far, unfortunately. And they cast only a modest amount of light, at best."
Still, he frowns in thought for only a breath before he whispers a few words, lifting a hand to pull a few more wisps across the Veil – a half dozen in total. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he sends all of the wisps away from them, illuminating their surroundings in flickering, green light. The cliff's edge to one side, the ruins to another – but in one direction, there seems to be the remains of what might have once been some sort of path or road, leading up and away from the ruins.
A small, relieved laugh escapes him, tired around the edges though Dorian would refuse to admit as much. "That seems promising."
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"Want to take your staff out again?" he asks like it's not a big deal, like his need isn't a risk that's going to slow them down. Or worse. The need is there whether or not he wants it to be so he might as well try to keep things light, might as well throw Dorian a wink when he says, "I might want to grab it a couple times. I'll let it go if you need to use it. "
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"Really?" And Dorian's tone, this time, is tired in a completely different way – exasperated and impatient, though almost entirely for show. "You want to do this even now?"
But as he asks it, Dorian frees his staff from its place at his back, letting its base rest against the ground before he offers it to the Bull. He maintains his hold on the cool metal grip until the Bull takes it, until he's certain the Bull can maneuver himself to let the staff take his weight.
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Not that any flirting right now is more than show. Not that they both don't know it. The flirting's kind of nice, though, all the same, distracting in the ways they both need it to be. Still feels a little weird, reaching out and grabbing the thing on purpose, but in a more residual way this time, because he's done this before. There's no magic sitting in it waiting to reach out at whoever grabs it. Staves don't work that way. He did this not that long ago and no weird crap happened then either, did it? And it isn't going to. The parts of his mind that don't really believe that probably wouldn't be as jumpy about it if he wasn't already all worked up, so he can ignore them. It's fine. Not that there isn't a problem with the Bull standing here holding Dorian's weapon, but that problem doesn't have anything to do with whether or not having it in his hand just feels a little bit creepy.
"Keep your hand on it too, or near it or something," he says, taking a few experimental steps. He won't have to go so slow once he's found the rhythm of it again, and that won't take long. "Don't want to slow you down if you need it."
He looks up at the path, the little spirit things Dorian's got lighting up the way, keeps his breathing deep and regular as he starts to move, gets into the pattern of it-
-and of course, once he gets out in the open, once he starts thinking he might make it onto that path and get a little cover, maybe lean against the wall, he starts to hear it. Darkspawn must not be all that good at sneaking, the Bull finds himself thinking, but they're good enough, aren't they? Good enough to take the Bull by surprise twice now, not give him enough time to hide. Shit.
He has time to glance at Dorian and try to shove the staff at him but not enough time to argue about it; if Dorian takes it back, great, if he doesn't, the Bull's still going to try and run for it, or come as close as he can get without the shitting ankle giving out. He's gone too far to get back to their little tunnel, it'd take too much time to get in and so the only hope is forward, get around that bend, hope there's something they can use there. Somewhere to hide, some solid cover - anything. The smell is getting stronger, the chitters and shrieks behind them louder and more excited, and the urge to turn and pull out his axe tugs at the Bull's mind. But if he did that it'd be the last thing he ever did and Dorian wouldn't even be smart enough to take the distraction and run, besides. Dorian would stay if he stayed, and die trying to protect him. Sometimes it's a real pain in the ass, fighting with good men at your back.
So the Bull keeps moving. Everything he had been putting into sounding like moving didn't hurt is going into speed now and rhythmic, pained noises start making their way out of him, noises it's getting harder to hear over the darkspawn but the bend in that path is getting closer, too, along with whatever's behind it. Because there has to be something behind it. He has to believe there's something behind it, anyway, believe enough to keep him moving at this stupid, hobbling pace, the bent up brace twisted around his ankle the only thing keeping him up, and if there's nothing once he gets there but more open space, well -
He'll deal with that once he sees it. He's had enough last stands already, or moments that were supposed to be. He knows how they go.
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The Bull, of course, notices before Dorian does – and only when the Bull seems to tense, when his expression tightens, does Dorian hear the inhuman sounds of the darkspawn's mockery of language. The Bull tries to shove the staff back into Dorian's hands, but Dorian only spares the man a glare shoves it right back. In this case, Dorian is absolutely certain the Bull needs the implement more than Dorian does, and no mage as powerful as Dorian has ever needed a staff to be dangerous.
He grits out, "Go," and guards the Bull's back as the man hurries ahead.
A small, selfish voice reminds him that he is the one with knowledge of a treatment for Blight-sickness, that he is the one best able to defend himself, that he has talent and genius and so much potential. If anyone should survive, shouldn't it be Dorian? If Dorian simply hurried on ahead, certainly no one would blame him.
Be practical about this, Dorian, that voice says, and it reminds him so much of his parents that Dorian nearly wants to be sick.
The stench of decay, cloyingly bitter and sweet and wrong, hits him full force as the first few darkspawn comes into view, clambering over the rubble of some once ancient building. Dorian mutters under his breath, hands moving in a blur to trace an intricate pattern in the air. He throws both arms out to his sides, and a glyph appears before his chest, sending out a salvo of fireballs. The flames catch and set the creatures alight; they screech in agony, twisting and falling.
He immediately senses it, the transition from life to death, and once that awareness snaps, he curls one hand into the air, drawing spirits from the Fade and pressing them into the darkspawn corpses. They stand, wreathed in the purple light of Dorian's magic and the fire still burning their dying flesh, and turn on their brethren.
Five against some innumerable horde are hardly good odds, but it's better than what they had before.
After that, Dorian sinks into muscle memory, casting out basic spells to keep the darkspawn from closing in. Casting without a staff is demanding – it requires far more focus to aim his skills correctly, to temper them so he doesn't end up burning or freezing his hands with every spell he casts. He's balancing a difficult line, trying to conserve his energy while also trying to dispatch the monsters as quickly as possible. If he can keep the darkspawn at a distance, if he can prevent the two of them from being overrun, they stand a much greater chance.
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Because it doesn't matter, now, if the thing works or not. Green light shines off exposed gears, jagged chunks of rubble and broken stone, and that lift is the only thing that this path leads up to. Either it works and they both make it up together, or it doesn't and they go out together, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn't like the idea of going out like this, like he is now, running away while someone else stays behind to cover for him. There's not any time to explain any of that, even if any of it really mattered.
He steps wrong, foot landing crooked on a rock, and he goes down. The noise he makes is pain, not surprise, and the moment he lands hard on the ground he hurls Dorian's staff onto the platform ahead of him, teeth gritted, and drags himself closer.
Still no point in looking back. The part of him that needs to know if any darkspawn made it past Dorian is the same part of him that wouldn't shut up back in that tunnel, the part that reacts, doesn't think, except this time he already knows the threat's right here behind him, able to put a stop to everything he's ever been with just one lucky hit. That makes it easier. Might sound weird if he tried to explain that out loud, but it's true.
This might be up there with the worse fights he's been in, but that doesn't matter much. What matters is that he can still move, that he doesn't waste any time.
He stops trying to hear whether Dorian's still fighting. He stops thinking about anything. If this thing doesn't move them in time nothing else is going to matter so he lets the threat behind him be what it is and turns his mind forward, watching that eerie green gleam off the pieces of the lift ahead while darkspawn howling fills his ears. He heaves himself forward one more time onto the edge of the platform, reaching out for one big, exposed gear and leaning his whole weight onto it, waiting for a still, endless moment until he feels it start grinding against something.
Only then does he try to focus on Dorian. If he didn't do everything he could to get this thing moving, how Dorian was doing wouldn't matter. But if Dorian took too long to get back here, or didn't come at all, or gets back with that bare, uncovered face coated in darkspawn blood because the Bull hadn't been able to watch his back-
He has time to look now, just for an instant. He'll decide what to do from there.
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He immediately returns to casting, feeling the weight of the Fade as he reaches across the Veil, again and again. He sticks to the basics, to the rudimentary spells they teach young initiates learning to control their abilities, in a bid to conserve what's left of his pool of mana. His earlier efforts had been draining, and while he hasn't fully depleted his energy, he fears he's getting dangerously close.
The Bull is no small man, and when he falls, Dorian whirls around.
"Bull!"
He takes an aborted step toward the other man before his good sense catches up with him, reminds him that granting the darkspawn even that breath will cost them both dearly. A small, impractical part of him wants to rush to the Bull and help him onto whatever lift the other man might have found; the reasonable part of him, the tactician his parents trained him to be, says that if Dorian falls back now, they're both doomed.
Gritting his teeth, he turns, continuing to cast, trying to keep them at a distance. His more demanding spells are used only when a darkspawn gets too close for comfort – healthy applications of fire to cauterize any wounds and minimize the risk of contamination. He draws the spirits of the fallen toward him, only occasionally using them to replenish his mana, preferring instead to use them to reanimate the dead. He remembers, once, during one of their rare civil conversations, that Solas had suggested he use a less "flashy" style to conserve energy. And at the moment, very few of Dorian's usual flourishes are on display, favoring efficiency above all else.
The screeching and grinding of long neglected gears catches his attention, but Dorian doesn't turn – not immediately. Instead, he continues to back up, sending out bursts of flame to distract the creatures. Once he considers himself close enough, he uses the last bit of his mana, murmuring under his breath as he weaves his hands through a half-familiar mnemonic. Without his staff, he instead channels the spell by stomping on the stone path, and a glyph blossoms out from the impact, the glow of it nearly blinding in the darkness of the caverns. Once it flashes, Dorian spins around, running toward the lift. Any darkspawn foolish enough to attempt crossing the glyph are blown back, as if struck away by an invisible force.
When he makes it to the lift, Dorian is flushed and sweating, gasping for breath.
"That won't last long," he pants out, and true to his word, the edges of the glyph have already started to flicker and dim. While he's visibly drained, Dorian is still tense, ready to spring back into the fight. He offers the Bull a wan smile. "Starting to feel a mite exhausted."
It's a joke, an admission, and an apology, all in one.
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He won't get that though. Not for a while. The leg.
Wait on all that. Try to keep living first.
"Little longer," he says, instead of the semi-joke he should maybe meet Dorian's tired smile with. The gear shrieks under his hands with every new turn, the noise getting just this side of painful as the ancient, broken lift shakes, jerks, lurches its way upward, unsteady but moving fast. "We get up there, make sure they can't ride this thing back up, find a-" The next word's cut off with a harsh, wordless noise and a, "Shit!" a hand, an arm, an ugly, snarling face rises over the edge of the lift, the whole thing lurches underneath all of them as the Bull reaches instinctively for his axe and the stubs on his other hand scrabble against the gear like he's still got five fingers to hold it in place instead of three and two halves and the gear slips, the darkspawn takes a leap forward just as the lift falls and the Bull grabs at it with both hands and heaves at it, no last thoughts inside his head, just his breath harsh inside his throat, his teeth pressing hard against each other, this faint, disbelieving shame that this is how he goes out, this, after dragging through this whole fight like a ball and chain on Dorian's leg and dying without a weapon in his hand, and he'd always counted on dying angry and taking something else out with him but not Dorian, not when they're too high up for a lift this heavy to fall right back into a crowd of the things, and Dorian's the one who's going to suffer if he lets go now. So he doesn't let go. He's got no room to move, no hands to fight with and, quick as he usually is, no time to think anything else.
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The platform jerks, but Dorian has already spun around at the Bull's curse. A spell jumps to the tip of his tongue – though a distant, rational part of him knows he has no mana left to cast it. The sudden fall and the abrupt stop tells him that the Bull has his hands full with the lift, and—
The darkspawn charges, and so does Dorian. He can almost imagine his ancestors screaming at him from beyond the Veil. Leave him, you half-wit. Protect yourself. He's nobody. And he can feel the thoughts flying around in his head, can feel his mind going through the brutal calculus of battle, of practicality and self-preservation.
Rather conveniently, he can't hear any of that over the rush of blood in his ears, over the constant chant in his head: save him save him save him
He skids to a halt in front of the Bull, arms flung out to shield him. The darkspawn lets out a guttural cry as its chipped, rusted sword swings down, and Dorian watches with grim resignation, teeth gritted and eyes hard. Had a decent run— a stray thought, rising to the surface. Could've done with more wine and fewer darkspawn, though.
But Dorian isn't cut down. Instead, the darkspawn screeches, reeling back and letting its sword drop to the platform. It's only when the darkspawn reaches up with both hands to grip its hilt that Dorian notices the knife sunk deeply into its eye socket. The darkspawn yanks the blade out with a wild shriek of pain, and Dorian only just manages to turn his head away from the spray of blood. He still feels it splash against the side of his head, thick and unnaturally hot against his skin, and he shudders with disgust.
Not a blink later, a second blade flies down, and with a wet squelch, it sinks deeply into the darkspawn's throat.
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He's talked to people about nightmares, what they do, what they feel like. At one point he'd decided that's what his nightmares, if he had them, probably would focus on, really make it stretch out. That moment where he feels the levers inside his mind pulling themselves and the gears turning all on their own, the instant just before they're done and the guy who just died beside him isn't a person any more.
Dorian ending that moment by not dying instead doesn't make it better, exactly. The Bull doesn't get a moment of realising the darkspawn's shitty, rusty sword isn't about to cut through Dorian after all because he sees Dorian turn his head first while the thing shrieks, sees Dorian shudder, knows more about blood spray than a lot of the people he's ever fought next to and he's sure - right then, he doesn't doubt at all - that the moment when he feels himself disconnect is still coming, it's just been put off for a while.
How long does it take one of the tainted ones to die, or turn? Longer for Dorian, probably. He's got experience with that already.
"Kick the fucking thing off the edge!" he hears himself say, harsh and angry. His hands are still. Another moment passes, and things don't go back to the way they were. And they aren't going to. So he goes to work on the gear again, for lack of anything else. He heaves all his weight onto it, and he grits his teeth. And they make it to the top.
"Don't touch him!" the Bull snaps once they do before the boss, still waiting for them at the edge, can say whatever she just opened her mouth to. "Don't know where all the blood hit. We need him disinfected, get a healer down here."
His voice is still harsh, abrupt, and it gets everybody moving. The boss isn't the type to take exception to someone else snapping orders, and everyone else is smart enough to know where the priority is when it comes to injuries. He gives the gear one final push, hears it lock itself into place, waves away the few who stick around trying to help him out and focuses on the slow process of moving himself over somewhere to sit and wait for whoever's going to figure out how to get his big, useless bulk up to the surface again.
He does some breathing exercises, at first. Gives up on them. Ends up taking them up again, mostly for something to do. He's settled in and waiting. Waiting as he sits there, as he leaves and gets out of the whole damned place and looks up and sees the sky again, waiting as he sits in the back of a cart rolling its way back to Skyhold and watches someone leading his nuggalope off there in the distance. At least this shitting ankle's good for that, keeping him from riding and giving him some distance from everyone else. It's not like he's the only one feeling this way but the boss is twitchy with it, up and moving all the time, flitting between him and Dorian but spending most of her time there, darting back once or twice to ask after his leg and tell him about the semi-isolation and the guards she's sure Dorian doesn't need. In this mood she's pretty easy to redirect so she doesn't end up asking about the Bull much, and easy to distract so she doesn't end up sitting with him all that long. It's not like he can't put the right face on for her but he isn't really in the mood, and right now doesn't really have to be. He's taking it easy, after all.
It's going to be a long trip back.