Magic exists to rule man and never to serve him.

anarius: Imperial Magister. Master of hounds and wielder of arcane secrets; owner of wolves and conqueror of men. ∴

[ghilannainguideme]

Famulatus, an AU // Lyna, Danarius, & Fenris

[domitorem]

ghilannainguideme:

The magister’s reply still wasn’t the kind of detailed answer that she wanted, and combined with his overt dismissal of her ability to grasp it, she got the feeling that pressing him for still more of an explanation would accomplish little besides wasting time. She held very still, watching his eyes for any hesitation or uneasiness that might reveal dishonesty, but saw none–only the mirthless smile that seemed only to deepen the severity of his features. 

“What determines the effect?” Curiosity got the better of her and the question came out fast and aggressive. Rather than withdrawing it, she doubled down. “The intent or the design, or both?”

He had moved to take a bite of the peach by the time that she spoke. The firm demand behind the way that she posed the question displeased him; his eyes narrowed, and his teeth sank into the firm flesh. Juice spilled forth onto his beard, and with a disapproving lack of care he discarded the part-eaten fruit back into the bowl.

“That is of no concern to you,” he warned her, wiping the juice from his chin with a napkin. “I have no need for a scholar, woman. I desire your strength, not your... mind.”

If you have much of one to boast of went unspoken, but the insult was clear in enough in the tone of his voice.

[ghilannainguideme]

Famulatus, an AU // Lyna, Danarius, & Fenris

[domitorem]

ghilannainguideme:

It didn’t slip by her for a moment that Danarius hadn’t truly answered her questions, and although it was plausible that he simply didn’t believe her capable of understanding, it made her previous suspicions intensify. She had to be careful–she had to be certain of what she was getting into. Whatever bargain they struck, he was still her enemy.

She took another small bite of ham, chewing intently, and chanced a look at Fenris in the meantime. It seemed unlikely that he would betray the magister’s intentions, and indeed she could glean little from his face or body language except for vague discomfort. Did he fear that she would be harmed? That, too, seemed unlikely.

(She allowed herself a moment–just an instant–of petty anger at the demeaning way he spoke of her vallaslin. What could he know of their sacredness, of the love with which they were applied and the status they represented? The sooner she could make him regret his blasphemy, the better.)

“Tell me how it works,” she repeated, slower and with greater emphasis. Still standing, never slouching or so much as leaning her weight against the table, she stared him down. “Or we’ve no deal.”

The woman’s crass insistence irked him, and the sound that his wine glass made as he placed it back on the desk was a short, clipped thing. “Not that you would understand such a process,” he told her archly, drawing some satisfaction from the knowledge that he was the scholar here, that he was the one who had achieved it once already. He glanced briefly at Fenris, and felt a swell of pride to know that he had managed something that none of the other fools at the Circle ever had. He had done something unique, something that would be spoken of for generations after him.

And if he could do it twice over...! His attention returned to the Warden Commander. The participant had to be willing, and that she clearly was. He was not daunted by however she no doubt planned to facilitate her escape after the procedure; he would simply wipe her mind the way that he had wiped Fenris’s twice over, first before his initial branding and second, after the Champion of Kirkwall had sold him back to him. He had no need for slaves with free will and thoughts of their own. If he was to invest in creating a second masterpiece, he did not want them walking free afterwards.

Still; if he wanted her willing, he would have to oblige her, even just a little. The original texts that he had developed upon had been elvhen, but he did not believe that she would know of the technique, or even begin to be able to fathom it. It had taken him years, even for all of his education, and the thought that a backwater Dalish might understand it almost made him laugh.

Allowing himself a thin-lipped smile instead, he plucked a peach from a bowl. “It is similar to rune enchantments,” he divulged, simplifying it as best he could as though he was speaking to a novice or a child. “A channelling of magic and intention through a specific visual design. The lyrium acts as the catalyst.”

[ghilannainguideme]

Famulatus, an AU // Lyna, Danarius, & Fenris

[domitorem]

Perhaps it was the starvation getting to her, or the unending darkness, or the dreams that sometimes had seemed to bleed into the reality of her prison–perhaps there was some crucial tell that she had missed, some trick that Danarius had up his gilded sleeve that engendered such confidence–but suddenly, she was turning his proposal over in her mind. 

Not quite as he meant it, of course. She had no intention of serving him for even a moment; just the thought of pretending to acquiesce until this bargain was concluded made her skin prick with rage. But she had dug herself in this far–no escape, no rescue, the likelihood of starvation, of failure, looming ever closer. If Danarius was willing to hand her even greater power, she would take it, and she would see that the magister wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

“Tell me how it works,” she demanded, her dry lips pursing. “What kind of power? How is it done?”

And just like that, the net was cast.

No man asked questions unless they were interested, even if it was only the slightest amount, and once they had exposed just one corner of their curiosity it took very little to open the box fully. Danarius knew this, had spent years perfecting his webs and traps and false promises. There was not a man in the world whom he could not ensnare, and he felt the warm flare of satisfaction at yet another victory.

“It is a long, and gruelling process,” he said; speaking more freely now, but dangling only just enough before her enough to capture her interest. No point in going into the details when she had no need to know any part of it at all. The procedure worked best on a willing subject—too much forewarning might only serve to deter her. Glancing across the table’s offering of foods, he selected a cluster of grapes from a platter, idly plucking them from the stem. “Somewhat similar to the application of your... blood tattoos, I should imagine. There’s very little to dread, I can assure you.”

Fenris, who knew his master well enough to know how easily he spread his lies, sank his teeth into his tongue to still it. He had already spoken out of turn once; bad enough already, that, and no point in making it worse. Even if he knew that the procedure was more than ‘very little to dread’. Even if he remembered, quite clearly, the sheer agony of the process. He just hoped, desperately and not just a little jealously, that Mahariel would know well enough to refuse anything that Danarius might offer her...

[domitorem]

Stolen goods // Dorian & Danarius

[spiritmark-archive]

Dorian wore armor.

Oh, it was exquisitely tailored, flattering the muscular lines of his body as a setting flattered a well-cut gem. It was crafted of the finest and rarest of fabrics and metals and leathers, silvery brocaded sea silk and plush velvet, silverite and veilstone, creamy white dragonscale and great bear leather so velvet-dark it seemed to suck up light; and the whole of it cut and arranged in the latest mode, the fabric wrapped across itself and left to hang in sharp, asymmetric angles and the buckles crafted as hissing serpents. Mirror-bright plates of metal riveted to the thick leather cast back the light in blindingly glittering flakes; palm-length spurs jutted from the backs of his bootheels, wickedly sharp. His staff rode comfortably on his back, three dark dragon-heads on arching necks seemingly watchful and guarded, or guarding. It was beautiful, it was fashionable, it was woven through with enchantments and altogether quite aggressively Tevinter; but it was also, unmistakably, armor.

Dorian was nothing if not prepared. He was fully aware this had to be a trap.

He strode into the beautifully appointed chamber with no eye for its luxury, the care taken for setting the scene. Part of him was fully aware of it, yes; that part of Dorian was quite certain it had been arranged as precisely as a stage setting and for the same reason – it was to serve as backdrop to some scene soon to be played out upon it, some scene of which Danarius fancied himself the wright. Some scene in which Dorian was expected to play a scripted role, no doubt. Dorian had no intention of obliging.

“Lord Dorian,” he corrected crisply. Even assuming he had yet to be removed as his father’s official heir, a situation of whose current disposition Dorian had little knowledge, he was not the head of the House. Halward was the sole Lord Pavus, and Dorian would not allow this man to flatter or cajole him with a title he did not deserve.

The room stank of flowers, a thick, cloying fug which reminded Dorian all too sharply of Chantry incense. It was unpleasant, overripe, a humid and almost funereal scent entirely at odds with the bright, airy room. Tacky, Dorian thought, but did not say. Overdone and ostentatious, and that’s coming from me. It’s quite nearly Orlesian. Is he trying to overawe me; or thinking to set me at my ease?

“I would suggest we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business, but no doubt you’d accuse me of poor manners,” Dorian said then. “And we simply can’t have that, now can we? We’re Tevinter, after all, not Fereldan. So. Let us play at this little game you’ve devised, shall we?”

[domitorem]

Armour. Danarius saw it for what it was the moment that Dorian stepped through the door, and he could not hide the flash of displeasure that hardened his eyes. Neither of them were under any impression that this was anything but a fight over stolen territory, but at least Danarius had had the manners to pretend this was a pleasant meeting—the Pavus heir clearly lacked the social grace to give him even that, arriving dressed out as though he intended to start a battle right here in the study.

And would he? Danarius cast a critical eye across him. Too long since they had last come across each other socially; he had always thought Dorian to be a bit of a spoiled fop, but he was not unaware of how quickly he had risen to enchanter status and knew that lazy manner of his hid an intelligent demeanour beneath. Would he raise his hackles at an older, more experienced magister like himself, for the sake of Fenris? Perhaps it was not his fighting spirit that he had misjudged; perhaps it was his feelings for the elf.

Feelings. As if a slave—attractive though he might be—was worthy of anything that went by that name.

“Come now, as if I invited you here simply to humour me,” he answered, irritation swept as neatly under the rug as if it had never existed at all. It would continue to sit there, yes, until he could vent it later at his ledgers or studies, but acting snappy and childish now would neither please him nor get either of them anywhere.

“Sit,” he invited then, sweeping his robes out from behind his legs as he placed himself to the left of the fireplace. “I simply wish a little chat, Lord Dorian. About our mutual interests, and how impolite it is to take another man’s property without asking.”

[domitorem]

Stolen goods // Dorian & Danarius

[domitorem]

Dorian’s hand closed slowly into a fist. His eyes were unfocused and his mind had ceased to function in any way which might be called rational. All but unnoticed, the crumpled parchment in his hand began first to smoke and then to burn fiercely, the flames licking up between his clenched fingers.

Danarius.

“I’ll kill him myself,” Dorian said aloud, and if there’d been anyone to hear him they might have been frightened by how flat and empty his voice was, how matter of fact. He himself was vaguely aware that he should be raging! Shouting, perhaps punching the wall, perhaps even crying! But all of that ridiculous melodrama seemed very far away just at the moment; and quite, quite useless besides.

No amount of shouting, no amount of torn and bleeding knuckles, no amount of cursing and crying and bemoaning would change things here. None of it would bring Fenris back to him safely. An icy chill slid through Dorian’s very marrow and the flames at his hand extinguished themselves; he opened his fingers and bits of black char and grey ash fell like befouled snow to settle lightly on the stone flags.

Moving with the stiffness and deliberation of a stone golem, Dorian turned and crossed his chamber slowly. Reaching his desk, he took up pen and page and wrote quickly but neatly, in his most formal calligraphic hand.

The letter was quite short; but it hardly needed to be long. He folded it and poured out lavender wax, sealing it with the Pavus signet he bore upon his left forefinger.

Danarius,

I’ll be there.

Lord Dorian Thalrassian Pavus

There were no more letters from Danarius, for there was little point in taunting Dorian further. The man would have quite taken the point—Danarius was not happy that some other altus had seen fit to move in on his property. Not happy at all. But the satisfaction of revenge would not come through accusations, or anger; it would come from a trap well-laid, from a plot so skillfully executed that not only would it remind the young Pavus heir just why people didn’t cross staffs with Danarius, but it would win Fenris back to him, too. Certainly, the elf was back in his physical possession—but he was not his, or at least he had forgotten that he was his, and the process of breaking him back into the fold was one that he was most looking forward to.

But he was getting ahead of himself! First, he had to welcome Dorian into his home—he might have been a troublesome youth in need of a firm reminder of his place, but he was still a guest, and he could not call himself a true magister if he did not recall social propriety before all else. A carriage had been dispatched to collect Dorian from where his eyes and ears told him that he had spent the night after arriving in Val Royeaux; Danarius’s Orlesian estate had been freshly cleaned and bedecked with seasonal flowers, wisteria and roses and clematis cleverly trained across door frames and walls or else cut and arranged into great, artful bouquets. He had a host of slaves on hand to provide refreshments, little Orlesian cakes and imported Tevinter teas, and as he waited for his esteemed guest he ran his mind over his preparations, making certain that nothing was amiss. Accuse him of reacquiring his own bodyguard if he must, but Dorian Pavus would not be able to accuse him of not welcoming him in a manner deserving of his position.

His heart leaped as a servant rapped on the door to his study to announce the arrival of his guest, and he rose neatly to his feet. He had arranged the room artfully for company—the curtains were thrown wide, filling the spacious room with light, and the desk where he completed his ledgers had been moved elsewhere to allow for two grand armchairs, a table between them festooned with expensive sweets and a fine bottle of wine. There was no need for a fire at this time of year, so the fireplace hosted instead a fragrant bouquet of yet more flowers, and Danarius himself was dressed in one of his best robes, the sea-green silk emblazoned with an intricate silver embroidery that was mirrored by the filigree of silver jewellery at his throat and cuffs. Fenris was not yet with him, for he wished to meet this young upstart alone, first, but another bodyguard stood in the corner in his place, silent but ready to leap to his master’s defence should it be required.

“Enter,” Danarius called, his heart quite full with anticipation as the servant opened the door to allow their guest entry. “Lord Pavus, at last—it is quite the pleasure...”

[twoclaws]

Cultures of Thedas: The Tevinter Imperium

“One can see that Minrathous was once the center of the world. The vestiges of her power and artistry yet stand. But they are buried in the layers of filth that the Imperium’s decadence has accumulated over the ages. The magocracy live in elegant stone towers, literally elevated above the stench of the slaves and peasants below. The outskirts of Minrathous are awash in a sea of refugees turned destitute by the never-ending war between the Imperium and the Qunari.

And yet the Imperium survives. Whether with sword or magic, Tevinter remains a force to be reckoned with. Minrathous has been besieged by men, by Qunari, by Andraste herself, and never fallen.”  ― Codex entry: The Tevinter Imperium

[domitorem]

Stolen goods // Dorian & Danarius

@spiritmark

The letter arrived in the early afternoon. A month after Fenris had left Skyhold on an urgent mission for Commander Cullen; a week after his daily letters to Dorian had suddenly, and inexplicably, stopped. Whoever must have delivered it had found Dorian’s rooms empty, for it sat on the flagstones in front of the locked door. It was smarter than Fenris’s letters, which had always been hastily folded things, sealed clumsily and with a thumbprint rather than a seal; this was a different thing entirely, a scroll of gold-gilt paper inside an engraved leather cylinder, sealed with a grand wax stamp with an unmistakeable crest.

A stylised rose and staff.

Danarius.

The message inside was polite, but brief. Penned with perfect handwriting, it read:

Lord Pavus,

I do hope that you can forgive the unexpected nature of this letter. I had hoped to make your acquaintance sooner, considering our mutual interest in certain assets of my estate; most might find your neglect of introduction in this a matter of insult, but I am willing to overlook your lack of etiquette in exchange for your assistance in a rather personal matter. I have recently had returned to my possession a dog which escaped my service some years back; during its time in the wild it has become quite feral, and I hear that you have some experiencing taming animals—particularly, those belonging to others.

As I am certain that this is a manner you will be most interested in helping me with, I will expect your company at my Val Royeaux estate two weeks from now. Do not disappoint me.

Yours Humbly,

Magister Danarius

[domitorem]

Has the honorable lord magister ever fallen in love? Were you saddened by the news of Hadriana's death?

Yes, Danarius has fallen in love. Many times, in fact; there have been many beautiful, intelligent women to steal his heart, fledgling politicians or socialites who have flattered him with warm lips and compliments and teasing touches at Minrathous’s many balls and dinners and seminars. Before them, there were his fellow students at the academy, intelligent things with wits as sharp as the blades they kept for dissecting their study materials – before them, fellow children of his parents' friends. 

All of these women he can claim to have loved, in some way. For an hour, a week, a year… They have all held him enthralled, have all held him under the same magical sway that every woman can command with the scent of her perfume or the brush of her hips. As for true love, however – that consuming, fire-red passion, all-or-nothing love…

Yes.

Yes, he has. Forty years prior, and caught up in the foolish rush of young love; of red lips and silk sheets, of knowing that his parents had arranged his betrothal to another, of champagne and poetry and planning secret betrothals of their own. Of course, love is not a currency in the Imperium and it did not last long; duty overpowered desire, and the two lovers were parted. She married someone else and, not long after, so did he. 

The Imperium’s rules conquer all – even men who will, one day, be one of its greatest magisters.

As for Hadriana… No, Danarius was not saddened by her passing. ‘Frustrated’ would have been a better word – it is hard enough to find an apprentice of that calibre without the sticky demise of the predecessor to deter potential applicants. Hadriana served her purpose and, ultimately, failed what she had been tasked to do. That enough was enough to annul any personal sense of loss that the magister might have felt for her death.

[gameofthronesdaily]

LANNISTER WEEK | tag your edits with gameofthronesdaily

[inperiosus-archive]

Character development time! Give me some interesting questions about my character and I will answer.

[darpindies]

Reblog if you are a Dragon Age RP blog and you would like to be added to the masterlist.

Please check to make sure you’re not already on it, first:

Canons

OCs

PCs

[domitorem]

"Orlesians. The next time I receive an invitation to the Winter Palace, I will make sure to be suddenly indisposed."

[aseaofquotes]

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

[bloodmagister]

-Daddy’s new clothes~ Danarius/Heroes of Dragon Age

[domitorem]

Places of Knowledge // Open Thread

Magisters are a very particular breed. If nothing else, they are creatures of habit: they have their routines, their predispositions, their quirks. They are nothing if not predictable, in their daily rounds at least, and Danarius is no less than the epitome of the perfect magisterial representative.

He can always, if nothing else, be relied upon to keep religiously to his own preferences: such as, for example, his fondness for books and the libraries that house them.

He has libraries aplenty in his many homes, of course – great, expansive things, clad from floor to ceiling in dark wooden shelves and leather-bound tomes covering every year of the world’s history, every obscure magic practitioner, every spell or world event or thing of curiosity – but he takes pleasure from the libraries of the cities that he visits also, be they in the Imperium or elsewhere in the world. He has always been drawn to the power held in the words there, the information thrumming beneath the pages; but more than that the scent of wood and old books puts him at ease, and the solace of these sanctuaries puts some strength back into his old bones.

The particular atheneum that Danarius haunts today is one that he has been at since just after his midday meal. It is no grand building, not on the scale that he is familiar with, but the roof arches pleasingly into a dome above his head and some time ago he had found a nook at the back of the dust-layered shelves that hinted at some long-forgotten tomes hiding beneath the dust. The day has dragged itself on, unnoticed by the reading magister, until the light finally starts to fail outside the windows. He stands before one of the shelves, resplendent in his magisterial robes: the sun sets on the other side of the ancient glass and the golden light catches on the rich embroidery of his mantle, turning his hair silver and throwing into sharp profile the hawkish curve of his sharp nose, the fiercely intelligent glint of his eyes. 

Fingertips ghosting over leather spines and gold foiled titles, he selects a heavy tome from the shelves, and with a decisive, secretive smile slips it from its resting place. Libraries are the same the world over, and he draws some comfort from the dim room and the silence and the dependability of those over-stuffed bookshelves. He can hear the distant shift of other scholars, the shuffle of other readers, but he knows that here, he will not be intruded upon – not unless he requests it, and woe betide anyone who should try to intrude upon him uninvited…

[yeuxpalesarchive-deactivated201]

"Goodness, no. A puff would look awful. Bless the Maker that fell out of fashion quite quick.”

"And what’s wrong with a peacock? Purple and green would look fantastic on your complexion."

[domitorem]

"There is everything wrong with a creature that cannot attract a female of its species without yowling outside a man's window like a cat in heat." 

"Now, did you have a reason for bothering me or is fashion all that you can fit within that insipid mind of yours?"

[yeuxpalesarchive-deactivated201]

domitorem has followed you.

[yeuxpalesarchive-deactivated201]

"Judging by your deplorable fashion you’re not from around here."

"Grey is so last autumn, though the red is nice. Pair it with a deep bourbon and you’d be put in the Feuilleton.”

[domitorem]

"As if I should wish to look like some courtly Orlesian puff – what do you take me for, some pavaner paon?"