redeemer.

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glorycrowned:

He considers each word as if something most precarious had birthed in their just as untimely wake. 

If not for having caught the bumbling fool with his gaze fixed longer than it surely should have been in all polite sake, he may have wondered if his frown was set in the same intensity as always. Ah, a jest. So… his new ‘friend’ was the joking type. Tightness of his shoulders aside, he is coincidentally relieved knowing such. It was good to hear a voice do close to the familiarity of another’s own. Even if it belonged to someone so far off he wouldn’t bow to fate in the faintest stroke of doubt that certain someone could have crossed dimensions with how truly far he was. 

The moment of reprieve, however, is none taken for granted and despite the weight of his mighty armor, he shuffles along just behind this Dorian almost as if a royal hunting dog taken to his very heels. Onward towards what faintest hint of a landmark the fading twist of mountain side brings them further towards, then. A temptress, says he who parades forward much like a peacock fanning it’s every last regal feather on gallant display. 

“I see. You should call me Xander…and if you find it too difficult I am almost certain crown prince of Nohr will more than suffice.”

Once titles and rank are made known, Dorian tempers his enthusiasm into something less facetious and more appropriate; his lips pull back into an easy line that is without guarded ice.

“Ah. I had no idea I was in such esteemed company.”

The only way, then, to address this man is with ‘Your Highness’. Surely the invitation to use his given name was a jest. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if taking the bait led to swords drawn and stink eyes. (The stinkiest, pungent like goat cheese.)

He folds his hands behind his back and turns to the open meadow. One step further and the grass melts away into cobblestone. On either side of them, great stone towers rise. Every building that follows exhibits elaborate masonry; were it not for the lack of a shine, you would think the hardy stone precious jewels with the way the corners were faceted. Diamonds, marquises, trillions galore--not a single row of brick was without adornment.

“Is this Tevinter...? Or are we elsewhere?”

It felt familiar and foreign at once.

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tenebrynhildr:

Shared interest softens some of the irritation, never mind the fact that Leo thrives on this sort of attention - being recognized for his abilities and talents is preferred over being fawned over because of his station.

“I learned in my homeland,” Leo answers. “And judging from your manner of dress, we don’t share that heritage in common. As for a particular school of magic, I’ve studied it all,” he says, with a slight, proud, tilt of his head and the faintest of smirks.

“It depends, of course, on how you classify magic types from where you’re from but I personally prefer the versatility of what we call anima magic. Fire, thunder, lightning, wind, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, the elements,” he says.

Of the four schools, it’s the one he himself is most privy to; the grin between his ears suggests as much. He opens his palm and summons a ball of flame, freezes it unto ice, then shatters it with a crackle of lightning.

Dorian titters. “We refer to it as the school of primal magic. The other three are creation, entropy, and spirit.” A pause. “Why don’t we go question for question?”

They will need chairs for this. A flick of his staff and sturdy rocks float through the air and stack upon themselves until they’ve a bench. Dorian hops upon it, throws one leg over the other, then laces his fingers upon his knees, ever the eager student.

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sleihbeggey:

“It’s okay. It happens more often than you’d expect.” A regrettable side effect of being the equivalent of a magic battery. Only the polite ones bother to learn her name, and the fae are only polite when it suits them to be so.

“You can call me Chise,” she offers before moving on to her next train of thought. “Are you done with the mirror? I don’t think it’ll matter too much if I lose it here, but magic supplies are expensive.”

Disbelief nudges his brow before etiquette swats it aside and he schools his expression into something appropriate, something safe and mundane. An inkling of curiosity pinches his lips but Dorian bides his time. People are more likely to swindle you when they can smell your interest.

“Ah, yes. Of course. I didn’t know it was quite so important.” He smiles like an imp. “Should I feel honored for being entrusted with such a trinket?” All the same, he holds the mirror out for her.

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glorycrowned:

Negotiable, he almost allows the chill tinged declaration slop from betwixt the tight purse of fixed lips. Either they’ve taken an unbelievably drastic turn, or… 

A wave of befuddlement takes him before willing acknowledgement in a vehement mix of realization and change allowing pain to settle in his very bones. Dampened curls lash against his cheeks like the dull of worn blades and he seems to stare in disbelief. 

The impeding wreath of winter’s rage dulled to something almost serene. …and perhaps he would have done well to accept such sudden reprieve had he been bred to immovably stand tall. This peace was an illusion. One moment of vulnerability may as well lay them to proper waste. Thank the gods they still spare time to breathe. From what he can make given their standpoint, their mountain of wondrous escape seems to be riddled with many a winding path. 

A hand seeks to steady the man at his side with a thankful clasp. Had it not been for him they would both be sealed to the fate of sharing an icy tomb.

“Well enough. A bed seems fair, though not before braving what trek remains cut out for us my friend. What of you?”

“Friend?” he echoes in a far off voice, his gaze traveling the distance and loss of a lifetime’s tragedies. But there is no sorrow to be found in his metaphorical wake, no tears that have yet to be shed; curiosity tempers the one-word question that invites a dozen contexts.

His lips ply into a simple smile, the sort you never leave tucked beneath the silverware or crystal. A bashful glow warms his cheeks for but a second as he catches himself staring with a timely chuffle. The mage nods in agreement and gestures with the breadth of his arm. In all things, he commits and he flaunts.

“This place seems far more hospitable than that wintry hell just now. All the more reason to remain on guard, though. Why, for all I know, you could be a demon. A temptress.” Mischief breaks his solemn tone into palatable cheer. “Oh, I speak in jest. You and I both know what a difficult time demons have maintaining human forms outside of the Fade.”

He laughs again and hastens through the confined space that seems to expand the further he races, not unlike an untrammeled stallion. “And what should I call you, friend? Because you may call me ‘handsome’. If that’s too difficult, Dorian will suffice.”

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tenebrynhildr:

Leo sighs. Anyone who repeats the same word within the span of two sentences is bound to be the headache-inducing kind. “Of course,” he says, instead. His voice is stiffened with that brittle, forced patience that masquerades poorly as ‘calmness’. “My apologies. Evidently he is. Invisible, that is. The sort that remains unseen by those who don’t attempt to look.”

Leo strides away, trying the handle of what seems to be the castle’s main doors. Locked, predictably so. He walks back, noting the pattern on the floor. Leo circles a moment. A great tree, growing out of a white stone. He shifts his foot, half-expecting a hidden passage to click open under his boots.

He’s mildly disappointed when no such thing happens.

The furthest corners of the room are bathed in shadows and Leo touches Brynhildr, turning his wrist. A ball of purple flame blossoms like a flower on his palm, rippling in place. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Whatever humor Dorian finds in their shared experience fades away into awe and intrigue; he strides towards the darkness with muted curiosity. 

His voice echoes off the walls. “You’re a mage.” Just like himself.

Their kind isn’t rare, not in Tevinter, but the last he knew he was in the charming south where magic was feared and thought of as this nasty evil thing. (For the record, he is far from nasty or evil.)

“Where did you study? Have you an affinity for any particular school of magic?” Commonality makes him chatty, chattier than usual.

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glorycrowned:

When the chill first beckons him he thinks it something almost empyrean.

That is, until the seemingly timid stretch of a once raging snowstorm turned latent summoned up what wicked audacity blanketed the remnants of an army that rode but a few paces just to his rear.

Of any and all possible thought he could muster, never had he imagined death to take such a form. The frost catches against his cheeks like the invisible curl of raking nails and the figure caught in winter’s bane dances to and fro, extending her arms as if intending to draw him in. 

The cradle to his inevitable grave.

In what unimaginable split of a second she nearly reaches him, he finds he is then faced with another figure. Much warmer and to his immediate reprieve, human at that. The world wages war in a dance of fire and wind and their last stand seems supremely imminent.

All until he cleaves icy hell turned to fiery sea at the hands of his mysterious companion’s spell and spies the faintest hint of golden lining dancing between the withering tendrils that made Siegfried’s waning flame.

Time is of the most invaluable essence, as always.

A hand clasps at the one to take him by the arm and he spares not a moment more in dragging them towards the beckoning light.

The ground tastes of rain. He rolls over onto his back and feels the lightest of showers dimple his flesh; he jerks upright beneath the chill and inhales the sharp mountain air. He sputters out the cold and turns towards the man he’d ventured into the unknown with.

“Are you all right? I mean, it’s relative at this point. Between frostbite and damp toes, I’d take the damp toes.”

A mighty sneeze takes a hold of him and his body quakes before its release. Dorian groans. He pinches the bridge of his traitorous nose but that only stems his sinuses for so long.

“Augh... what I wouldn’t give for a proper bed right now!”

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sleihbeggey:

With his laughter comes a sudden and intense interest in the way the toe of her shoe wrinkles when she moves her foot around. It’s all too easy to perceive it as chiding, regardless of whether or not any playfulness might actually be imbued in his action.

“Oh.” Beauty seems much more dangerous when compared to the extreme countermeasures he describes. What’s worse is that by those standards, she might be - well, what he said. Either way, she’d prefer to not think about that aspect of her relationship with Elias.

“So you use makeup as another way to keep that distance, then? Both sword and shield?”

“Something like that,” Dorian replies, the answer depressingly anti-climactic. He’s found himself in trouble more often than not due to his good looks but it’s more fun to think of them as a blessing than a curse.

“But where are my manners? My name is Dorian and I should’ve asked for yours before a favor.”

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gruffwolf:

   ✘ Cue the big and the bad, huffing and puffing away somebody’s sole comforts. Bigby’s got a vigorous grip, and though he’s not much for invading personal spaces, the situation’s got him a little flustered. Frustrated, for a more proper term. Which Prince is this? The human slipping into gold is unwittingly watched; not to be confused with preyed upon, though very easily so. Bigby had corralled himself into the opportunity to observe. This homing sense of gilt brilliance is awfully overwhelming, but he’s highly mature in the art curbing natural instincts. Centuries of practice, and it’s nothing. Rather, it should be nothing, but resisting its embrace proves difficult against the ice. Caught off guard and wearied, the Sheriff’s vigilant glare is a gradient blend of flaxen and amber. Cynical as always, and almost contemptuous, he feels the length of his spine awaken with a numbing tingle. A caution. Not at the breaking cold, but at the temptation of this yellow light. Warm welcomes and relief, memories of Snow White. Hope (a myth to Bigby) that he could find ease, or perhaps the baiting effects of some lousy sorcerer? His skeptical trust tells him to pick the latter, always.

   Good things don’t just happen.

    It’s his intention that Dorian stays whole and undigested, be sure. And to let him lounge, even, if he chooses to stay here amidst the hardhearted freeze. But Bigby’s got questions for everybody. So where the plunge might have been a pleasant pause from the ice, the tear out of it was everything else; hooked by the strength of predatory agitation, the first stage of Bigby’s transformation has risen against the stress of impatience. Dorian’s drawn back into the grey heaviness of this “reality” - as Bigby sees it - against the iced barks surrounding them.

     “Sorry. Is this a bad time?” Who doesn’t love a little sass? Fostered by that widened stance, Bigby’s fingers curl into themselves so hard that his knuckles crack, thus echoing the sound of permafrost swallowing the land. Without introductions, then, as it would be more wasted time, he asks in his perpetual tone of business -

     “What is that thing? The orb you just touched.”

A city. Metal carriages belch out sharp notes and lanterns glow without flame. The buildings lack character and the people even more so, but he is fascinated by the man holding a conversation by himself and the gaggle of teenagers flaunting sleek devices.

Dorian makes for the other side and the carriage screeches at him--

“Goodness! I’m being accosted!” he cries out at the familiar sensation of human contact. Everyone loves a good manhandling every now and then, or is that just him?

In all seriousness, the hand clamped around his arm flips the switch from curiosity to trepidation. Somewhere, the cables running through that too-smart-for-its-own-good brain of his criss-cross and something short-circuits; sparks fly and his face twitches into frantic alarm. His brows stretch for his hairline. How’s that children’s book go? All the better to see you with, my dear sweet wolf?

His shoulders drop at the sound of the stranger’s voice, a man who thinks himself so clever and witty. “You tell me,” he says with equal parts flirtation and indignation: I’ll acknowledge your presence, but don’t forget that you’re still beneath me.

“I’d have answers for you if you weren’t so gung-ho about popping my shoulder out of its socket.” 

Sparkly things have this way of seizing his attention and making it swoon. A pity he had no parchment on him, nor writing implements. To slake his curiosity, he must take notes. 

He eyes the golden orb like a puzzle waiting to be unraveled.

“Wherever it leads, it’s much warmer than here. Might we continue this conversation inside?” Pleasant though he may be, the undercurrent of vexation lingers.

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The storm is alive: It swells and it crashes, engulfing all that it touches.

Ice bursts out like lava spurting through veins. One stream in particular (more like a creeper, in the botanical sense) twirls through the air, twisting in pirouettes and figure eights with deadly grace. It spears through a sparrow and the blood freezes before it drips.

He hastens his pace until the world slows to a crawl. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a flash of gold. Cullen? No, the commander would never wear his hair that long. Regardless, there’s someone else fleeing from nature’s wrath.

Dorian makes it to the man’s side before his spell wears off; he spins his staff and lobs fireball after fireball at the roaring wave. Another snap of his wrist and a wall of flame burns through the ground.

“It won’t last, quickly now!” he cries over the wind as he takes the man by the arm.

Find another orb. His lungs are on fire.

@glorycrowned

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tenebrynhildr:

Leo could’ve sworn he had spotted her here.

Did horses even dream? Was that why he had yet to find Titania? Of course it didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to conjure up her equivalent. She was a damn fine mare, stalwart and eternally unruffled, even when Faceless were popping into existence at her hooves, or when arrows were whizzing by her ears.

Leo knew her well. He knew the feel of her coat, the way that she’d perk slightly if she caught wind of the word ‘carrots’, or the fact that she always preferred to sleep with her legs folded under her, as opposed to the rest of the nobles’ steeds who remained standing in slumber.

So why couldn’t he recreate her here?

( All this to say that he was getting incredibly tired of walking everywhere. It was hardly an efficient use of his time. )

Soft, forest ground and pine trees suddenly give way to smooth stone underfoot and Leo huffs a soft sigh. So he’s fallen into something else, again.

A voice catches his ear and he turns to look at the other - seemingly unwilling - occupant of this castle. “Grow accustomed to such, sudden changes. Hollering about it won’t accomplish anything.”

The words ought to be in Cassandra’s voice, not that of a poncy brat. He shudders at the disconnect there and eyes the boy with his usual scrutiny-masqueraded-as-mere-curiosity. A nobleman, at the very least. Royalty, perhaps.

The lack of a crown makes it difficult to tell but he’s always thought them a tad garish. Good on the lad for not giving into tradition.

“Hollering? What sort of civilized person hollers?” His lips have a wry twist to them but his gaze bears amusement and little else. “I’m afraid I’m the only one here and I’ve yet to see head or tails of your hollerer.” 

In an incredibly scandalized and hyperbolic voice, he gasps, “Perhaps he’s invisible?”

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event: fubuki

“I. Hate. Everything.”

The frost nips and bites and mauls. Tevinter’s finest isn’t enough to block out the cold; he pulls his dark robes closer to his body and lets out a nasty string of Tevene.

Golden light catches the furthest corners of his attention and a momentary bubble of warmth pops inside his chest. He’s inexplicably drawn towards the light (which is never a good thing). On approach, he notes that it’s a giant sphere with the same consistency as dish soap.

A tentative touch confirms that it feels very much like that fancy liquid soap they use in Orlais, but when he tries to cup some of it... his hands come out dry. Stranger still, his hands are now much warmer than the rest of his body.

With his luck, it’s a portal that leads to an active volcano.

Dorian takes a deep breath and plunges forward with the solace that the Inquisitor would’ve made him do it anyway. Never cared much for self-preservation, that one.

He finds himself in that little nook of Sera’s, the one with all the frumpled pillows and a beautiful view of the training field and the trainees. Dorian collapses in the cushions and it’s the first time the act of breathing doesn’t hurt.

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sleihbeggey:

She wouldn’t have asked in the first place if she didn’t understand, but Chise bites her tongue to keep her defense to herself.

“Just because he thinks she’s beautiful, he’d start a war?” Her expression flattens with disbelief, yet subconsciously she mirrors the arch of his brow. “Isn’t that a little ridiculous?”

Almost immediately, she wishes she could suck the accusatory question back into her mouth. Frivolous as he might seem, the ardor with which the man describes his apparent weapon of choice is a sign proclaiming that he is well-trained in its use. It strikes her - while the difference between a human’s beauty and that of the Good Neighbors is entirely different, perhaps some of the same methods could be used to dissuade their sway.

“How would you defend against it, then? To keep those heads from rolling.” She takes the leap to assume that he knows; there would have been much less need for her mirror if the case had been otherwise.

The clicking of his tongue suggests that it is anything but ridiculous. To whom, he does not specify. He has always been sparse about his own opinions, for he is simply too used to others painting over him with their own brushes.

“Congratulations. You’ve just started a war. Now what do you do?” He waves his own response off and a roar of laughter follows. No need to answer him now.

Her curiosity earns a sly grin. Mischief has always been able to find its way back home into the glimmer of his eyes.

“The old way would have been to gouge your eyes out. But seeing as how neither of us are barbarians, you’d want a more practical answer.” Dorian sighs. “You never show your hand. You never bear your heart. Give someone the key to your emotions and you’re as good as fucked.”

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glorycrowned:

The sigh that winds him with next breath snuffs out that candle and finally, he rises from behind the depths of a desk meant to ground his forced ideals. Father’s shadow always did follow him about. Room to room and the old study certainly was no exception.

The air tastes stale and old as the wine he has so ungraciously made company with and the night, as always, remains much too young. Where, exactly. As he heard anything else these unpolished days, more drivel to drip from the lips of those who both abhorred the crown much as they wished to wear it.

From one mouth to another of course. For an army fortified by noble ambition he is unsurprised to find what unimportance does make a rather sordid point of circulating is vastly summed up in each sway of tongues only deeply moved by their own childish ideas.

One such tongue remains hardly tucked beneath his towering command. How Dorian has remain unscathed remains settled somewhere well beyond him.

The glance he steals is short lived at best, victory unsung and a purse of lips that may have rendered him livid beyond compare had he any viable sense left within him that the wine did not so eagerly steal away. He lingers by the door of the old study, maids in passing retaining their silence. Wise for the unwise who continued to lecture him.

The smile hard won, however, shines through the dark.

“I see. Then protect me from the horrors of my own chambers or take your leave of me for the night.”

From any other man, he would think that an invitation. Back home, perhaps, but then again... he had tired of the heartlessness of it all. Men always came to him for a service, not his good humor or his intellect. And, quite honestly? He’s always been more fond of his brain than his beauty.

But this is neither here nor there.

Dorian merely clicks his tongue and opens the door. Once, he would have waited for someone else to hold it open for him. Nowadays, he finds himself more independent than ever. The Inquisition would be shocked if they could see him now.

No one’s peeled grapes for him in months.

“Have you been having nightmares?” he asks in hushed tones. Even with this precaution, his voice courts the flames of the torches and bounds back at them from the wall.

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sleihbeggey:

The initial surge of panic she feels towards his predicament quickly waters down when she realizes the actual reason he needs her mirror. She rocks back and forth on her heels to watch him proceed. 

He’s like a tiger painting on his stripes in a menagerie. He uses the same precision to reapply his makeup as she or Elias do when measuring out ingredients for a potion, and the ease with which he does it fascinates her.

“Apparently not,” she remarks, bemused. “Is it really that bad if your makeup fades like that?”

“You need ask?” he replies. His arch rises to the point of exaggeration.

Dorian clicks his tongue as though chiding a child. She has much to learn and he has much to teach. The poor dear hasn’t a clue what she’s gotten herself into.

His hand flies to and fro. The twist of his wrist catches on certain words. Others spread his digits and demand large sweeping gestures. “Beauty is as much a weapon as any other. Few know how to defend against it.” His lips smooth into a knowing smile. “One little gaze is enough to ignite a war between nations.”

“Imagine, a king who has been promised a princess’ hand in marriage, catching his betrothed fancying some servant boy. Heads will roll well before supper is ready.”

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@otherbollinger

“You must tell me what you’ve done with your hair. It’s starker than a snowstorm and looks as light as a feather.” They stand upon a balcony reminiscent of the Winter Palace. Beautiful mosaic shimmers beneath their feet, gilded banners loop around the railing. The Orlesian excess makes him wonder if this isn’t some lovely little manor they’ve stumbled upon, abandoned by a lord with an absurd fondness for Fereldan furs. Itchy damn things.

“I mean that as a compliment.”

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sleihbeggey:

The urgency of his plight grabs Chise by the shoulder and whips her around. There’s only a moment of hesitation - nothing looks to be wrong, but who is she to judge? - before she pops open her satchel and jumps to action

“A mirror, a mirror, I have a mirror.” No matter how many times she repeats this fact, the process of digging through the satchel of magic supplies slung around her shoulder doesn’t seem to speed up. “Here you go.”

The mirror she fumbles out to the distraught man is a small, circular thing intended for scrying. It’s only the size of her palm, not large enough to show his whole face unless it’s held too far away to see any details, but she hopes it’ll be enough for his purposes. 

Seven years bad luck is a superstition he dare not entertain. He does not pinch, he grasps. Cradles, even. Delicate hands lift the reflective glass to eye level.

“It’s worse than I imagined,” he says, with all the gravitas you’d expect for a funeral. Not a matter of ruined maquillage.

His urgency says an awful lot about him.

He scours through his own satchel, stirring about the contents until he retrieves a vial filled with a dark powder. Just a touch is all he needs as he goes over the fading line around his eyes. Dorian sighs in relief.

“You’ve no idea the service you’ve done me, young lady.” He chuckles, as though aware of his own melodrama.

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@tenebrynhildr

Not once does it occur to him that he slumbers, safe and sound in the nook of a library, hidden in the mountains. Sleep has always relinquished him to the Fade where he -- and all his kind -- become curiosities for the spirits and demons. The world is vivid enough that he knows it can’t possibly be the realm of the Maker’s First.

So he’s somewhere in Thedas, wandering through ancient elvhen ruins while hoping to chance upon one of their camps. Dorian clicks his tongue and halts as his voice echoes through the stone. He hears a crackle not unlike fire but the light around the corner glows a sickly shade of green.

It would be remiss for him to neglect his staff; Dorian clasps it in his hand and nears the veilfire, the magic humming between his teeth. Unpleasant feeling, that.

He rushes forward, cloaked in a wreathe of unforgiving ice, and startles at the sight of a castle. “How is this...” He turns back and stares at the hall that’s replaced the forest and debris. “What sort of spell is this? Have the Venatori managed to destroy the very seams of reality with their barbaric foot-stomping? 'I don’t know what this does but it’s sure to knock the pants off that stinky Herald!’ Kaffas.”