One could blame it on his upbringing, if one were so inclined. In Tevinter, a would-be magister must set himself apart from the rabble, must show that he is more talented, more intelligent, more everything than his peers. In a country where magic is revered and the powerful survive, it is exceedingly common to use one's talents for mundane tasks -- lighting a fire, sweeping aside curtains, keeping one's hands free by levitating some ancient tome or other.
Which means that when one Dorian Pavus, once of Minrathous, most recently of the Inquisition's keep, Skyhold, arrived in Colorado, he had the occasional slip-up. In his more primal moments, sparks would fly across the tips of his fingers; when researching the nature of Charlie's magic, he would send a file floating before him while he occupied his hands with another book. He would wave out candles, summon flame in his palm, drop ice in a drink here and again. On the occasions that Detective Randall had work for Charlie, and if the mage happened to be present, Dorian would accompany him, let his magic fly with the same graceful abandon he would demonstrate at home. He was not nearly as careful with his displays as he promised Charlie he would be, but the two of them had assumed he had kept his shows of magic relatively quiet.
They were wrong, naturally. Or at the very least, the small displays were enough to garner interest, and the rumors took on lives of their own. At some point, whispers began to circulate among the wizarding community. There's a strange man, you know. Suddenly arrived from nowhere. No family to speak of, no heritage, and yet he exhibits a strange sort of Elemental magic. Casts spells near instantaneously, or so they say, and yet he doesn't have any Enhancement tattoos. Almost as though he creates his runes so quickly as to not be seen, or he has no need of them. Have you ever heard of such a thing?
No, they certainly had not. But most were glad to leave it as an idle curiosity, to leave it as a silly story warped by the retellings.
Some, however, were not.
There is a cafe a few blocks away from the bookshop -- small, unassuming. "Hipstery," Charlie had dubbed it once, though he declined to elaborate further. Dorian stops by, sometimes, when he arrives too early in the day for Charlie to properly close the shop, but too late to tempt the wizard with lunch. The staff recognizes him by now, considering he's nothing but charming with them -- and considering at least half of them would gladly give up their right hands to have dinner with him at least once.
He's sitting at a table in the corner, near the shop's front, a worn book in his hands and a cup of coffee on the table -- a cup which, evidently, he has forgotten, as when Dorian absently takes a sip, he immediately grimaces and sets it back down. Cold, it seems. After a furtive glance around, he flexes his fingers, and a glowing red rune appears just above the coffee's surface. Not a moment later, steam curls and drifts from the cup as Dorian lifts it to his lips again. ]
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One could blame it on his upbringing, if one were so inclined. In Tevinter, a would-be magister must set himself apart from the rabble, must show that he is more talented, more intelligent, more everything than his peers. In a country where magic is revered and the powerful survive, it is exceedingly common to use one's talents for mundane tasks -- lighting a fire, sweeping aside curtains, keeping one's hands free by levitating some ancient tome or other.
Which means that when one Dorian Pavus, once of Minrathous, most recently of the Inquisition's keep, Skyhold, arrived in Colorado, he had the occasional slip-up. In his more primal moments, sparks would fly across the tips of his fingers; when researching the nature of Charlie's magic, he would send a file floating before him while he occupied his hands with another book. He would wave out candles, summon flame in his palm, drop ice in a drink here and again. On the occasions that Detective Randall had work for Charlie, and if the mage happened to be present, Dorian would accompany him, let his magic fly with the same graceful abandon he would demonstrate at home. He was not nearly as careful with his displays as he promised Charlie he would be, but the two of them had assumed he had kept his shows of magic relatively quiet.
They were wrong, naturally. Or at the very least, the small displays were enough to garner interest, and the rumors took on lives of their own. At some point, whispers began to circulate among the wizarding community. There's a strange man, you know. Suddenly arrived from nowhere. No family to speak of, no heritage, and yet he exhibits a strange sort of Elemental magic. Casts spells near instantaneously, or so they say, and yet he doesn't have any Enhancement tattoos. Almost as though he creates his runes so quickly as to not be seen, or he has no need of them. Have you ever heard of such a thing?
No, they certainly had not. But most were glad to leave it as an idle curiosity, to leave it as a silly story warped by the retellings.
Some, however, were not.
There is a cafe a few blocks away from the bookshop -- small, unassuming. "Hipstery," Charlie had dubbed it once, though he declined to elaborate further. Dorian stops by, sometimes, when he arrives too early in the day for Charlie to properly close the shop, but too late to tempt the wizard with lunch. The staff recognizes him by now, considering he's nothing but charming with them -- and considering at least half of them would gladly give up their right hands to have dinner with him at least once.
He's sitting at a table in the corner, near the shop's front, a worn book in his hands and a cup of coffee on the table -- a cup which, evidently, he has forgotten, as when Dorian absently takes a sip, he immediately grimaces and sets it back down. Cold, it seems. After a furtive glance around, he flexes his fingers, and a glowing red rune appears just above the coffee's surface. Not a moment later, steam curls and drifts from the cup as Dorian lifts it to his lips again. ]