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. ]
[ Warren West does not take things for granted, so when the rumors start flying about the strange wizard who showed up out of nowhere, he listened. He listened and he quietly took notes and when the name Jacob Randall inevitably surfaced, he became interested.
The Destroyer kept tabs on all of the Randall wizard’s friends- it wasn’t hard to do, really- but ever since the fire elemental had burned his house to the ground, he did so at a distance. (He had other homes, of course. Properties all over the globe purchased under a dozen different aliases and warded by the best Defenders and Illusionists money could buy. His issue was knowing that he’d underestimated Jacob and the company he kept once, and he would not do so again.)
Picking out the stranger’s routine had not been too difficult, and several weeks beforehand, he began frequenting the same café. He’d offer Dorian a polite nod and a smile. Brush past him once or twice and apologize for bumping into him. He kept his own schedule, coming or going partway into Dorian’s stay as he waited for the Maxwell wizard to finish at the bookstore. Sometimes he stayed longer and left after Dorian had departed, sometimes they left together. He was just another face in the crowd; nothing remarkable, though he made sure the greetings became friendlier the more they saw each other. Warren wasn’t friendly by any stretch of the imagination, but at over a hundred years old, he could fake it with the best of them.
He’s sitting at a table on the adjacent wall from Dorian, ostensibly for the outlet, since he’s typing away on his laptop. (He’s been watching, though, out of the corner of his eye, and he saw the slight glow illuminate the stranger’s coffee cup before steam began to rise. He’d be damned if he wasn’t curious.)
After a while, he gets up to stretch, meanders over to the counter for a refill on his coffee, and on the way back pauses by Dorian’s table. ]
[ It used to be that Dorian was suspicious as a rule -- every person he encountered would garner at least some level of distrust, would make him wonder, "Are they speaking with me for me, or for my social standing?" Granted, in his later years in Tevinter, his social standing was nothing of consequence, but that spark of doubt always remained, flickering at the back of his mind. It's a bad habit he's trying to break, and indeed, in a place as alien to him as this world is, he has no need of it. No one knows him here, after all, and unlike Skyhold, his heritage does not precede him. It's-- surprisingly freeing, even if his magic must be tightly reined.
He recognizes the man by face, though not yet by name, and knows him as friendly from their few encounters; it's not much of a surprise when the other man initiates conversation -- it rather seems as though they'd been leading up to this for some time, after all.
Which is why Dorian puts on one of his pleasant "this is my social smile" masks and nods to him. ]
Engrossing, to say the least. [ And with a nod to Warren's table, where his laptop sits, ] You seem quite absorbed, yourself.
Thank you, but no. I’ve got to wrap up and get going soon. There’s this bookstore a few blocks down I’ve been meaning to check out and I’d like to make it out of here before they close.
I've always found the personality of the detective more compelling than the crime, in any case. Jaded and cynical? Pithy and clever? Is he man who's seen too much, or a man who who has no clue into what sort of trouble he's gotten himself?
For me, a story is only as good as its villain. [ Self-aware? Warren? Nah.
As they walk, one end of the strap of "Lucas'" laptop bag suddenly snaps off- a quick little spell on Warren's part- and he swears, barely managing to catch the laptop as it swings free. He moves off of the sidewalk and into the doorway of an old building (a FOR LEASE sign displayed prominently in the window). He holds out his coffee cup to Dorian ] Hold this a second, would you?
[ He fishes around in his bag for a second, under the guise of double-checking, then several things happen in quick succession:
First, the door to the building swings suddenly inward, revealing an expanse of pitch blackness. It is, in fact, a portal like the ones Charlie uses, leading to somewhere very, very dark.
Next, Warren abandons the laptop altogether. The Destroyer activates his Enhancements, plants a hand in Dorian's back and shoves him through the portal with more force than is probably strictly necessary.
A scant second later, the portal vanishes, leaving Dorian alone in the dark. Warren shuts the door, tucks his bag under his arm, and meanders off, calm as you please, to his own portal that he's set up some ways away.
In the meantime, Dorian will find himself in a small prison cell in the dark. It's cold, and there's nothing in the cell by way of furniture. Calling for his magic will get him only the barest of a flicker- whatever it is that the shifters use in their handcuffs seems to be built into the bars. There is no cell phone reception.
It's about fifteen minutes before the lights flicker on, revealing a large, plain room. Bare cement walls and bare cement floors. A couple of chairs and a small table sit just outside the cell, and beyond that, a flight of stairs.
Warren makes his way down. Any hint of friendliness is gone from his face, and he doesn't seem especially concerned when he asks, ] Comfortable?
[ Of course, is what he thinks in those spare moments. Of course this would happen.
Dorian detests the cold, detests being held prisoner even more. Bad enough it's happened once in his life -- his father's estate, kept under lock and key and guard in what used to be his own home. But at least in Minrathous, he had such basic things as light.
But what he hates above all is being cut off from his magic. That, too, was a familiar feeling, as though his connection to the Fade had been walled off, leaving only the barest crack. That alone was enough to nearly drive him to panic, when he tried to summon flame and could only call forth enough to light a match, when summoning electricity could only bring forth a spark.
He swallows down the panic bubbling in his throat, takes some solace in the fact that he is not dead, when he could have just as easily been shoved into a pit of spikes as he was a portal. When he realizes escape is not in the cards, Dorian navigates himself to a wall, slides down to the floor, and waits.
By the time Warren finally arrives (fifteen minutes feels almost an eternity to him), Dorian is still on the floor, though the mask he wears now is one of boredom. And to Dorian's credit, he only blinks and squints a little when the lights come on, revealing the room beyond. ]
A bit of a draught, actually. You should see to it.
Do you know-- [ and his tone matches his expression -- dry, unimpressed. ] --you could have simply asked if you wanted my company?
Maybe you are intelligent, but you're definitely not subtle. Heating up your coffee in the middle of a crowded cafe with just a wave of you hand? Come on now.
Most other wizards dismiss the stories about you as just that- stories, but I know by now not to disregard anyone Jacob Randall keeps around. One way or another, I'm going to find out what makes you tick.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
midvalley) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pullmeoutalive2014-06-27 11:45 pm
no subject
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. ]
no subject
The Destroyer kept tabs on all of the Randall wizard’s friends- it wasn’t hard to do, really- but ever since the fire elemental had burned his house to the ground, he did so at a distance. (He had other homes, of course. Properties all over the globe purchased under a dozen different aliases and warded by the best Defenders and Illusionists money could buy. His issue was knowing that he’d underestimated Jacob and the company he kept once, and he would not do so again.)
Picking out the stranger’s routine had not been too difficult, and several weeks beforehand, he began frequenting the same café. He’d offer Dorian a polite nod and a smile. Brush past him once or twice and apologize for bumping into him. He kept his own schedule, coming or going partway into Dorian’s stay as he waited for the Maxwell wizard to finish at the bookstore. Sometimes he stayed longer and left after Dorian had departed, sometimes they left together. He was just another face in the crowd; nothing remarkable, though he made sure the greetings became friendlier the more they saw each other. Warren wasn’t friendly by any stretch of the imagination, but at over a hundred years old, he could fake it with the best of them.
He’s sitting at a table on the adjacent wall from Dorian, ostensibly for the outlet, since he’s typing away on his laptop. (He’s been watching, though, out of the corner of his eye, and he saw the slight glow illuminate the stranger’s coffee cup before steam began to rise. He’d be damned if he wasn’t curious.)
After a while, he gets up to stretch, meanders over to the counter for a refill on his coffee, and on the way back pauses by Dorian’s table. ]
Good book?
no subject
He recognizes the man by face, though not yet by name, and knows him as friendly from their few encounters; it's not much of a surprise when the other man initiates conversation -- it rather seems as though they'd been leading up to this for some time, after all.
Which is why Dorian puts on one of his pleasant "this is my social smile" masks and nods to him. ]
Engrossing, to say the least. [ And with a nod to Warren's table, where his laptop sits, ] You seem quite absorbed, yourself.
no subject
no subject
no subject
But I’m being rude. I’m Lucas. [ And he offers Dorian a hand. ]
no subject
[ Handshake is go. ]
Dorian. Would you like to take a seat?
no subject
gg didn't hit post comment
Ah, I lost track of time. I'm actually headed that way, as chance would have it. The owner and I are--
[ well-acquainted. friends. involved. in a relationship. screwing. ]
That is to say, I know the owner.
I thought you didn't love me anymore ):
no subject
[ Dorian shuts his book and stands. ]
Shall we?
no subject
[ One packing up montage later, Warren- rather "Lucas"- has his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. ] Let's go.
no subject
May I ask what you've been writing about, or would that ruin the surprise?
no subject
no subject
I've always found the personality of the detective more compelling than the crime, in any case. Jaded and cynical? Pithy and clever? Is he man who's seen too much, or a man who who has no clue into what sort of trouble he's gotten himself?
no subject
As they walk, one end of the strap of "Lucas'" laptop bag suddenly snaps off- a quick little spell on Warren's part- and he swears, barely managing to catch the laptop as it swings free. He moves off of the sidewalk and into the doorway of an old building (a FOR LEASE sign displayed prominently in the window). He holds out his coffee cup to Dorian ] Hold this a second, would you?
no subject
Bit of bad luck. Anything broken?
no subject
[ He fishes around in his bag for a second, under the guise of double-checking, then several things happen in quick succession:
First, the door to the building swings suddenly inward, revealing an expanse of pitch blackness. It is, in fact, a portal like the ones Charlie uses, leading to somewhere very, very dark.
Next, Warren abandons the laptop altogether. The Destroyer activates his Enhancements, plants a hand in Dorian's back and shoves him through the portal with more force than is probably strictly necessary.
A scant second later, the portal vanishes, leaving Dorian alone in the dark. Warren shuts the door, tucks his bag under his arm, and meanders off, calm as you please, to his own portal that he's set up some ways away.
In the meantime, Dorian will find himself in a small prison cell in the dark. It's cold, and there's nothing in the cell by way of furniture. Calling for his magic will get him only the barest of a flicker- whatever it is that the shifters use in their handcuffs seems to be built into the bars. There is no cell phone reception.
It's about fifteen minutes before the lights flicker on, revealing a large, plain room. Bare cement walls and bare cement floors. A couple of chairs and a small table sit just outside the cell, and beyond that, a flight of stairs.
Warren makes his way down. Any hint of friendliness is gone from his face, and he doesn't seem especially concerned when he asks, ] Comfortable?
no subject
Dorian detests the cold, detests being held prisoner even more. Bad enough it's happened once in his life -- his father's estate, kept under lock and key and guard in what used to be his own home. But at least in Minrathous, he had such basic things as light.
But what he hates above all is being cut off from his magic. That, too, was a familiar feeling, as though his connection to the Fade had been walled off, leaving only the barest crack. That alone was enough to nearly drive him to panic, when he tried to summon flame and could only call forth enough to light a match, when summoning electricity could only bring forth a spark.
He swallows down the panic bubbling in his throat, takes some solace in the fact that he is not dead, when he could have just as easily been shoved into a pit of spikes as he was a portal. When he realizes escape is not in the cards, Dorian navigates himself to a wall, slides down to the floor, and waits.
By the time Warren finally arrives (fifteen minutes feels almost an eternity to him), Dorian is still on the floor, though the mask he wears now is one of boredom. And to Dorian's credit, he only blinks and squints a little when the lights come on, revealing the room beyond. ]
A bit of a draught, actually. You should see to it.
Do you know-- [ and his tone matches his expression -- dry, unimpressed. ] --you could have simply asked if you wanted my company?
no subject
no subject
And what, exactly, do you mean by that?
no subject
[ he moves to sit in one of the chairs, leaning back to look Dorian over ] You know you've caused quite the stir in our little community.
no subject
[ He asks it flatly, disinterested. ]
Is it the good looks? The caliber of my intelligence? A level of excellence never before seen or met, I must imagine.
no subject
Maybe you are intelligent, but you're definitely not subtle. Heating up your coffee in the middle of a crowded cafe with just a wave of you hand? Come on now.
Most other wizards dismiss the stories about you as just that- stories, but I know by now not to disregard anyone Jacob Randall keeps around. One way or another, I'm going to find out what makes you tick.
no subject
Are there stories, now? [ Wryly. Humor to mask that plummeting sensation of dread. ]
I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. I'm remarkable, surely, but not in the way you seem to expect.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)