[ Normally that little show of defiance would be impressive, but it gets on Warren’s nerves almost instantly. His expression instantly goes cold, angry, and he steps up to the bars. ]
Is this all we're going to do? Threaten back and forth? You, with mind control or binding my will or whatever fanciful nonsense you've got in your head. Me, with the ever efficient promise of certain violence.
I'd rather you killed me, please, if we're going to keep up like this.
[ Warren glares at him for a very long moment- the kind of glare the promises unspeakable things. ]
Get comfortable, Dorian. You're going to be here a while.
[ With that, Warren turns on his heel and leaves.
He does not come back for two days.
Aside from wanting to make Dorian squirm, he's off tracking down an Illusionist contact of his- a gentleman who works on the the fringes of wizarding society with a knack for altering peoples' minds. Warren tries to use his services sparingly since they don't come cheap.
He comes to his contact with a simple list of things: I want him to love me, I want him to do as I say, and I want you to tone down that goddamned attitude of his.
Because even if what Dorian says is true, and he can't do more than throwing fire and ice around, he wants Jacob Randall and his ilk to suffer knowing that he took Dorian right out from under them, and that he now belongs completely to Warren.
And if the procedure doesn't take or kills him? Oh well. It was worth a try.
So it's after two long days that Warren pads back into the basement, with a short, slimy-looking balding man. ] You're still alive down here, I hope.
[ In the time Warren is gone, Dorian keeps trying to tap into the Fade. Each attempt at summoning his magic results in little more than a whisper of flame, of ice, of lightning, and he nearly screams with frustration. If he could just cast, he could get himself out of this blighted cell, possibly murder a few people on his way out, and figure out how to get himself home.
But the wards do their job, and soon he learns to cut his losses -- in that avenue, in any event. After that, he checks for weaknesses in the bars, casts around for anything in the cell he might use to pick the lock, but naturally he comes up with nothing.
Already at the end of the first day, Dorian is forced to admit defeat.
The second day, however, is just salt in the wound.
On the third day when Warren finally arrives, Dorian is tired. Angry. Hungry. Afraid. He sits on the bed, legs crossed and blankets gathered around him. His gaze flicks from one wizard to the other as they enter the room, and fear claws up his spine. Funny, that he could face down dragons and abominations, yet the sight of these two men nearly put him into a panic.
At first, he doesn't seem as though he means to respond. But answer he does, after a few seconds of silence, and in a hoarse voice, he croaks out, ]
[ He dredges up whatever sense of defiance is left in him -- after all, there was a strong chance he wouldn't get another chance to be an ass, wasn't there? ]
Ah, goodie, am I being treated to a magic lesson?
Yes, Professor West, I am familiar. But please, tell me more.
Well, I was going to treat you to a little lesson on how my fried here is going to take apart your personality and put it back together in a manner of my choosing, but if you're going to be like that, I'll just let him get to work.
I'm going to be so glad when you won't talk back anymore.
[ the Illusionist clears his throat ] Mr. West, if you please?
Of course. Let's see if you feel any differently when you wake up.
[ Once more he casts that quick, brutal spell to knock Dorian unconscious to allow his compatriot to do his work. When the mage wakes, he'll find himself in the house proper, in a spare bedroom. His broken wrist has been splinted, and it's safe to assume they got some painkillers into him at some point.
Whether or not the spellwork took is an entirely different matter, but Warren seems confident enough to risk it. ]
[ His head feels like it's been filled with cotton when he wake, and even with the painkillers, his body still aches -- though at least it's merely a dull, persistent throb rather than the sharp pains of earlier.
Earlier being-- fuzzy, come to think of it. Dorian can't remember how he found himself here, can barely remember what happened to his wrist that it needed splinting. There was probably an excellent reason for it, he assumes. Probably some stupid accident or other.
When Warren arrives at last, he'll find Dorian sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, and tension leaves Dorian's frame when he spots him in the doorway -- it's as though he was relieved. His gaze softens, and the hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
Normally, he would say some sort of greeting, but something compels him to wait. Don't speak unless spoken to, that voice says. It doesn't occur to him that he should rebel against that voice. ]
[ Well, this seems encouraging, though he wouldn't put it past Dorian to put on an act. Needless to say his personal wards are up when he steps into the room ]
A car slid in front of the house. [ he says it with a sad shake of his head ] You know how these roads can get. You're lucky you came away with just a broken wrist and a cracked rib.
[ He frowns, trying to remember, and something about the story rings false. ]
Are you--
[ sure?, is how he wanted to end that question, but something shrieks in his mind, scatters his thoughts, and he winces as his hand goes to his temple.
His thoughts regather slowly, like spooked animals after the snap of a twig. A car slid in front of the house. He remembers the sensation of falling, an immense pressure slamming against him over and over. The snap of his rib, of his wrist, pain in his head. ]
... Yes. [ And the moment he agrees, it's as though a fog partially lifts. ] Yes, I remember.
[ Warren watches Dorian’s face as he works through it, as he struggles against the alterations to his mind. He doubts Dorian would know to include that sort of thing in his act, if he was acting.
The wizard takes a seat on the edge of the bed and places his hand over Dorian’s. ]
[ For half of a second, his skin crawls at the contact, and he flinches away--
But something in his head shrieks again, shrill and sudden like the screech of an alarm, and he screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
When the moment passes, he lets out a shaking breath, and he drops his hand to seek out Warren's. He looks up at him with a tired, apologetic smile, a surge of affection blooming in his chest and turning the expression fond. ]
I'm sorry. My head-- the accident, I think.
[ He sags against the headboard, struck by how tired he is, how sore and weak. ]
Have I been sleeping long? I feel rather as though I've been hollowed out.
[ Ah, there it is. That fond look is what he was waiting for. Even if nothing else about this pans out, he can take satisfaction in knowing that, even for a moment, this worked. It brings a smile to his face, something wicked at the edges of the expression. ]
[ The fact that Dorian doesn’t even bat an eye at the look on Warren’s face is also encouraging. He can only play saccharine for so long. It’s so much easier to be himself. ]
Can’t be helped. The important thing is getting you well again.
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pullmeoutalive2014-06-27 11:45 pm
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[ how's that for panic ]
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With what?
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I'd rather you killed me, please, if we're going to keep up like this.
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Get comfortable, Dorian. You're going to be here a while.
[ With that, Warren turns on his heel and leaves.
He does not come back for two days.
Aside from wanting to make Dorian squirm, he's off tracking down an Illusionist contact of his- a gentleman who works on the the fringes of wizarding society with a knack for altering peoples' minds. Warren tries to use his services sparingly since they don't come cheap.
He comes to his contact with a simple list of things: I want him to love me, I want him to do as I say, and I want you to tone down that goddamned attitude of his.
Because even if what Dorian says is true, and he can't do more than throwing fire and ice around, he wants Jacob Randall and his ilk to suffer knowing that he took Dorian right out from under them, and that he now belongs completely to Warren.
And if the procedure doesn't take or kills him? Oh well. It was worth a try.
So it's after two long days that Warren pads back into the basement, with a short, slimy-looking balding man. ] You're still alive down here, I hope.
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But the wards do their job, and soon he learns to cut his losses -- in that avenue, in any event. After that, he checks for weaknesses in the bars, casts around for anything in the cell he might use to pick the lock, but naturally he comes up with nothing.
Already at the end of the first day, Dorian is forced to admit defeat.
The second day, however, is just salt in the wound.
On the third day when Warren finally arrives, Dorian is tired. Angry. Hungry. Afraid. He sits on the bed, legs crossed and blankets gathered around him. His gaze flicks from one wizard to the other as they enter the room, and fear claws up his spine. Funny, that he could face down dragons and abominations, yet the sight of these two men nearly put him into a panic.
At first, he doesn't seem as though he means to respond. But answer he does, after a few seconds of silence, and in a hoarse voice, he croaks out, ]
Fuck off.
[ perhaps Charlie is rubbing off on him. ]
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[ And to Dorian, he says, ] Are you familiar with the Illusion school of wizardry?
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Ah, goodie, am I being treated to a magic lesson?
Yes, Professor West, I am familiar. But please, tell me more.
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I took the wind out of your sails, didn't I? Don't be bitter, my dear man. It doesn't become you.
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[ the Illusionist clears his throat ] Mr. West, if you please?
Of course. Let's see if you feel any differently when you wake up.
[ Once more he casts that quick, brutal spell to knock Dorian unconscious to allow his compatriot to do his work. When the mage wakes, he'll find himself in the house proper, in a spare bedroom. His broken wrist has been splinted, and it's safe to assume they got some painkillers into him at some point.
Whether or not the spellwork took is an entirely different matter, but Warren seems confident enough to risk it. ]
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Earlier being-- fuzzy, come to think of it. Dorian can't remember how he found himself here, can barely remember what happened to his wrist that it needed splinting. There was probably an excellent reason for it, he assumes. Probably some stupid accident or other.
When Warren arrives at last, he'll find Dorian sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, and tension leaves Dorian's frame when he spots him in the doorway -- it's as though he was relieved. His gaze softens, and the hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
Normally, he would say some sort of greeting, but something compels him to wait. Don't speak unless spoken to, that voice says. It doesn't occur to him that he should rebel against that voice. ]
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How are you feeling?
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[ The corner of his mouth twitches up, and he rubs at his eyes with his good hand. ]
May I ask what happened?
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You had me worried.
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[ He frowns, trying to remember, and something about the story rings false. ]
Are you--
[ sure?, is how he wanted to end that question, but something shrieks in his mind, scatters his thoughts, and he winces as his hand goes to his temple.
His thoughts regather slowly, like spooked animals after the snap of a twig. A car slid in front of the house. He remembers the sensation of falling, an immense pressure slamming against him over and over. The snap of his rib, of his wrist, pain in his head. ]
... Yes. [ And the moment he agrees, it's as though a fog partially lifts. ] Yes, I remember.
[ His hand drops to his lap. ]
I'm sorry to have worried you.
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The wizard takes a seat on the edge of the bed and places his hand over Dorian’s. ]
I’m just glad you’re all right.
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But something in his head shrieks again, shrill and sudden like the screech of an alarm, and he screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
When the moment passes, he lets out a shaking breath, and he drops his hand to seek out Warren's. He looks up at him with a tired, apologetic smile, a surge of affection blooming in his chest and turning the expression fond. ]
I'm sorry. My head-- the accident, I think.
[ He sags against the headboard, struck by how tired he is, how sore and weak. ]
Have I been sleeping long? I feel rather as though I've been hollowed out.
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It’s been a couple of days. You must be starving.
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Days? [ That rings true enough, and he frowns. ] No wonder you were worried. I'm sorry to have caused such trouble.
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Can’t be helped. The important thing is getting you well again.
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Playing nurse, are we? I'll have to enjoy this while it lasts.
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