the fear of death confounds me;

recently moved feb 15th, 2021 ( old blog )

other blogs : kaeya alberich, ganondorf dragmire.

      𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴 ,  𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚂 ,  𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝚈 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴 .    the inquisition had not been at skyhold a year yet ,  but the moment her boots crossed the threshold into the courtyard  …  she felt a sense of  relief .  her first order of business ,  as always ,  was to report directly to sister nightingale :  deliver her findings and whatever messages that needed passing along from other agents in the field .  and then ,  upon her dismissal  …  beau had all but skipped down the small stairwell to end up in the inquisition’s library .  she  didn’t  skip ,  as it happened ,  mostly because her attentions were more consumed with fishing a volume out of her bag .  

     ❝ dorian , ❞    the girl says with equal affection and pleasantness ,  the kind everyone always assumed to be affected but any fool could see was painfully genuine .  she smiles at the sight of him  -  floating teapot and drawn brows and all  -  and takes up her usual perch upon the railing that circled the tower’s second level .  he’d chided her ,  in his way ,  multiple times about the precarious balance  …  it didn’t stop her .    ❝ not  too  hard ,  no , ❞    beau answers ,   dutifully  steering away from the subject of her recent assignment like a good little spy .  her heel taps lightly against the railing .    ❝ tea would be  lovely  -  consider it a repayment , ❞    she holds up the book with one hand and gives it a bit of a wiggle ,  grinning from ear to ear .   ❝ i brought you a  gift . ❞

       Isabeau had some of something of a surprise ——— the whole of his journey southward had been a surprise above all else ( throwing his lot in with a heretical movement at the spearhead of which is a man with a magically glowing hand alongside several of those who worked closely with the SOUTHERN CHANTRY, despite denouncing it in word, though not at all in action, not to mention forming friendships with several ) but his fondness and affection for her had taken him somewhat by surprise. Dorian is not a person lacking in affection for others, per say, but where it once had been a rarity or something that he protects out of necessity and little else, she had simply been disarming. And thus : he is happy to, at last, see her once more.

       His head tilts and he finds himself summarily unsurprised to be greeted with the sight of Halwn, awake, and the mystery of what has awoken him has been solved at last !! Not that the man had been loud, mind you, considerate to a fault. How could you be considerate to a fault, you may ask? Well : simply look at the Herald of Andraste. Absurdism at its finest. ( he wonders, fleetingly, how long halwn has been awake. for mere moments? hours? it’s worry, he knows. worry, worry, always worry. )

       ❝ What’s that saying? It’s Ferelden, if I recall, though perhaps of the Free Marches ——— the early bird gets the worm? ❞ Dorian’s mouth presses together ( as if to suppress a smile ) and he takes Halwn’s hand in his own, turning it over and passing his thumb over the callouses he knows so well. He presses his mouth to Halwn’s palm within the span of the next beat of his heart ( slow, slow as death, as always ) before he twists, gathers magic about him as though it were a second skin ( it is ) and slips out of bed in a fluid motion. ❝ Well, the origin is neither here nor there. You have clearly taken it to heart ——— venhedis it’s freezing in here, people perish of frostbite, you know, ❞ complaining for all that he is the one who extricated himself from the warmth of their bed.

       Still : he, particular as ever, selects an orange from the bowl set unassumingly on the Inquisitor’s desk and throws it towards Halwn ( aided by magic ) as he makes a quick return. Dorian presses his already freezing toes against Halwn’s calves, imperious as ever, exhaling in something of a huff. ❝ If we are to be up before the crack of dawn, we might as well enjoy ourselves. And look : we are already well on our way, considering we slept on an actual bed. Revolutionary. ❞

       Candlelight casts long shadows, though the magelight that he has oh so casually conjured casts the deepest of all ——— it’s intolerable, how low the light becomes with merely candles while the darkness of night has long since descended outside. For once he is not cloistered securely in his nook, though it’s hardly as though he’s deviated much at all : several paces away, seated at the table beside, leaned back in his chair and balanced perfectly / awaiting a fall that will never come. Hands interlaced over his abdomen, the majority of his attention focused on the man seated across from him.

       Why only the majority, you ask? Well, very few people ever get the whole of Dorian’s attention, after all. ( there are too many things to ponder and theories to consider and his hyperawareness ——— doesn’t lend itself well to focusing the entirety of his attention on much at all. )

       ❝ ——— It’s as though they’ve never encountered quality fabric in their lives, ❞ he speaks both broadly and derisively, a flippant wave of his hand as he leans further back / and still yet doesn’t fall. ❝ Though that would explain their uniforms, ❞ pondering, now, gaze drifting as his head tilts and all four legs of the chair touch the floor once more, and he shifts, one of the legs aggravatingly shorter than the others. ❝ And yes, I’m perfectly aware : why keep the caged mages in any semblance of comfort? They have no reason to consider such material discomforts. It simply makes it more barbaric. ❞

       He spots her across the way, never given to the darker pallets of their forebears nor their colleagues, and thus never difficult to spot. He amuses himself, for a moment, with the fact that they match, once more ——— match in the loosest of senses, that is : Dorian is swathed in his customary white and gold, jewelry glittering and fabric perfectly pressed. He leans closer to Maevaris and speaks quietly, melodious besides the music, before peeling away and weaving between attendees, customary smile on his face, returning passing greetings, stealing a wine glass from a passing server simply to hold.

       What? He knows very well not to drink anything without pause nor consideration.

       ❝ Magister Aurum, ❞ a warm greeting, accompanied with a raised glass and a nod of his head, smile widening and threatening to become an outright grin. ❝ What a pleasure ——— quite the festivities, wouldn’t you agree? ❞ he gestures to the room at large with his glass, tilting his head to catch sight of a knot of people across the dancefloor. ❝ Lady Decimus must be in a state right now. This may very well outshine her for the event of the year, unless rather drastic measures are taken. ❞