You have to fight for whats in your heart

Kaaras made a sudden flinch when Dorian plucked the book from his fingers and he was left there with his hands in the air for a moment, unsure of what to do with them as the man had gone on his rant. As a qunari, who had grown up in Ferelden, he had been judged and called a monster most of his life. He understood where Dorian was coming from. At least… in some way, anyway. He also happened to enjoy the company of both men and women. He’d had his fair share of insults tossed his way when he’d shown interest in a man before. 

Most people figured qunari were savages anyway. Why would it make a difference if he bedded a man when he was already seen as something horrendous to Thedas. 

Lowering his hands finally, he let them fall back down to his sides. “I understand,” he murmured softly, perhaps a little too knowingly. For years, he had been called names, he had been seen as a monster, an abomination. It didn’t help him any that he also happened to be a mage. No one dared try and toss the savage qunari apostate into a Circle, though (thankfully in many ways). That was beside the point, though. Even now, nearing 30 years of age, Kaaras still saw himself as many had seen him. It was ingrained into his head that he was some Maker awful savage simply because of his skin and horns, of being taller. Everything that was him. He hated it. 

“I like apples, too…” His lips parted a little after he said that, ears lowering a tad. That wasn’t meant to be a joke, he wasn’t making fun of Dorian by saying that. He wasn’t talking about apples, either. He was talking about men. He was just saying he knew what he meant. 

Kaaras’ words gave Dorian reason to pause. He supposed it was only reasonable for Kaaras to be sympathetic- the Inquisitor was an understanding sort of man- but the mage had half-expected him to snap or recoil in disgust. He hadn’t expected Kaaras to go on and explain that he shared his predilections towards men.

Unable to stop himself, the mage laughed and shot Kaaras an incredulous look. “Oh, future historians will absolutely adore you, Inquisitor.” His smile returned, and he shook his head as he returned to pawing through the shelves of books.

Usually Fenris was on time for all missions. He had little enough to do and, well, he enjoyed going out and killing things. Today was no exception, though he did have an inkling of hesitation surrounding the man he was supposed to be partnered with.

A mage, Dorian Pavus, apparently close to the Inquisitor to some degree. With a name like that, he had to be from Tevinter. And if he was a mage, Fenris immediately feared the worst. The sole reason he did not refuse to go was because Pavus was in the South. Surely a magister would have no reason to help the Inquisition, and certainly not personally? 

If Pavus was a magister, well, Fenris had no qualms removing a possible threat from the Inquisition personally.

He climbed the hill and narrowed his eyes at the well-dressed man. Jewelry glittered off his hands and he looked far too impractical to be walking around the Hissing Wastes.

“Are you Pavus?” Fenris asked, flexing his fingers. 

It felt like an age before the sight of something coming his way finally caught Dorian’s attention. He watched the shape with a deep frown, fingers wrapped tight around his staff, teeth clenched tight together. He may have been Tevinter born and bred, but there was no way he could explain away his presence to any guards that may have stumbled his way.

Situated where he was, running and hiding wasn’t much of an option. He had nowhere to go- not if he wanted to avoid alerting the rest of the camp to his presence. The mage remained tense, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as what was easily the strangest elf he’d ever seen crested his little hill.

There was really no mistaking the man. Dorian had read enough of Varric’s published works to hazard a guess as to who he was; scrawny elf, big sword, white hair, odd markings. He waited none the less, erring on the side of caution until Fenris spoke.

“Not too late to turn tail and run,” he says, following in after Dorian. All the little hairs on the back of his neck are standing up now, nothing about this feels good. High alert well and truly triggered, he’d probably chop a chair in half right now if it fell over and startled him. 

Then a voice comes, a voice that Dorian recognizes well, but sounds like snakes to the qunari. He closes his hand around the smaller axe on his hip, just for comfort, as a figure comes down the stairs dressed in robes. 

“Dorian.” he says only. Bull’s hand creaks on his axe. The old man’s eyes flick from Dorian to the Bull for a moment, and Bull takes pride in the flexing of the tendons in his neck. 

Bull just waits on the word. One word’s all it’ll take and he’ll put this axe right through that guy’s face. Other than that, he just waits on Dorian to talk to this vassal and give him a good verbal smack-down to send back to his father.

“Father?”

Ever one to fail at living up to peoples’ expectations, Dorian didn’t quite give this man the thrashing the Bull was expecting from him. His throat seemed to constrict ever tighter until it threatened to strangle him outright.

The worst part was that, even after everything his father had put him through, there was some small, aching part of his heart that was still his son. He missed Halward, greatly, greater than he would have thought. For a moment, seeing him standing there felt like coming home. Then, the recollection of all those days, of being locked up like a prisoner in his own home, of trying to desperately claw his way free before it was too late, came crashing down on his head and his anger boiled to the surface.

That look of surprise turned to one of anger and hurt. He peeled away from the Bull, stepping beyond his reach as he paced a little closer to his father. “What is “this” exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

@selfmedicatingmayor

Fuck. After what felt like laying there for hours, trying to muddle his way through a pounding headache, that sole word was the only thing he could fixate on. It described his current situation quite well. His head felt fucked, his eyes were fucked whenever he tried to open them- hell, he was likely royally fucked. It felt like he’d just had his head caved in by a pair of fucking brahmin. Even the air he breathed in felt fucked against his raw, aching throat.

The fuck had he done last night?

It took another age for him to realize he lay curled up next to someone, and what felt like another eon to remember how to move his limbs. Dorian shifted about slowly, trying not to groan and his as he lifted his head just enough to see where he was. Empty bottles and containers lay scattered on the bed he’d found himself in, and he soon realized that his ribs were slightly sore from where he’d been sleeping on an inhaler of some sort.

But that was nowhere near as shocking as what he saw when he looked up. A spike of fear wedged its way into his gut when he realized he’d been laying with a ghoul of all people. A fucking ghoul. Who seemed just as wasted as he was. It took Dorian a few moments to calm his beating heart. The ghoul hadn’t tried to tear a chunk out of him, so he obviously wasn’t feral, and- and his mind was still too fucking hazy to deal with its own irrational fear.

“R-really….?” Fear shifted to shock at that, he’d expected the man to blow up even more, point that staff at him and incapacitate him somehow so he could drag him back to Tevinter and deliver him to his master. The softness he was showing now was the last thing the little elf would have anticipated.

He took a step forward, eyes darting between Dorian’s hand and his eyes as he considered what he’d said. It could still be a trap, he supposed, but why would he bother pretending to be nice now when just a moment ago he had no issue yelling at him? Well, at least he could understand him, that was an improvement over every other person he’d run into since leaving Tevinter.

“Why….. I don’t understand…..” Peter started again, tentatively reaching out to take the mage’s hand when another spark shot out from his fingers and he gasped, tugging his hand back quickly. Maybe it would make sense to let himself calm down a little more before touching any strangers. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know how to make it stop. Um….. what….. what is the Inquisition? Who are you? ……Why are you helping me?”

“Really.” His brow knit ever so faintly, but the mage remained still, watching what the boy would do next. Dorian let him draw near without further comment- it seemed like it might have been the thing to do. But, he was soon proven wrong. At the first sign of those sparks flying, he jerked his hand away with a startled little hiss. “Shit!” 

As Peter backed off, Dorian straightened up in his saddle, squinting down at the boy in suspicion. He definitely didn’t look or sound like he meant to do anything of the sorts, but children could be tricky devils. The vint may not have known much about kids, but he did know just enough not to trust them completely.

“I’ve noticed,” Olek remarked wryly. It was hard not to notice Dorian, after all. His smirk softened to a more genuine smile. “Appreciate you keepin’ it simple for me.”

Reassured that he’d gotten something right, he looked down at their boots. He half expected somebody to chastise him for it. Bad posture, starting bad habits. But it was just him and Dorian. Olek closed his eyes a moment as he let out a breath. “You prolly grew up doin’ this stuff, right?”

“Oh, have you now? That’s good, it means that you have two perfectly functional eyes.” His smile only grew as he continued to lead the Inquisitor about in lazy little circles. “Yes, yes I did.” He hummed ever so softly under his breath. It was a noise full of yearning- even if all his memories of his homeland weren’t pleasant, nothing could take away what joy he found. “My dearest mother hired an instructor as soon as I was old enough to walk. I couldn’t have hated it more than I did... Thankfully, I learned to appreciate the art in my later years.”

@scandaloussparkler gets a starter

A Southern, elven mage didn’t stand much chance of blending in, especially when he ventured out without the group of Circle mages he arrived with. It wasn’t long before Alim was forced to abandon his cover and was faced with interest from the Tevinter upper class… the very thing he was trying to avoid. One or two people were easy to handle, but he had no desire of attending dinners and answering endless questions about the South and his adventures to slave owners.

The ambivalent feelings he had about the country and its people were only strengthening. He despised being around them, and yet at the same time, he yearned to talk to mages who were left to flourish without the restraints of the Southern Circles. Moreover, his status as a Southern celebrity got him into places he couldn’t have attended otherwise - but even that required staying on the good side of the local upper class.

And that would be the story of how he ended up with an invitation into the fancy bathhouse, given to him by a young Altus called… Theodora? She was the one Alim looked for as he entered the gardens around the bathhouse, and yet she wasn’t the one his eyes found. Upon seeing Dorian sitting on a nearby bench, Alim froze - he knew it would be impossible to explain what he was doing in a bathhouse for the elite, without his Templar escorts.

On the other hand, Dorian didn’t seem to be wearing anything other than a well-placed towel. Alim frowned. He hadn’t expected to see the man ever again after yesterday, but they still had a good conversation until Dorian was called away by an acquaintance of his - there was little harm in letting Dorian know about his true identity. Right…?

Finally, he let out a deep breath and approached with a smile, gesturing to the book the other was clearly lost in. “Do you end up reading everywhere you go?” he asked without a proper greeting.

The bathhouse might not have been the most orthodox place to enjoy a good book, but Dorian could hardly imagine a better study. It was hot and humid, even in the adjoining gardens. Everything was still and quiet, save for the hot breeze rustling the trees and the faint murmuring of the other patrons.

Dorian was still damp by the time Alim finally found him. Droplets of water rolled down his coppery skin and his long, dark hair lay limp over one of his shoulders. He seemed to know the sort of figure he cut and absolutely reveled in it. He was stretched out on his side, hip cocked, one muscular, shapely leg tucked over the other. 

With how high the towel rode up on his hip, it really might as well not be there at all. It wasn’t like covering up was mandatory, either. If he truly felt like it, he could have given up all pretense of modesty. But where was the fun in that?

His nose crinkled softly as he read and his lips pursed ever so slightly. “Yes, of course I do.” He muttered robotically, not truly paying Alim any mind. Between the good book and the better wine sloshing around in his mind, it took Dorian a few moments to realize that he recognized the voice.

He peeked up from his book, silvery eyes going wide as he stared up at the charming Southern mage from the library. For a brief moment, genuine surprise showed in his face, but he quickly smoothed out his features to a far more appropriate pout.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t come off well to those who ended up surviving this massacre, would you? Not that we have much in the way of numbers to help the Inquisition now.” A small smile tugged at his lips despite all of the pain, exhaustion and heartache he was feeling over his community being so thoroughly devastated. He had a feeling he was going to like this mage.

The elf took up a place beside Dorian as they began moving, keeping an eye on the kids on top of the horse while also watching for any signs of danger. The mount alone was enough to draw attention, but with two elves sitting on top of it, they’d made themselves a very large moving target and it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed and came after the group.

“I’ll keep all that in mind, but I don’t intend to let anyone here die. So long as you don’t go running off on your own, I think we’ll all make it through this just fine.” That wasn’t entirely true, for however formidable Dorian was–– and he was impressive–– Hancock could see the mage was already tired, he was exhausted himself, but casting any kind of doubt over their situation or their likelihood of surviving this mess would only throw the children into a panic and that was the last thing they needed right now. “So, does our savior have a name? I don’t believe we had a chance to introduce ourselves. My name is Hancock and I am–– ….I was the ‘mayor’ of this little community. Up on your horse here are Sowen and Miya.”

“We’ve helped fewer.” It was a sad reality, but reality none the less. Dorian was simply glad to have gotten here in time to help as many people as they had already. Hopefully, they weren’t too late to rescue more of his people. As things stood, he wasn’t sure if there was anyone left out there to save. “We don’t do this simply to gain more soldiers or allies. We’re here to make sure you don’t die at the hands of our enemies, nothing more.”

It was surreal, walking along as soldiers ran in every which way. Horses thundered by, end every now and then, the world around them lit up with the flash of magic, and still, they walked on. Eventually, the world went quieter. Fewer soldiers ran by, but they could still be heard skirmishing in the houses and alleyways nearby. The vint licked his lips and forced himself to hurry no matter how badly his legs ached. “A pleasure.” He panted, tearing his gaze away from the burning homes around him to smile at Hancock and the children in turn. He was grateful for the change in topic and the brief reprieve from the world around them. “I am Altus Dorian of House Pavus, formerly of Minrathous, most recently of Skyhold.”

He had more to say, and opened his mouth to try and continue speaking, but the mage never got the chance. It was in that moment where the world didn’t seem quite so dark that the enemy struck. One moment, he was about to try and reassure the children on his horse. In the next, he was stumbling back into Hancock as something hit his chest. The barrier he’d thrown up took the brunt of the blow, but the shaft suddenly jutting out from his ribs was still enough to knock the wind out of him. It took a second feathered shaft tearing into his shoulder for Dorian to even register what was going on, and by that time, his legs had already buckled under him. His staff clattered to the ground as his exhausted body finally gave out.

With how Dorian carried himself, the way he persevered in battle and continued on no matter what, the Iron Bull really hadn’t expected such a severe reaction (then again, they were all worn out from fighting all day).  He rolled with it easily enough, his touch gentling even as he continued along the path he’d set himself. The way the mage had jumped, the press of warm skin into the Bull’s arm, was all catalogued and stored for future use should he need it.

Outwardly, he stayed calm, with body language that was open and inviting to put the ‘Vint more at ease.  Usually it worked with the skittish ones, after some exposure and time.

“You keep doing what you’re doing when we’re kicking Venatori ass, and we’ll call it even.”  One more gentle examination, both with fingers and sight, and then he carefully withdrew his hands.  “Don’t forget.  Couple sips of elfroot before bed.”

Despite the fact they were done, the Bull wouldn’t move.  He’d sit there quietly, waiting for Dorian to pull away first – just in case the mage needed the closeness of another body to steady himself.

While the Bull’s presence was surprisingly comforting, it did little to drive away the feeling of being watched. The longer they sat there, the more the silence seemed to encroach on them. Dorian felt eyes on his back, and new the Inquisitor and Varric were staring at them. Really, he couldn’t blame them.

Finally, he dared to pull away from that firm, solid wall of flesh that was the Bull’s side and sat up a little straighter. It still hurt, especially when the Bull continued to touch his wrist, but Dorian managed to keep his pain off of his face. “I’d hardly call it even, Bull. That’s like telling me to keep looking devilishly handsome as a means of repayment. I’m obviously going to do it, regardless of my debt to you”

For a man who was usually fashionably late, Dorian had arrived at the designated meeting point hours early. It wasn’t like he had anything to do. The Hissing Wastes were- as the name clearly implied- full of nothing, nothing, and, surprisingly, nothing. At least from up his current vantage point, he could easily watch the Venatori he was supposed to hunt. They were hardly little more than ants scurrying around a hill from there, but even that was more entertaining than watching the sand shifting.

He couldn’t see much of their encampment from where he was, but he could make out enough. A few tents, at least a half-dozen soldiers, not counting the two mages. The metal bars of a large cage peeking out from over the dunes. He couldn’t see what was in it, but he could see the fire glinting off of it. It was a large, ugly thing. Large enough to hold a few people.

That was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Slowly, the mage slid back down onto his heels, tearing his gaze away from the cage. It left him feeling unsettled- worse, it made their job even more difficult than it was to begin with.

The dwarf took another breath, tension easing a little. He did his best to meet his tutor’s expectations, but acting proper just didn’t come naturally to him. That Dorian didn’t expect perfection soothed his nerves.

He obediently placed his hand on Dorian’s waist, tilting his head up slightly to meet his gaze. “The…left? Think it’s the left.” His right leg protested the shift in weight and Olek bit back a wince. “Not gonna surprise me with anythin’ fancy, are you?”

“Usually, the left.” He nodded in agreement and squeezed Olek’s hand to draw the inquisitor’s attention to it. “Your hand indicates which side you lead with. Left hand, left foot. Right hand, right foot.”