#[ dorian pavus: ic. ] you find joy in it not shame. it shows. / why be ashamed? power should be respected. not swept under the carpet.

[iniziare]

For as intriguing as it was to run into familiar faces of days that, truly, were not simply yesterday, Emmrich would not deny that it had been a little relieving to see the Not so young (anymore) Lord in place far better than ... some potentially would have wished him. Even thinking about it had the professor smiling to himself, head shaking slowly as there'd be a parting with a letter that would, with time, wind up in the hands of Dorian Pavus.

Young Lord Pavus, Surely, my penmanship will humor you even now, if you have mastered the art of reading - if my memory serves me correct - crow's feet so crooked not even crows themselves would be able to make use of them. It would serve you well to be informed that 'a crow' has found himself incapable of handling the 'skill' of my pen, he would much prefer I write my regards, requests and comments in codes. That way, he - according to himself - would at least be able to decipher it. Alas, were I to write you solely to humiliate my own writing, the letter would've served better in the form of a conversation over tea, like most old friends, foes and familiar faces do. I wished to you write to you, as I will admit that our brief meetings have not quite satisfied my curiosity in regards to the path your life took. You looked well, more... achieved? As if Life's mysteries have come to unravel and fold back into a clearer path. Have you been well? Have you finally grasped the ties to afterlife, death and its endearing nature? I would not be surprised if you had reached such a point in your pursuit of power that you would stand toe to toe with me in terms of knowledge, in fact, I would applaud it. You were always so clever, even when your regards for the dead were... not quite what I'd like (soothe a stirring heart, do tell me you have at least attempted some gentler approach to those souls you reach out to? If not, I would encourage them to remind you that you are not above them, merely a spout for their energy). Words should be had between us, eye to eye, as I would much more prefer to witness the more present chapters of Dorian Pavus, the troublemaker and headache (as some of my former peers might have addressed you as), in person. Coffee, tea or wine ... Name your poison, and I will serve it you accordingly and exceptionally. I look forward to hear from you. Best regards, Professor Emmrich Volkarin

And so it did, 'wind up in the hands of Dorian Pavus', that is. The poor soul, who would seek such attentions willingly? —— But alas, it could no longer be reconsidered or undone, though neither could the way that this Magister's lips tugged into something akin to a smirk— or was that an earnest smile forming so delicately under the curl of a much too well-kept mustache? The texture of the parchment was familiar, but it was the smallest glimpse beyond that gave away the author's identity without even the necessity of glancing at the name. There was so need, really. The ever so elegant, yet almost illegible calligraphy was unmistakable. And so his own quill found the confinement of his fingers, as he read, and wrote:

Professor Volkarin, Ah, the legendary chaos of your penmanship! It’s truly almost as if you’re attempting to communicate through an elaborate dance of ink rather than through words. For a moment, I thought I might not be able to decode such an... artistic display at all. But fear not— I’ve managed it with only a modest amount of help from a spirit. Yes, yes, I know— but this one was more of an assistant than a participant, and I assure you, he was treated with the utmost decorum. He did, however, insist on a small feast after assisting with your cryptic letter, but I’m fairly certain that was more his idea than mine. No restless spirits were harmed or neglected in the process, I promise. It is a true delight to hear from you, Professor. Though I must confess, your curiosity about my life’s course is unexpected—and yet, I find it to be entirely welcome. Yes, I must admit that I’ve been quite well, and, dare I say, perhaps even accomplished—though I’d never be so bold as to say I’ve fully unraveled the universe, not quite yet, I'm afraid (unfortunately so, wouldn't that be exciting!) The dead, however, have remained stubbornly elusive in their more cooperative nature. But don’t worry— I’ve treated them with kindness, even if they don’t always return the favor. Your invitation, of course, cannot be refused. I’m quite sure your keen eyes will find some fresh mischief to point out, as you always do. You’ve always had a talent for digging into things I’ve tried to neatly bury. Though I must admit, I’ve gotten rather adept at keeping a few tricks up my sleeve, so perhaps this time, I’ll surprise you. As for your offer — coffee, tea, or wine— you tempt me with impossible choices. But why settle for just one? Surely we’ll have enough time to indulge in all three: a touch of coffee to sharpen our wits, wine to loosen them (and our tongues) again, and tea to soothe whatever remains of our dignity by the end. A perfect circuit of pleasures, I'd say. Naturally, I must insist on a wine deserving of the occasion— nothing Fereldan, of course. We’ve both endured far too much to stoop to that indignity. And while you promise to serve me "accordingly and exceptionally," (You have me almost swooning, Professor!) I’d hardly dream of arriving empty-handed. Shall I bring the wine, then? Or something even more exceptional? Let it never be said that I failed to rise to a challenge, or occasion. Until then. I look forward to being both troublemaker and headache anew. Warmest regards (and, perhaps, a touch of anticipation), Dorian Pavus

[iniziare]

"———Right then," and thus it commenced, with a voice brighter than he'd intended, but he would always be utterly ill-prepared for this: Dorian, of House Pavus, in the role of he who consoled. Where was Varric when he was needed most? This was his area of expertise. But this room knew his absence, and another's absence most importantly. He was no fool, matters of the heart were... intrinsically familiar. "I’m not exactly what one would call skilled at— well, this." A vague gesture waved between them, as if such a thing would suffice. Imagine that, all addressed with simply one... elaborate sweep of a hand. "But here we are, I suppose you must make do with me, my dear." Would the attempted smile aid, or worsen it all? "Listen, I— I understand, well... aside from the small matter of the ancient elf’s grand plan to plunge the world into ruin. But, really, who hasn’t had a small lapse in judgment, hm?" There came the lightest lean into her direction, a nudge to a shoulder, perhaps— evidence that she would not know solitude if she didn't will it. His voice, though dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, was tinged with compassion. “But, on the bright side, there’s absolutely no one in this world who knows more about dramatic exits than I do." ... Well, until—— well, let's not speak it aloud at present, shall we?

Starter call: Dorian // @dinnanshiral

[iniziare]

The edge of the balcony felt as if it were the edge of a precipice, the weight of his new title a weight pressing down, but he maintained a usual flair. "They say it's mine now, the city— perish the thought." If only his father could see him now. Ah, perish that thought, actually. By the Maker. "It's ours, it's theirs. It always has been, or it should have been, at least." A ring of solid gold twirled his finger at the behest of the others, its faint glint catching the light of a setting sun as eyes rested on the city still. "You know, when I was a child, Minrathous felt like a dream." A voice grew lighter, laced ever so in vivid memory. "The Archon's palace staring back at me, the stars above me, and city lights below. It was... magnificent. I was so proud."

There was a pause then, and a quirk of his lips surfaced. "Then I returned, and I met Dock Town." A laugh ensued, though it seemed all but bereft of amusement. "No stars, just a sky clogged with grime thick enough to choke on, if you weren't careful. And rain, so much of it. the kind of weather that has you question whether it's actually possibly for a place to look that miserable." The exhale came in an scoff almost dismissive, as if forcing the thought aside, but alas. "And hands that reached for any coin, or scraps of uneaten food I had— I once told Varric that all of it was nothing to me, but it was everything to them. I'm not sure if I've ever felt so utterly useless."

There, he allowed it to linger, the guilt. "They didn't speak of it up here. And so for too long, I made excuses for it. But I'm tired of pretending that it's not the same place." A dramatic flourish finally accompanied the subtle wave of a hand— "Tevinter, Minrathous, Neve, all of it, deserves to be everything that it can be."

Starter call: Dorian // @coldjustness

[iniziare]

An ensemble caught the rays of dim light like a flare (you could believe it intentional by the Maker, truly) to reveal it: gold quilted fabric, a shoulder laced in intricate design, a dragon embroidered in exquisite detail— ah yes, the unmistakable Tevinter flair. Subtlety, as always, was not on the itinerary. And as the length of his necklace found itself caught in tangle amidst the empty spaces of his fingers, a glance was most certainty taken note of.

The quirk of a brow certainly said more than words could ever manage, and yet, who was Dorian, of House Pavus, if not a man to outdo himself on all occasions? “Ah, yes,” his voice dripped in melodrama already. "The embroidery really does scream ‘Tevinter villain,’ doesn’t it? The dragon was entirely my idea however, so points for artistry go to yours truly." But then came the sigh, ever laced in the dramatic fatigue that was him most utterly, and at that, the tome in his book closed with a prompt gesture. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? I’m Tevinter, and you are simply appalled. But before you start crafting my inevitable villain monologue, allow me to point out, that I am quite possibly the least threatening thing in your immediate vicinity.”

The smirk that ensued was one of practiced charm, though a gleam in his eye was one of certain challenge: “Now, shall we skip to the part where you begrudgingly tolerate me, or do you need a moment?"

Starter call: Dorian // @hawkc

[iniziare]

The shadows cast across the ornate walls by flickering candlelight shifted with every sigh of the wind, and perhaps even his own weary, and slightly dramatic, sighs and groans at the day added to the intensity of the fabrics lulling to this invisible force. Sorry, Varric, mages remain a special brand of dramatic. But by the Maker, how many magisters had it been today, pretty sure he'd lost count after eleven— he could never forget number eleven. That wine collection? Abhorrent— he'd endured it, for bad alcohol still beat the absence of it, and if his mother had taught him anything (being dragged off by your earlobe is a good educator), it was to feign good manners, or at least, the bare minimum. Thankfully, the here and now required no such pretenses. "It's a rather perilous time to be gallivanting about the streets of Minrathous, Varric, especially for someone of your reputation." Said esteemed guest appeared comfortable enough so far, thank the Maker that someone seemed to have taken a liking to that sumptuous armchair, at least. "I’d almost admire the bravery if it weren’t so likely to get you killed. And frankly, I’d rather not hear about your untimely demise in some half-baked letter written by your understudy, knowing I could have prevented it— or at least delayed it for now."

He'd taken to a pace then, a cross of the room away from the heat of the hearth, firelight catching on the golden trim of robes, before setting his glass down aside Varric's own. "There’s a room here. Fine view, dreadful curtains — mother's design you see, impossible to argue with her, really — but safe. It's yours for as long as you need.” There was a tug to his lips then, a tired smile settling beneath the curl of a mustache. “And selfishly, I wouldn’t mind the company. Someone has to make these long nights tolerable, after all. And my dear mother just won't do.”

Starter call: Dorian // @immobiliter

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Dorian Pavus

[iniziare]

“Have you seen the reports?” Came in query, his pitch elevated just sufficiently as to show the exasperation caught therein, enough to insinuate that he all but knew the answer to come. “Tevinter’s once-proud banners now look more like a public relations disaster. Slave uprisings, internal power struggles, and a magisterial scandal so juicy even the Chantry couldn’t help but gawk.” A sigh ensued, all but utterly dramatic in nature of course, all to match the wave of a hand, as if in gesture to brush away the entirety of the sordid affair. "And before you say it, yes, I’m well aware it’s hardly surprising. But tell me, do your associates—your... people— watch all this floundering about with satisfaction? Or is it just another tedious mess for the pile?”

Starter call: Dorian // @lastburden (The Iron Bull!)

[iniziare]

"———Oh no, no, no," came in instant proclamation at the lightest inclination towards it. Like a lioness protecting its cub with unparalleled ferocity. "The mustache stays untouched. It is not a playground for anyone's... fingers, or antics. It’s a matter of principle. —— And vanity. Mostly vanity." There was no no retreat to catch his feet, no hesitation in his disposition, simply a warning, only slightly dipped in dramatics. "One wrong move, and I'll be left resembling some hapless scholar attempting to grow a beard. You know, the type whose facial hair sprouts like a patchwork quilt— entirely uneven, sparse, and frankly, inherently tragic. Not a look I’ve ever cared to revisit. Besides, I rather like to think I've evolved beyond that stage. And I'm sure you wouldn't want to bear witness to the aftermath. Dreadful, really."

Starter call: Dorian // @enregards

[iniziare]

"Oh, I would hardly call it unfair, my dear, I’d rather opt for merciful. Wouldn't want to be too perfect; imagine how insufferable that would be." Appreciation would always be rewarded in playful dramatics from such a man, and a speck of amusement tickling his lips would live to tell the tale of it, even under the weight of the moment.

“———Should you have known?” Was an echo that claimed their midst: blasphemous in its entirety. So much so, that even a brow showcased itself capable of reaching for the frescoes overhead. “By the Maker, woman, are you hearing yourself? You’re grieving, not omniscient.” And then came that dratted wave of a hand again; truly, why did he employ it as if it was a miraculous solution for... anything at all? "Very well, let us entertain the prospect. What should you have done? Compiled a list of the man’s oddities? Aside from his attire, of course— though I admit, draped in enough beige to rival the Anderfels, he did look the part of a doomsayer. ‘Oh, he muttered in Elvhen twice today, a definitive sign of our impending doom.’ Hm, and didn’t he once suggest a sunset reminded him of ‘what was lost’? In hindsight, you're right, that was practically a confession of godhood!" Helpful is something this man had never once proclaimed to be, quite the opposite, in fact. But his voice softened in the end, at least some, and for a moment: authenticity outdid even his flair for dramatics. "You trusted him. That was no failing, Mira." And then, as if he simply couldn't help himself, came the addition that seemed far more to suit him, a gesture aimed at the room that housed them: “But if you’d like, I’ll happily draft a proclamation: ‘Her Worship regrets not being omniscient.’ Imagine the scandal, Cassandra would be beside herself.”

empty.  it  rings  through  her  as  the  silence  of  the  space  does,  the  silence  that  is  not  :  voices  murmur  down  from  circles  above,  somewhere  a  raven  croaks,  and  yet  this  room  feels  it  all  the  same.  empty  and  yet  not  -  the  inquisitor  sits  upon  the  sofa,  staring  up  at  frescoes,  her  remaining  hand  loosely  cradled  in  her  lap.  perhaps  there  is  no  sense  to  it,  perhaps  it  only  opens  the  wound,  and  yet  in  quiet  moments  stolen  from  the  work  of  dismantling  what  they  have  built  she  finds  herself  drawn  here.  wound  and  comfort  both,  perhaps  :  an  echo  of  a  fondly-spoken  word.  it  takes  a  moment  when  dorian  speaks  for  her  to  realize  it  -  as  though  perhaps  she  thought  she  heard  his  voice  drift  down  from  above.  like  waking  from  a  dream  she  blinks,  looks  at  him,  a  little  furrow  pressed  between  her  brows  as  she  listens  to  him  speak.  "you  really  aren't  very  skilled  at  this,"  she  murmurs  finally,  and  yet  her  smile  speaks  only  of  appreciation  :  that  he  is  here,  that  he  is  trying.  maybe  even  of  amusement,  that  moment's  pure  distraction.  "but  then  i  suppose  it  would  be  unfair  for  you  to  be  skilled  at  everything."  a  sigh  and  eyes  turn  away,  tracing  lines  and  color  again,  her  choices  for  the  inquisition  there  upon  the  walls.  there  is  so  much  left  to  do  before  her  next  hunt  may  begin  :  inquisitions,  armies,  they  do  not  disband  themselves.  yet  here  she  sits  and  her  heart  is  somewhere  else.  "dorian..."  looking  at  him  once  again  her  gaze  is  grave,  sad  though  steady.  "tell  me  the  truth  :  i  trust  you  to.  should  i  have  known?  or...guessed,  somehow?"  an  ancient  elven  god  he'd  said,  and  spoken  truth,  and  yet  somehow  it  does  not  match  the  man  she'd  known.  had  thought  she  knew.

[iniziare]

A hand stilled to the marble balustrade, where the flourish that inhabited those fingers stilled rather uncharacteristically. Contemplation and reflection would do such a thing to a person, even to one Dorian of House Pavus. Archon Dorian of House Pavus— by the Maker, the absurdity of it all, how did he get here? Ah yes, that blasted Inquisitor inspiring him to greatness. Wonderful. But then she spoke, and drew him from his lull of recollections and ironies, thankfully.

"You speak of Dock Town as if it were not a place, but a truth in its stead," came in rather quiet acknowledgement, a rare unadorned sincerity threading through the words of a man who, to the world, was known to speak only in dramatic grandeur, and conniving wit. "One that shaped you, tested you. And here I stand, spouting revelations as though I've unearthed some profound secret, while you’ve known it all along. Lived it." For a moment, the destination of her gaze accumulated an additional guest in him, though it felt, for a moment, almost as if he had no right to it, not yet. And so when lips eased, and permitted themselves to be tugged into a smile, one settled in rather wry origins, and it failed to reach his eyes, though his fingers shifted against the cold marble more firmly, tracing it, as if he were mapping out thoughts, plans. "For all of its grandeur, I don't truly believe Minrathous was ever meant to be divided— no ‘upper,’ no ‘lower,’ just one city. One people, not two." For the first, proper time, his gaze pulled itself to her, and he saw it: that familiar resolution he'd come to know so well, ever firm and enduring, one he'd seen in years that seemed too long ago, but felt still in heart, and always had.

"But if we’re to make that a reality, I’ll need more than words from the heights of a gilded tower. I’ll need eyes and ears where others don't dare to go, or simply choose not to, depending on their mood. And hands— capable ones, mind you, not the sort that fumble through Dock Town like it's some grand Elven ruin." And so there it was, the solution, in broad daylight— well, setting semi-daylight, caught in the midst of curving lips, a smirk ever irrepressible. "And you, my dear, seem uniquely qualified for all three. Lucky me, hmm?"

The irony that she now stood by the side of the Archon himself, the irony that she watched his ascension herself. The smoke lifts around her while the tobacco lit air lifts around her person slowly, casually, while a careful eye turns toward, now Archon, Dorian Pavus. The legend, the myth, the man - three of which titles she had come to know personally in these past few months. While she heard him speak on a epiphany that had shaken him to the foundations of what made him who he was. He was right, about everything - and most of all, despite his the sentiment he was trying to convey. It was a testament to the true disconnect that she knew existed all along. What had become his revelation, had long been her reality.

It was nothing to me, but it was everything to them. Those words linger in her mind, the shift for her weight back on her heel from her prosthetic, hiding a short shake of her right knee to rid herself of the pinch in nonexistent toes. A careful gaze flickers forward to look outward toward the city itself, by habit she sought out her home - looking outward toward the expanse of Her City to seek out Docktown. And yes, she can just make out the piers and the tips of arriving sails in the docks. "And we will give it to them." She starts, a hand resting against the scepter at her side while the other tapped the ash off the small pipe balanced between skilled fingers. The chill in the air defied by the turquoise scarf that hugged her neck, "I spent my entire life in Docktown." She confesses, since they were apparently sharing a heart to heart. "It didn't feel right to abandon it after so long when my family moved into the upper district."

"Hm.." Now her eye averts down, reflecting on things that her mother and father did to gain that ascension to better Templar ranks. "In truth, I hadn't felt right for a long time before the Gallus migration." Of course, they had no qualms about leaving their second child to fend for herself when she refused to let them use her status as the lone family mage to further climb the ranks. "I couldn't abandon it then, and I will never abandon it now."

[iniziare]

An outstretched hand would be met with a risen brow as its first contender, followed by a smile dipped in something akin to sardonicism— nothing but in good jest, really. “Ah, a proper handshake. How refreshingly straightforward. You know, I half-expect Fereldans to come at me with tankards of ale, or wild animals as gestures of good will.” It came in rather quick succession, such a sly remark, he'd admit to as much, but it came with a genuine, firm clasp of the offered hand. "But this is... nice. Well done." And for the beginner's class of 'how-to-Pavus', that roughly translates to: Nice to meet you, as well.

——— "Serah Pavus? Please, Hawke, you make me sound like a Fereldan knight that just saved a damsel in distress. Imagine that: me? I'd almost make my family proud. Perish the thought." The shake of a hand would come to an end then; surely the duration lived up to southern... 'etiquette', no? "Though I suppose if the title fits the dramatic ensemble, I'll accept it." A courteous step back was taken, before a gesture of a hand borne in utmost exaggeration waved itself at Hawke's own attire. “But look at you! A fur collar, claws, you live the entire ‘mysterious lone hero’ look as if you were born to it: how utterly quaint of you. I'm sure you're inspiring bards all across Thedas. Though, I imagine you’ve already heard a few songs about yourself, and sung off-key along with them in a drunken stupor. I know I have. They're quite catchy, you know."

His hands met at his back, tome held in a clasp between them, as dramatics rose anew. "Ah yes, Varric. Let's see if I recall— Garrett Hawke: ‘The man who could charm a dragon into playing cards, or just as likely, set the table on fire trying.’ Varric’s words, those, not mine." The glint in his eye proved doubtful, as if truly caught in hesitation as to whether to believe it or not. But in the beat of silence, a smile softened after a brief uttered laugh, a rare sincerity threading its way through a true Tevinter's otherwise theatrical disposition: “In any case, Champion, it’s a pleasure. I’m quite eager to see how Varric’s ‘force of nature’ holds up in practice. Speaking of our favorite dwarven friend— don't tell him I said that — where is the rascal?"

"I do need a moment, if anything just to comment that, yes, the embroidery does scream Tevinter mage. Varric had not been exaggerating about your dress sense." Varric had been sending him letters, keeping him updated on what he called 'the weirdest shit since the Darkspawn in the mountains' so Hawke knew what he was getting into when he began the journey to Skyhold to lend his assistance. It had been quite refreshing to read that Varric had already assigned nicknames to everyone he worked with, that was a good sign. His nickname for Dorian Pavus had been apt, the way that outfit caught the rays of the sun and shone, Maker, it really did give him a certain look he had only seen in the few Magisters he had met.

As far as Hawke was concerned, he had no quarrel with his fellow mage. He could not judge anyone on how they dressed, he was wearing a fur collar, his right arm was armored and his right gauntlet had claws. Admittedly, he'd gotten some use out of them, but it was still an odd choice for the city to commission that detail. He'd simply been taken aback by how loud yet regal the outfit was. Perhaps he should visit Tevinter one day, if anything just to see what it had to offer.

"I'm sure Varric has said plenty, but..." The Champion takes a few seconds before clearing his throat and offering his left hand for a handshake. "Garrett Hawke, a pleasure to meet you, Serah Pavus."