#[ 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]

If anyone ever wonders how much of a 'nerd' Dorian is when it comes to magic (or how annoyingly knowledgeable he is, because he continues researching, and learning), please be reminded that he was able to keep up with Solas. And I feel like this is a perfectly apt description of these two:

And Varric and Sera make me laugh. DAI's banter in my opinion, remains unrivaled:

[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]

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]

"———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]

"———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]

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]

Tag drop: Dorian Pavus

[iniziare]

“Maxima, my dear,” came immediately in full theatrical exasperation, right when that ever recognizable staccato of heels struck marble. It was an echo sharp in nature, ever present— and perfectly representative of one Magister Aurum. A force of nature she was, one way or another. “You do have a knack for appearing precisely when my life is on the brink of calamity— or glory. A miracle, a headache… who can say? It’s as though the fates themselves can’t decide if they’re punishing me or granting me some cosmic favor.”

The smirk didn't last, however— an oddity, certainly, but it faltered as if the weight of something unsaid pressed far too heavily on his tongue. And yet, the words themselves suddenly proved elusive to him. Funny how that worked. “I, ah… I heard, about what you did. Supporting me, I mean. For Archon.” All dramatics, and theatrics drained from his tone then, leaving it quieter, gentler, as his hands were found to twitch in slight as they rested to the desk, momentarily abandoned by their usual flourish. “Dangerous. Bold. Thoroughly mad.” And though a smile surfaced, it would not quite manage to reach his eyes. “It’s not the sort of thing I expect from anyone, least of all someone as sensible — or as infuriating — as you.” A beat passed, a pause, as a gaze of grey finally met one of green as it had many times prior, and yet never quite like this. The sincerity truly did cut through the bravado like sunlight through a storm. “So… thank you. I imagine you’ll have some remark to diminish it, but it matters. To Minrathous, and… to me, I suppose.”

Starter call: Dorian // @mercysought (Maxima)

[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]

Poised at the railing of the library, akin to commander surveying a battlefield, with a plethora of books (Chantry-related texts, nothing to important, really) hovering in lazy orbit in his direct vicinity. None of this looked, in any way, concerning— surely. And the offender, stood below, tall and proud, and absorbed in the plaster, that filled the rotunda with a damp, acrid tang. Impossible. "The end of civilization as we know it. Art, decency— snuffed out by that." A gesture was aimed down as a voice dripped in all things melodramatic, the fresco gleaming faintly in torchlight. “It reeks, you know. Not metaphorically. Not in the abstract. It literally reeks of mildew.”

Yep, the monologue continued unabated. “Look at it.” Such a declaration came with a sweeping disdain that could fell kingdoms. "As if the stench of wet plaster were the only thing missing from this charming corner of Skyhold. —— Oh, don't look at me like that, Inquisitor. It's nothing drastic, I assure you." Of course, as the glint in his eye borne of mischief would certainly be thrilled to corroborate. "Just a minor exercise in the relocation of literature.” A tome came to float ominously near the edge of the railing following the barest flick of a wrist, and his lips tugged into a smile— a sharp, conspiratorial thing. “Do feel free to avert your gaze. Plausible deniability is such a rare luxury these days.”

Starter call: Dorian // @nobodyexpectsthe

[iniziare]

He surveyed it with a critical gaze; that is, the chessboard between them that could hardly stand as proudly as either of its current occupants. And as per usual, his opponent proved anything but utterly impossible to read— it just wouldn't do. There always seemed to be a certain... silence to the man that he could never quite resist the urge to break. And so... "You know," came rather idly, a finger tapping the side of a cup in absent-minded repetition, "if I didn't know better, Commander, I'd say you were overthinking it again. I've seen mages with less brooding than you. If I didn't know you were a Templar, I might mistake you for one of the more... 'dramatic' sorts."

A distraction? Perhaps, yes. But a hand waved in dismissal of the thought entirely nonetheless, its origins mattering but little. "Not that it's a bad thing, of course. Though..." His voice lowered to something more akin to a whisper, or just a touch so, at least. "It's almost as if you've got a touch of blood mage in you, just... a little more refined. —— Anyway, your move, my stoic friend."

Starter call: Dorian // @lastburden

[iniziare]

The wine in his glass caught the light just so, that an amber gleam reflected off its crystal, a smile sharpening amidst a countenance. "I must admit, Inquisitor, your name is a marvel. Aristide de Tellier." What was worse, that if not for the chosen theatrics, his pronunciation might not have been too far off at all, or that he even managed to recall anything in the blasted language to commence with? "It sounds like something one might sigh dramatically on stage before expiring from utter heartbreak. A far cry from the sharp consonants, and sprawling syllables that us Tevinters favor. Say what you will about our faults — for there are many — but at least we're spared the agony of Orlesian theatrics."

Amusement sparkled in the grey of his eyes, permitting the words to claim and hang in the air for a moment longer than what many might consider polite. "No offense, of course. You're clearly the exception— though I suspect you'd wear a mask well, given the right occasion."

Starter call: Dorian // @deathwalkerr

[iniziare]

“A mother hen, you say? A disgraceful underestimation. I’m far more of an imperious rooster." His voice practically dripped in playful mockery as he lowered himself into a chair opposite him; movements appearing something akin to regal in their deliberate slowness. His glass sought his attention as it glistened in the flickering firelight, but a focus remained on his company. "And if I’ve fussed, it’s only because you’re you, Varric, and I have no interest in retrieving your corpse from the gutters of Docktown. Can you imagine the scandal? ‘Magister Dorian Pavus found dragging corpse of infamous dwarf across Minrathous.’ It’s a headline that writes itself."

The intended plans for ensuing evenings drew an expression far softer than he could have ever intended to show, but there was no correction that came. No, he reveled in it, rather than find himself caught in a wish to conceal it. “That sounds perfectly dreadful. But—” Ah, even the chuckle he'd made no effort to conceal, or restrain. "And Maker help me for admitting this, but I'd take that over silence any day." Here, finally, his fingers found their way to his glass, aching for one more sip. "Though I’ll admit— three glasses of wine first, before we discuss ‘Chuckles’ in any detail, yes?" A smile had come and gone in what felt like a glimpse in time, but an air of sincerity gathered in its place. “It’s… really good to see you again, Varric. Your letters were an excellent — if utterly inadequate — substitute, but there’s no comparison to this. It's been far too long."

       All things considered, it was a comfortable armchair. Comfortable enough for dwarven joints protesting at being on foot nearly all day, and positioned in a corner that allowed him to easily survey the entire room, including the magister who had recently joined him. The room itself might have reminded him of the gaudiness of his quarters at the Keep back in Kirkwall, before he'd had the entire place redecorated, but the company — well, he'd thought it when he first arrived and he was thinking it again now, but it really was good to see Dorian again. “ I had no idea age had turned you into a fussing mother hen, Sparkler. ” Varric arched a brow; his companion certainly seemed far more unsettled by the thought of an untimely demise than he was. Living in Kirkwall for so long would do that to you, certainly.

       Still, the offer of a room was greatly appreciated — so much so that Varric wouldn't comment on the untapped teasing potential of Magister Dorian Pavus still sharing a house with his mother. At least for now. He was still making a mental note of that tidbit for later. “ Thanks, Dorian. ” He met the man's gaze, matching his tired smile with one of his own. “ Well, if it'll help recapture the spirit of the old days, we can convene here in the evenings and I'll regale you with all the frustrating dead ends in mine and Neve's search for Chuckles, while you regale me in all the backstabbing antics of the Magisterium. ” Varric's smile was a little crooked this time. “ How's that for company? ”

[iniziare]

A retort is immediate, and a tone is sharpened with a glint of amusement that seems barely restrained. "Oh, Maker forbid I deprive a poor, hapless elf his chance to grovel— how ever would I sleep at night?" The words abandon him with a certain flourish that is nothing short of theatrical, with each syllable uttered in utmost clarity, and sharp in their intention. Followed in suit was the flutter of a hand upward, slicing the air between he and him with all the dismissal one could possibly muster. "But let us set the record straight: the curl, the tip, the entirety of this mustache is, and shall remain, resolutely off-limits. You may long for it, Zevran, pine even— but alas, even you must understand that some things in life are simply… unattainable."

His lips would twitch beneath that dark curl, until they were slowly drawn into a smirk ever so subtle, as if he were sculpting a taunt amidst that countenance of his. The glint caught in his eye however, held more warmth than his words would initially suggest. "And really, must we drag your knees into this? Such desperation hardly becomes you— though I do suspect you’ve made it an... art form." He still does not retreat by a singular inch, and a beat passes then, and the tilt of a head ensued— almost as if reconsidering. "Tempting, though. Were I a lesser man, I might almost be persuaded."

his is a lifelong penchant. how he worms his way through the careful construct of personal space and purrs at the precipice of too much. to his charming companion's credit, dorian hadn't blanched in his rejection. hadn't raised the expected hand to swat his own away, either. which ought have made it easier to recoil, his disappointment stifled.. instead—

" oh ? " what saves him is the advantage in height, curiosity piqued but forced to tipped toes, " and you'll not spare even the tip ? " given his grin and the way zevran's caught the lower of his lips between sharp, pearly teeth ; implications were implications but this.. this was an offer. " i am quite good with my hands, you should know. you lay such a lovely prize within reach and proclaim i shall not touch, what is a poor, hapless elf to do ? do you wish me to beg ? i've been told i am quite fetching on my knees, after all. "

[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.