hadriel_logs | and toast the living

Entry tags:

and toast the living

Who: Dorian Pavus (

sparkler) and Henry Percy (

hotspurred)
What: Sometimes you need to drink after dealing with your wendigo-ized best friend
Where: Henry's apartment
When: 3/1-ish
Warnings: Drinking, probably references to cannibalism, maybe entertaining medieval-style swearing.

Dorian has been out of drinkable liquor for quite some time, and he's not willing to risk the strange bottles found in the shops yet, so Henry's offer had been most welcome. It's even more so now, after he's been forced to deal with Cecily. Well, a monstrous version of his friend, at least. And it isn't as if it's the first time he's had to face a friend in battle, but it was certainly one of the worst. He only hopes that Henry's offer still stands.

It's been a couple days, though, long enough for him to recover a bit. He can't face the world if he's about to fall to pieces after all, and while Henry might be the closest thing Dorian has to a friend outside the others from Thedas, he isn't willing to inflict that sort of thing on him. So he's mostly got himself together when he finally knocks on Henry's door.

He hasn't got any liquor to share, but he brought food, at least. Fresh fruits, some of them strange to him - apples and strawberries and pears - but nothing that could remotely be thought to have meat in it. So that's good, at least.

He knocks firmly, then waits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The offer he made had been one without a fixed expiration, so Henry is not entirely surprised to find Dorian at the other side of his door when he opens it. Though tempered by the solemn awareness of the circumstances surrounding this visit, he is pleased.

"Ah, Dorian," he says, stepping back and gesturing inside. "Come in. Please do make yourself at home."

Henry spares a short moment to look Dorian over thoughtfully. Idly he thinks strawberries are not in season only to correct himself. They are conjured, of course, not grown. That in itself strikes him as absurd. Small details of life in Hadriel still do here and there, at odd times.

Henry keeps his apartment clean, though there are signs that it is lived in: objects like the rubber band ball, box of crayons and a book from the library sit out in the open, one chair is askew, and there is some cutlery drying next to the sink. The lack of arms or armour in sight suggests that one of the two bedrooms serves as an armoury, a necessity that allows easy movement around the small space.

He closes the door behind Dorian.

As he enters, Dorian looks around, indulging his natural curiosity. He doesn't know Henry terribly well, but what he does know fits quite well with what he sees. Tidy, not overly cluttered, but it's clear that someone lives here. It's good, he thinks. One might as well make a space their own, when none of them know how long they'll be here.

He sets the fruit down. Dorian has made an effort to keep up his own standard of appearance, but he knows that no doubt he looks tired, at the very least. This has not been a pleasant time for him. But has it been for anyone? Doubtful. People turning into monsters is not the sort of thing that can be easily shrugged off.

"The invitation is deeply appreciated, ser. I believe I'd have gone mad if I spent another moment in my house."

Where Cecily is not, because she is dead, and it's Dorian's fault. Not an excellent feeling.

Henry heads for the kitchenette at the back of the apartment, speaking as he moves.

"It seems to me that fortitude is of vital import."

When he returns it is with two glasses and the unopened bottle of whiskey, which he places down by the fruit.

"So I am happy to provide."

And since he is providing, Henry unstacks the glasses, opens the whiskey, and pours for them both. Once done he takes a seat.

"Though there is a cost," he states, "if you are willing to pay. I have questions."

Dorian takes a seat as well. It's been some time since he's had anything to drink, and even longer since he's had anything decent. Something to take the edge off is all he can ask for right now, and Henry is kind enough to provide.

"I can think of few questions you could ask me that I would be entirely unwilling to answer."

There are things he'd rather not talk about, of course, but nothing Dorian can think of that he would straight up refuse to cover. He picks up the glass, takes a small sip of the whiskey. It's good. Certainly more than worth answering a few questions.

"Ahh. For that, I'll certainly answer whatever you have to ask. What is it that's on your mind?"

Henry lets out an amused breath and drags his own glass closer to him, before he picks up a pear. He turns the pear in his grip and tests the firmness of its flesh. There is the slightest bit of give, which means it is perfectly ripe for eating.

"You are a magician, are you not? With your staff and smooth hands."

He raises the pear to his mouth.

"What does magister entail?"

Well, he did say questions. Henry's intention is apparent: he plans to satisfy his curiosity about Dorian.

Consideration keeps him silent about recent events in Hadriel. If Dorian wants to talk about what has transpired, that is fine, but Henry will not trespass on Dorian's grief. He sees that Dorian looks tired, and while he knows all too well that there is no reprieve, distractions help day-to-day.

Dorian laughs, unforced though perhaps a bit more weary than normal, and raises one hand to inspect it. Certainly smooth compared to a warrior like Rainier or Henry, but perhaps less so than he would have liked. Dorian's done more physical labor than he would prefer to in the recent months. Still, it amuses him.

"I am, yes. Do you have magicians in your world? Some don't at all. Awful, I'm sure."

A world without magic is not something Dorian cares to contemplate at length.

"Magisters are those with a seat on the Imperial Senate of Tevinter. They make decisions for the land, and hold most of the power. Many elsewhere in Thedas believe that any mage from Tevinter is a magister, but that's quite untrue. One must have political power, wealth, and plenty of connections."

He swirls the liquid in his glass, expression growing a touch more serious. In a way, Dorian is happy to be able to speak of home, here when he's further away than ever. It brings up both pleasant and unpleasant memories, a painful wistfulness. Homesickness, he might say, if he were to admit to it.

"My father is a magister. I was supposed to be his heir."

Henry bites into his pear as he listens. Thedas is a strange and interesting prospect: oddly like the world he knows while concurrently nothing like it at all. A sort of magical Roman Empire? Suddenly the not-quite-Latin makes more sense, as part of a larger whole.

His brow minutely furrows at Dorian's last words.

Henry breaks from eating and licks the juices from around his mouth. As he speaks, he weighs them in his mind.

"We do have magicians... in small numbers. One might say that a touch of magic is present in all things, but a true abundance? You would be considered rare."

Of course there are magicians, and then there are magicians of Christine de Pizan's calibre. With his free hand, he picks up his glass.

"That is before I know what you are capable of."

He takes a swallow of whiskey. The warm burn of it is what he remembers, more than the specific taste. He thinks that if it was a forbidden topic, Dorian would not have said it in the first place, so he goes ahead and asks directly.

"Supposed to be, but did not become his heir?"

He watches Henry eat for a moment, then sips his whiskey, giving himself time to consider the man's words. Mages are not so terribly common in Thedas, either, but he thinks perhaps more so than Henry's homeland. Certainly there are enough for an uprising, and enough for Tevinter to flourish.

Dorian smiles, then.

"You would be right in that. I am quite rare, a unique specimen, both powerful and devastatingly handsome. Not to mention charming and cultured, of course."

A quick laugh, as he reins himself in.

"Modest and humble as well, as you can see. But in all - well, more - seriousness, I am a talented and well-educated mage. I am capable of quite a lot."

And in that, he is more honest, less flippant. Dorian doesn't need to talk up his own talents, after all. He is skilled enough to have no need of that. He continues, then, still an air of flippancy to his tone though the topic is rather more serious - and personal.

"We had a difference of opinion, you could say. He did not approve of how I lived my life. I left, and abandoned my country and my family in doing so. I've few regrets, except perhaps the fine Tevinter wine that's so difficult to get elsewhere."

He cocks his head slowly. Exile is not a choice Henry would want to face, nor can he conceive a situation in which he would turn from his family and country. Acknowledging that he cannot begin to comprehend that position, he leaves it be. Instead he speaks with dry amusement.

"And what tribute does such greatness demand? In the absence of Tevinter wine."

Henry finds himself honestly entertained by Dorian's bold mockery of arrogance and easy confidence. He can see how it might disarm -- indeed, he is not immune.

Of course, he has good reason to be well-disposed towards Dorian, after his first month here.

Just before he returns to eating his pear, Henry asks, "If it be no imposition, will you tell me of your life before Hadriel?"

It is not entirely the truth, not really. Dorian still loves his homeland, still believes Tevinter can be salvaged, can become something worth saving. He devotes part of himself to it, even if all he can be sometimes is the one good man from Tevinter. But speaking of that would be too delicate a subject for him right now, when he is already homesick.

"In the absence of Tevinter wine, any liquor will do. I'm afraid I'm far less picky than I pretend."

Dorian still speaks with laughter in his voice. Indeed, he has a bit of a weak spot for cheap, awful Fereldan beer - and really, anything that gets the job done is welcome.

It's been some time since Dorian's had anything to drink, and so he feels the barest beginnings of the effects of alcohol already. It's good. He's quite pleased.

"Before Hadriel, I served the Inquisition. We were devoted to - well, saving all of Thedas, as ridiculously dramatic as that sounds. A foolish, vain creature was ready to tear everything apart to get what he wanted, and our brave Inquistor drew us all together to oppose him. I provided my magical skills in battle and my scholarly skills at Skyhold. We succeeded in the end, of course."

He raises his glass to that, briefly, then turns his attention to Henry, who no doubt has a story or two of his own.

"And what of you, ser? Will you answer if I ask of your life before arriving here?"

Perhaps there was a time when it would have sounded ridiculously dramatic to Henry's ears, but that is long past. Finishing his pear, he puts the core aside, then sucks his fingers clean where they are sticky with juice.

"I believe it.”

He takes a sip of whiskey, before he speaks of his own recent past.

"A fair few years ago I sailed from England to France, whereupon I joined our war against the French at the order of my king. There I served under our prince, who commanded our armies."

His expression darkens.

"That war came to an abrupt and wholly unexpected end last year. One day we fought the French; on the morrow, monsters spilled across France in their tens of thousands. They were... naught but tales afore they laid waste to the land. Henceforth it mattered not whether one was English or French, for we were allies in this new war by virtue of our humanity.”

Returning to his drink, this time Henry takes a long swallow.

“Despite our combined might, we verged on utter ruin. 'Twas only the success of a desperate gambit which afforded those of us who remained one final battle. On that field, blessedly, we won.”

He leaves out most of the detail: all the parts too grim for drinking conversation, all the parts he does not want on his mind when he intends to be much less sober by the end of the night.

Shaking his head, he forcibly distances himself.

“So, perhaps not entirely different. I hope you at least managed to savour your victory before the Door dragged you here.”

Dorian listens, his eyes steady on Henry. He is a good listener when he wishes to be, leveling his full attention on the other man, whiskey not forgotten but temporarily ignored.

It isn't such a strange tale to him. It sounds like a Blight, in fact, though Dorian knows by now that other worlds do not have those, that they seem to be specific to Thedas alone. But the sudden appearance of a horde of monsters, a heroic battle against them, humanity banding together - even the thought of a desperate, last-ditch plan reminds Dorian of what he knows of the Blight. And indeed, if it was at all similar, then it's remarkable that Henry survived.

Or perhaps not so remarkable. It's clear from the way he stands and moves that he's a competent warrior. Dorian has spend enough time around men who fight with swords rather than magic to be able to recognize that. He thinks it was likely skill, rather than luck, that saw Henry through. Or perhaps a bit of both.

"A thrilling tale indeed."

And though that could easily sound flippant, it doesn't quite - Dorian's tone is more serious, more respectful. They have both been through great trials. Dorian wouldn't make light of that.

"I did, yes. We celebrated, and made a few plans for the future, and then I retired to the library - rather drunk - and when I awoke I was here."

Not the first time he's found himself somewhere strange after a drunken night, but by far the oddest.

"Did you, or did they steal you away before you had a chance to rest?"

If anything, it is what Henry needs: acknowledgement, but also a lightness to embrace. Edward is the sun that effortlessly breaks through the gathering clouds of Henry's mood, so prone to storminess -- but one of a myriad reasons that he misses his prince. And Edward is without equal, but Henry can recognise a touch of that manner in Dorian. He responds to it.

"I was yet to leave that battlefield--" he pauses to flash a pointed grin, "--as your attire when we first met may testify."

Perhaps he should not find that amusing, but he does now.

"Make you a habit of haunting libraries drunk? Though I expect it was more fruitful an undertaking than visiting Hadriel's one sober."

"Ah, I remember." And he smiles, remembering, because it was perhaps not a fortuitous meeting, but he does not regret it. Henry has been a staunch ally so far, and perhaps eventually a true friend, which Dorian values highly. He's had few in his life, after all.

"Have you been able to recover at all here?"

He knows the answer might well be no. Hadriel isn't exactly the most relaxing of places, though compared to a battlefield it is at least more calm.

He finishes his whiskey before answering Henry's question, taking one long swallow and feeling the burn all down his throat. It's surprisingly pleasant.

"Don't you? Libraries when somewhat drunk are the most delightful things. You can find all sorts of things you might have overlooked sober. Why, the one here would be immensely more pleasant while drunk, I think."

"Well enough."

That is the simplified truth. The complex version is one Henry keeps to himself.

He huffs a laugh at Dorian's answer. "Far be it from me to question the consummate scholar's opinion. 'Tis an outrage that we should be denied both a ready supply of reading material and drink."

Applying the role of attentive host, Henry refills Dorian's glass.

"I have the armoury with which to divert myself. How is it that you occupy your days?"

He smiles at Henry, rather pleased at the graciousness of his host. While certainly not drunk yet, Dorian is nicely warm and a bit tipsy, beginning to relax and make himself comfortable.

"Oh, nothing of note, really. I'm afraid that I am attempting to make some sense of the library, but so far it's all been pointless. I try to make myself a bit useful - fighting monsters and the like - but naturally I'd prefer days of leisure."

He laughs, raises his glass in a polite toast to Henry's hospitality, and drinks.

"I have a few friends here, but most of us are not terribly close. That's how it usually is, however. Friends are a rare and precious thing these days."

Dorian leans forward, raising an eyebrow in careful interest.

"And what do you do in the armory, ser? Practice with all those delightful weapons? Organize things? Teach lessons?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

and toast the living

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject