Dorian Pavus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-01 03:37 pm
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-01 03:37 pm
salt-spray smell of seheron.
Screaming. A fire. The voice of his commander ahead. They weren't supposed to be this close to the city. A fight. Dorian can hardly even tell who is on the other side. Three months, three months in this fucking place, and he's already seen so many people die.
Crying. Out of the corner of his eye, tiny gray shapes clustered together inside the foyer of the burning wreck of an orphanage. Clutching at the skirts of an old woman, horns twisting back from her head. If they come out, they'll be caught up in this. If they stay, the building will collapse on them. They'll die either way. And Dorian has already seen so many people die.
A force spell, stopping the creaking beams above them from falling. Ice to wreathe the doorway, to make it safe to pass through. It's a strain to hold both, and dangerous to become distracted in the middle of combat, but Dorian doesn't even consider leaving them. Ignoring the expression of shock on the old woman's face, he screams, hoping they understand Common, at least. That way! Hurry, hurry! The patter of small feet on the ground, fast, a running pace. Arms shaking as he releases the spells. Pain, searing as fire, as the blade sinks into his shoulder. Dorian sends fire straight through the man's ribcage, leaving a charred hole in his chest that smolders as he lays dead on the ground. A face he recognizes. Sevantis, from his unit. Barely a moment to recognize that they think him a traitor. A traitor for saving the lives of an old woman and children no taller than his hip.
Fuck this. Fuck this.
Everyone is his enemy. That is how it has always been.
The taste of whiskey on a man's smiling lips, skin the same color. Flowers blooming in a Minrathous garden at nighttime. A wedding invitation. Another argument. His father's voice low and even in the way that means he's truly livid. Words like learn humility and understand what's important and your shameful proclivities and--
You are no son of mine.
The smell of sea air and spice. A warm breeze on his face. A searing pain in his shoulder and chest.
Dorian wakes with a ragged gasp. Thick canvas over his head, lit with golden afternoon sunlight. A tent. The smell of elfroot. A medical tent. He tries to sit up, but collapses with a groan as the pain makes his head spin. Difficult to look down, but he can see bandages wound tight around his bare chest. No sign of his clothing, his supplies, his staff; he wears only the bandages and a thin pair of linen pants.
And when he turns his head, he sees a huge grey shape, a dark outline against the rest of the tent. Broad shoulders, thick arms, vitaar painted across his face and arms and his bare chest, wide horns on either side of his head like--like a bull, Dorian's mind supplies. He is easily the largest Qunari Dorian has ever seen. Naturally, he panics. Too shocked to make a noise, he reaches for the Fade to pull forth fire--but he can't quite grasp it. The Fade is far away, a source far too small to draw from. He can feel it, but he can't access it. There isn't a collar around his neck (yet). Dosed with magebane, then.
Kaffas. Does it matter, really? What does he have to lose? Everyone is his enemy.
"Why am I here?" His lips are cracked and dry, and his voice comes out the same. Parched. Perhaps this Qunari does not speak Common. But he wouldn't be laying bandaged in a healer's tent if he hadn't been rescued.
Crying. Out of the corner of his eye, tiny gray shapes clustered together inside the foyer of the burning wreck of an orphanage. Clutching at the skirts of an old woman, horns twisting back from her head. If they come out, they'll be caught up in this. If they stay, the building will collapse on them. They'll die either way. And Dorian has already seen so many people die.
A force spell, stopping the creaking beams above them from falling. Ice to wreathe the doorway, to make it safe to pass through. It's a strain to hold both, and dangerous to become distracted in the middle of combat, but Dorian doesn't even consider leaving them. Ignoring the expression of shock on the old woman's face, he screams, hoping they understand Common, at least. That way! Hurry, hurry! The patter of small feet on the ground, fast, a running pace. Arms shaking as he releases the spells. Pain, searing as fire, as the blade sinks into his shoulder. Dorian sends fire straight through the man's ribcage, leaving a charred hole in his chest that smolders as he lays dead on the ground. A face he recognizes. Sevantis, from his unit. Barely a moment to recognize that they think him a traitor. A traitor for saving the lives of an old woman and children no taller than his hip.
Fuck this. Fuck this.
Everyone is his enemy. That is how it has always been.
The taste of whiskey on a man's smiling lips, skin the same color. Flowers blooming in a Minrathous garden at nighttime. A wedding invitation. Another argument. His father's voice low and even in the way that means he's truly livid. Words like learn humility and understand what's important and your shameful proclivities and--
You are no son of mine.
The smell of sea air and spice. A warm breeze on his face. A searing pain in his shoulder and chest.
Dorian wakes with a ragged gasp. Thick canvas over his head, lit with golden afternoon sunlight. A tent. The smell of elfroot. A medical tent. He tries to sit up, but collapses with a groan as the pain makes his head spin. Difficult to look down, but he can see bandages wound tight around his bare chest. No sign of his clothing, his supplies, his staff; he wears only the bandages and a thin pair of linen pants.
And when he turns his head, he sees a huge grey shape, a dark outline against the rest of the tent. Broad shoulders, thick arms, vitaar painted across his face and arms and his bare chest, wide horns on either side of his head like--like a bull, Dorian's mind supplies. He is easily the largest Qunari Dorian has ever seen. Naturally, he panics. Too shocked to make a noise, he reaches for the Fade to pull forth fire--but he can't quite grasp it. The Fade is far away, a source far too small to draw from. He can feel it, but he can't access it. There isn't a collar around his neck (yet). Dosed with magebane, then.
Kaffas. Does it matter, really? What does he have to lose? Everyone is his enemy.
"Why am I here?" His lips are cracked and dry, and his voice comes out the same. Parched. Perhaps this Qunari does not speak Common. But he wouldn't be laying bandaged in a healer's tent if he hadn't been rescued.