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If one poured enough wine in, long enough, it turned out any hole could be filled. Dorian had suspected that when he'd soused himself stumbling after leaving Tevinter, night after night, trying to dull the ache of his father's actions.
Seated in a tiny tavern in a town that probably didn't even have a name it was so very, very quaint, (and if it did have a name it was probably something like Whiteholm or Bridgeton or Northridge or any number of other ridiculously literal, and painfully Ferelden monikers that Dorian wasn't going to be bothered to learn) he'd decided to test that hypothesis again.
Maybe, if he were very lucky, he could drink himself properly blind and then he wouldn't have to look at the sad-eyed stranger in the mirror anymore.
It was early goings yet, so the ache in his chest was still empty and gaping and raw. He drank deeply from his cup, ignoring the sidelong glances he was getting from the utterly charming locals who seemed to have cottoned to the fact he was both foreign and a mage and were currently working up the courage to see who would try to throw him out.
He hoped they'd wait until he was rather drunker. As it was, what was left of his pride wouldn't allow him to just get dumped in the gutter without at least a few horrors raised and greasy beards aflame.
The cup was empty and he raised a finger, crooking it at the barmaid, who blanched when she saw it, as if he was cursing her with some horrible blood magic right that moment and that compelled here to approach.
But before she had reached Dorian's table that place inside him that had gone still and cold, silent as a grave, it yanked and with a gut-twisting lurch he found himself simply someplace else.
"Fasta vass." The place involved rather a lot of strange alchemical and magical equipment, a full forge, a hole in the floor and a waterfall seemingly pouring endlessly into nothing. He picked himself up off the ground, hefted his staff and turned in a slow circle in the empty, cavernous workshop.
"Now this is interesting." The Fade, or something like it, but he was here physically, which sent the coldest of shivers up his spine. He cocked his head, frowning, turning slowly to look at the craggy face of the living rock to his left.
That couldn't be right. A hallucination, or an echo, or a demonic distraction. He swallowed, his throat tight and dismissed the sensation. He was confused by being physically in the Fade. He slapped the journal that had mysteriously appeared in his hand against his thigh and then frowned down at the thing.
No, no. Focus. He knew precious little about what had just happened to him, but to even entertain the slimmest of hopes that Taran was alive and calling to him? Impossible.
Seated in a tiny tavern in a town that probably didn't even have a name it was so very, very quaint, (and if it did have a name it was probably something like Whiteholm or Bridgeton or Northridge or any number of other ridiculously literal, and painfully Ferelden monikers that Dorian wasn't going to be bothered to learn) he'd decided to test that hypothesis again.
Maybe, if he were very lucky, he could drink himself properly blind and then he wouldn't have to look at the sad-eyed stranger in the mirror anymore.
It was early goings yet, so the ache in his chest was still empty and gaping and raw. He drank deeply from his cup, ignoring the sidelong glances he was getting from the utterly charming locals who seemed to have cottoned to the fact he was both foreign and a mage and were currently working up the courage to see who would try to throw him out.
He hoped they'd wait until he was rather drunker. As it was, what was left of his pride wouldn't allow him to just get dumped in the gutter without at least a few horrors raised and greasy beards aflame.
The cup was empty and he raised a finger, crooking it at the barmaid, who blanched when she saw it, as if he was cursing her with some horrible blood magic right that moment and that compelled here to approach.
But before she had reached Dorian's table that place inside him that had gone still and cold, silent as a grave, it yanked and with a gut-twisting lurch he found himself simply someplace else.
"Fasta vass." The place involved rather a lot of strange alchemical and magical equipment, a full forge, a hole in the floor and a waterfall seemingly pouring endlessly into nothing. He picked himself up off the ground, hefted his staff and turned in a slow circle in the empty, cavernous workshop.
"Now this is interesting." The Fade, or something like it, but he was here physically, which sent the coldest of shivers up his spine. He cocked his head, frowning, turning slowly to look at the craggy face of the living rock to his left.
That couldn't be right. A hallucination, or an echo, or a demonic distraction. He swallowed, his throat tight and dismissed the sensation. He was confused by being physically in the Fade. He slapped the journal that had mysteriously appeared in his hand against his thigh and then frowned down at the thing.
No, no. Focus. He knew precious little about what had just happened to him, but to even entertain the slimmest of hopes that Taran was alive and calling to him? Impossible.
