fadewalk

Bloody Dorian. Bloody poncy mustache faced Dorian. Sera had the least amount of problem she'd ever had with a mage with Dorian, but there was more than one of them, and how was she supposed to know if this Dorian wasn't some slave-beater. Another rich pissbag she had to hate.

She didn't want to hate him. She liked Dorian, not that she'd say that to his stupid face. But she needed to know that the people here were people-people, even if they were rich tits in fancy shoes.

Could be he was a demon. Then she'd have to put an arrow in his pretty stupid face.

The roof of the tavern offered a perch she could use to see most of the upper courtyard. If he was coming from the great hall or the wallwalk down through the Herald's Rest she'd see him. See if he was a person.

She held an arrow nocked but not drawn, eyes scanning for movement, leaning back into the shadows so she'd be bloody hard to see from the ground. Or the sky for that matter.

Tits all, she hoped he didn't take too long. Sera wasn't patient and she with all her nerves she found she really needed a piss.

Tali was sure that some day, kicking the bosh'd electronics was not going to work, and she would look silly, standing there thumping on a busted device.

But today was not that day.

The outer doors to the airlock finally popped open, and Tali dropped to the grassy ground just past the exit. She stared at the roiling sky, at the high stone (stone! like in the fairy stories of children!) walls of the castle, at the disturbing lack of solid ground that encompassed the whole of the building.

Then she scribbled off an invitation to the human she had been comparing notes with, and settled down on the end of the Normandy's closest wing to wait.

Baby steps, she told herself. You don't learn how to rebuild a combat drone during your first firefight.

Current Location: Normandy SR-2: Outside

"Look at this book, it's probably a demon's trap. Let's write in it!" Yes, Dorian, this is one of your best ideas yet. Write in the demon journal for no other reason than to satisfy your own curiosity. You haven't learned anything.

I amend: Write to yourself in the demon journal. That's better.

Dying was, surprisingly, just like many of the idealists claimed it would be. Everything hurt a lot, and then it didn't. Laying on the hard ground, Dorian tried to go over what had just happened in his mind, but all that was coming to him was, This is it? No more searing pain from multiple open wounds (thankfully, none on the face). No more white-hot agony of magical fire. Just the mild discomfort in his shoulder from laying on his side on a stone surface. And he hadn't even been able to give a dramatic death soliloquy!

But he couldn't just lay here forever.

Dorian opened his eyes, then quickly shut them against what he was met with. He would have recognized his little nook in the Skyhold library from any angle, even where he was on the floor. (He may or may not have fallen asleep drunk there one night and slid out of the chair, but no one talks about that.) More cautiously, he opened his eyes again and sat up. He supposed it made sense that his after-life fade escapade would take place in a mimic of Skyhold. Those were some of the best years of his life, after all.

Getting to his feet was easy, for someone who had apparently just met their mortal fate. He dusted off the seat of his pants (You just couldn't escape dust in a library, even in the fade.), and poked his head out of the inlet. The whole floor seemed devoid of people. Spirits? Demons? Whatever he might encounter in the fade.

Current Mood: curious

Dorian wasn't sure how long he hung there, dangling from the edge of the high tower roof like a less-than-graceful cat. Long enough for his arms to burn with the strain. Certainly long enough for him to realize he wasn't getting out of this easily.

He mentally flipped through all the spells he knew and the gadgets he kept on-hand. None of them seemed like good options. He could maybe slow his fall so he'd just be broken from neck to toes instead of a bright smear against the stones, but that hardly sounded any better. And despite the fact that he was a mage in his very last hours of training--and quite an accomplished one at that, if he felt up to bragging--there was very little that would give him the momentum he needed to swing to the safety of the walkway.

He was well and truly fucked.

"Well," Dorian said, trying once again to drag himself up to the lip of the steep roof--and nearly losing his grip and his life as the loose tiles slid beneath his hand, "this is an embarrassing way to die."

"Yes yes yes, fine," Dorian said, waving away the third messenger in as many hours with an air of practiced can't you see I'm much too busy to be bothered by the likes of you? He was canny enough to take note of their livery, of course--it wouldn't do to insult the wrong house and invite yet another assassination attempt.

He was rather fond of living, all things told.

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RP: Dorian (dorianfadewalk)

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November 2015

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