Chapter Text
Kirkwall was at last in sight. Dorian had spent every last coin Maevaris had so graciously given him to get here. Part of him had felt terrible about taking it, as though he were taking advantage of her as a vulnerable widow. But Mae was never vulnerable even when in mourning, and there was no way he could have gotten here without it. Travel towards Kirkwall had become ridiculously expensive, and not a single ship, carriage, or merchant convoy would actually go all the way to the city-state right now. Nobody really seemed to know why either. "There's trouble in Kirkwall, they say," is all anyone could agree on.
"They" said the Chantry had been exploded—by the Qunari? No, the Qunari were driven out of Kirkwall two years ago, by the Champion—well, something blew up the Chantry—must have been mages, and blood magic what blew up the Chantry—or wait, the Chantry is fine, and it's the mage tower that exploded? Hang on, the mages rose up, with blood magic of course, stormed the Chantry, and—
It had been exhausting to listen to, and then suffer the evil looks people shot at him for his staff, even moreso if they recognized him as Tevinter. In fact, Dorian wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just him people were refusing to take to Kirkwall.
But he made it anyway, though he had paid dearly for every mile. He still had his staff, the clothes on his back, a bedroll, and his birthright. And he hadn't even had to go down on his knees for anyone either. Once upon a time, that would have sounded like a grand adventure—hitch a ride to wherever with whomever would take him by taking him. Though, he supposed that only held any appeal if he had the luxury of choice of chauffeur. Under his current circumstances, however, with the reason he had left home, he would not let Halward Pavus have even the unknowing satisfaction of his son sacrificing his dignity as the price for resisting his father's "correction".
The dwarven merchant who had taken his last sovereign tossed him out of his cart at the foot of Sundermount. "Spent a long time gaining the trust of these Dalish to trade with them, best if they don't see you. I'm not going into Kirkwall anyway. Good luck in there, and tell Tethras to answer his fucking mail."
As Dorian approached the walled city, he could indeed sense something of the trouble that it had been going through. The Veil was disturbingly thin around here, with reverberations of huge amounts of magic, echoes of fairly recent bursts of magical activity. But he could also swear he detected a hint of Qunari blackpowder in the air. Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him, the Fade feeding him back memories of the various Qunari raids on Qarinus he'd lived through—from within the safety of his family's estate, of course. Whatever had happened here, however, he was about to walk right into the thick of it.
Suddenly, a streak of blue light cut across his vision. Kaffas! He hadn't been paying attention to his physical surroundings and now some...something had gotten the jump on him. He reached behind himself for his staff when from out of nowhere, the blade of a greatsword appeared at his throat.
"You are going to toss your staff out of reach," a gruff voice unfurled around him from his right. "Slowly, no sudden moves."
Dorian did as he was told. "I swear to you, I don't have a single coin on me. I—"
"On your knees, mage," the voice came again.
Dorian sighed as he sunk to the ground, blade following his throat. "Alright, I don't have coin but," he moved to reach for his birthright tucked under his collar, but the blade jolted closer to his throat.
"Don't. Move." his captor said, still just out of sight.
Dorian took a deep, steady breath. "On a chain around my neck, I have an amulet of not inconsiderable value. You are welcome to it if you let me leave with my life, and if it's not too much to ask, whatever is left of my dignity." As he spoke, he was aware of the tip of the blade slipping under his collar, flat side (thank the Maker) sliding against his skin, under the gold chain, then lifting it and his birthright up and out of his tunic.
Another flash of blue and he felt himself being raised up by an immense pain in his chest, as if someone was squeezing his heart and lifting him from within. That's when he saw his captor for the first time, a glowing blue elf with lines of lyrium burned into his skin, and Dorian realized that, incredibly, that was exactly what was happening. The elf growled, "You think I can be bought off with the trinket of whichever magister hired you to procure his latest sacrifices? The only thing you can hope to get from me is a quicker death, though it will be no less painful than the slow death."
Dorian gasped in pain, but realized what the elf thought he was doing here. "Not—a slaver," he choked. "Looking for—cousin—of a friend." He almost passed out from the effort of speaking with a fist in his chest.
The wraith-like elf scoffed. "It's another magister you're looking for? Hah! Your friend will have to keep waiting to receive the news of Cousin Danarius's death."
"You killed—Danarius?" Oh Maker, the agony.
With a fierce, triumphant smile, the elf purred, "Yes."
"Oh, good—riddance."
Suddenly, his heart was free and he collapsed on the ground in a heap. Once he had finished retching and dry heaving, Dorian looked back up at the no longer glowing elf, who was glaring at him stoically with a hint of confusion. "You are glad to hear of Danarius's death?"
Dorian shrugged. "I suppose. I can't say I've ever met the man, our families hardly moved in the same circles, for very good reasons as I understand it, so I assume he had it coming, and the world is probably at least slightly improved by his passing?"
"Your family? That is your birthright, then?" The elf's eyes narrowed. "What is the scion of a magister doing in the Free Marches, dressed in rags, with not a coin to his Blighted name?"
Dorian looked down at his clothes and moaned in despair, "Oh they really are in such a terrible state, aren't they?"
"What are you doing here, Altus?" the elf snapped.
Dorian looked up at him again. "Oh, right. Though if I may humbly beg your indulgence and ask that I be permitted to stand?"
The elf rolled his eyes but gestured for him to stand. "One false move…" he warned.
"Yes, yes, yes," Dorian replied as he dusted himself off, combed his fingers through his hair, then very carefully smoothed and curled his mustache. The elf rolled his eyes again. "Right, where were we? Ah yes." Bowing with a flourish of his hands, he said, "Dorian of, well, formerly I suppose, of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous."
"Formerly?" The elf asked.
"Ah, yes, well," Dorian cleared his throat. "No, you know what, I still have my birthright, whatever a shitshow I may have made of my father's precious legacy. So make that 'Dorian of House Pavus'," he repeated, with just a slight dip of his head this time.
"So, Dorian possibly of House Pavus, I ask you again: why have you come to Kirkwall? And at a time like this?"
"My terrible timing must be the Maker testing me. Or making an elaborate joke at my expense, more likely. Though I'm still not entirely clear what exactly has been going on here. And as I said, I'm looking for a friend's cousin, one Varric Tethras."
The elf's sword clattered to the ground. "Why am I even surprised?" he muttered as he bent down to pick up his sword. "All right, fine, get your staff, just you know…don't," he said in an exasperated tone and gestured for Dorian to follow him.
"Perish the thought!" Dorian replied and trailed after the elf towards the City of Chains