[She is indeed here, and the mention of her name earns a point in Dorian's favor: not that he constantly approves of Isabela's friends, but at the same time, a friend of a friend, so on and so forth.
So that's nice. And then the bit about the mages happens, and there goes the goodwill.
At least he doesn't try and lie. He doesn't offer too-sweet claims of friendship, of brotherhood; he doesn't even evade what he is, which is, honestly, everything that Fenris hates (and, shamefully, fears, deep in the pit of his stomach). Even the mention is enough to get his pulse spiking, and god, but he's never been more grateful for these devices and how they provide distance.]
I doubt very much you care for my wellbeing.
[It's a growl, but honestly: of course Dorian doesn't. Why would he? It would be like approaching a noble and asking if they cared for a random elf; why would they? The fact that Dorian contacted him is, hm, worrying, all the more so because he doesn't understand it. Because it's--
Assume the worst. Assume that he is like every other magister in existence; assume that he wants Fenris at best for his blood and at worst for his lyrium. Imagine that it must be exhausting to be used to comforts and slaves and being powerful; imagine that you found someone who was a slave, and could be again. Assume that this man is like every other magister he's ever known, and this is just a trap to get him to trust him before he collars him.
Is that logical? It's certainly accompanied by a leap of emotion, a flare of raw panic that leaves his hands shaking, though his expression is still. But is it right to assume that?
After all: they are on equal ground here, aren't they? In the same way he isn't automatically given strange looks because he's an elf, in the way that everyone here, himself included, is touched by magic. Perhaps this man could enslave him, yes, but it would not go so smoothly as it would if they were home. And to his credit (though Fenris is loath to give any mage credit), all he's done is speak cautiously and carefully, not arrogantly or cruelly.
So . . . and this is hard, this is asking a frankly enormous amount from him, but: assume the best.
Assume that this man is . . . what, genuinely worried about Fenris? That he exists here in a void, same as they all do; that to find someone else, anyone else, from their world, brings a rush of relief. Not quite the rush he'd felt when meeting Isabela, but there's something to be said for speaking to someone knowing they'll know all the same cultural cues as you. Know the slang, know the history, know anything about home . . . yes, there is a relief there.
He mentioned an elf. A qunari, too (most likely, but really, what human or dwarf has a name like Iron Bull, it's not a leap in logic). That's . . . mm. Certainly strange behavior for a magister, who has no friends at all, just people he uses and people he tries to get a leg up on.
It's odd. This man is odd, and he isn't grandstanding like a magister nor sneering like one. He isn't demanding Fenris' location, either, or trying to pull at a leash that no longer exists. He's just . . . talking.]
What is your goal here?
[What a sentence. What an awkward, blunt thing to ask, but it's the best he can do in response to his chaotic thoughts. What is your goal, friendship or slavery or simple connection, because that's so much easier than trying to decipher it. And then, belatedly:]
And your name.
[Because that's important too. It's entirely possible they've met before, at some party in Tevinter long ago.]
no subject
So that's nice. And then the bit about the mages happens, and there goes the goodwill.
At least he doesn't try and lie. He doesn't offer too-sweet claims of friendship, of brotherhood; he doesn't even evade what he is, which is, honestly, everything that Fenris hates (and, shamefully, fears, deep in the pit of his stomach). Even the mention is enough to get his pulse spiking, and god, but he's never been more grateful for these devices and how they provide distance.]
I doubt very much you care for my wellbeing.
[It's a growl, but honestly: of course Dorian doesn't. Why would he? It would be like approaching a noble and asking if they cared for a random elf; why would they? The fact that Dorian contacted him is, hm, worrying, all the more so because he doesn't understand it. Because it's--
Assume the worst. Assume that he is like every other magister in existence; assume that he wants Fenris at best for his blood and at worst for his lyrium. Imagine that it must be exhausting to be used to comforts and slaves and being powerful; imagine that you found someone who was a slave, and could be again. Assume that this man is like every other magister he's ever known, and this is just a trap to get him to trust him before he collars him.
Is that logical? It's certainly accompanied by a leap of emotion, a flare of raw panic that leaves his hands shaking, though his expression is still. But is it right to assume that?
After all: they are on equal ground here, aren't they? In the same way he isn't automatically given strange looks because he's an elf, in the way that everyone here, himself included, is touched by magic. Perhaps this man could enslave him, yes, but it would not go so smoothly as it would if they were home. And to his credit (though Fenris is loath to give any mage credit), all he's done is speak cautiously and carefully, not arrogantly or cruelly.
So . . . and this is hard, this is asking a frankly enormous amount from him, but: assume the best.
Assume that this man is . . . what, genuinely worried about Fenris? That he exists here in a void, same as they all do; that to find someone else, anyone else, from their world, brings a rush of relief. Not quite the rush he'd felt when meeting Isabela, but there's something to be said for speaking to someone knowing they'll know all the same cultural cues as you. Know the slang, know the history, know anything about home . . . yes, there is a relief there.
He mentioned an elf. A qunari, too (most likely, but really, what human or dwarf has a name like Iron Bull, it's not a leap in logic). That's . . . mm. Certainly strange behavior for a magister, who has no friends at all, just people he uses and people he tries to get a leg up on.
It's odd. This man is odd, and he isn't grandstanding like a magister nor sneering like one. He isn't demanding Fenris' location, either, or trying to pull at a leash that no longer exists. He's just . . . talking.]
What is your goal here?
[What a sentence. What an awkward, blunt thing to ask, but it's the best he can do in response to his chaotic thoughts. What is your goal, friendship or slavery or simple connection, because that's so much easier than trying to decipher it. And then, belatedly:]
And your name.
[Because that's important too. It's entirely possible they've met before, at some party in Tevinter long ago.]