aban_aqun | Exalted Plains

Dorian laughs again, and feels immensely happy with how easy that is to do around Bull, especially now. "Well, how should I know, when you call them all the same thing?" He jokes, unaware of Bull's specific appreciation of him, and leans a little into Bull's side, relaxing. They have the remainder of the morning to themselves. He's perfectly content to spend it curled up together like this, talking and touching. Connected.

"Across the river, I think. Lavellan wants to have a look at that fortress." What they'll find there is still a mystery, of course, so it's best to be prepared for anything. Especially, Dorian thinks, if Bull is still going to be having a difficult time of things. He resolves to keep an especially close eye on him.

With that thought in mind, he asks, "Is there something else I can do for you this morning?" A quick glance around the tent, trying to think of other rituals the Bull might find reassuring. His gaze lands, as it so often does, on Bull's chest. "I could help to refresh your vitaar?" He suggests. "Very carefully, of course."

Bull is quietly surprised when Dorian asks - more or less - to apply his vitaar. It's true, the pattern he's been wearing since they left Skyhold is flaking off, but-- he assumed he would take care of it when they got back. He doesn't need it, though it's uniquely useful.

He knows what will happen if Dorian should mistakenly touch it, but then... Dorian knows too, he imagines. Vitaar is not a secret in Tevinter, though, as far as Bull knows, it has remained a mystery.

"Do you have any dragonskin gloves?" he asks, thinking that might be sufficient to protect Dorian's skin in the event of dripping or splashing.

Dorian is, of course, well aware of just how sick he'll feel should even a drop of vitaar touch his bare skin. Which is why he appreciates the consideration, but he's already resolved to do it. He nods slowly. "The ones Lavellan had made at the same time as your pauldron." They're the same color, crafted from the hide of the first (and thus far only) high dragon their little group has killed, back in Crestwood. He doesn't wear them all the time, but often. They're usually along with him.

He's loathe to part from Bull and the easy comfort of their little half-cuddle for even this purpose, which is an utterly embarrassing instance of pure sentimentality that he should take care of immediately. He forces himself to slip his hand from Bull's and retrieve the gloves from his pack, and not to immediately draw close again when he returns. They don't have to be touching.

"You should prepare it, of course," Dorian suggests sensibly, though he's sure that Bull already planned to. "I'll take care of the application alone. I'm quite good at drawing shapes, so I should be able to recreate the pattern easily enough."

Bull smiles when he sees the gloves. "I'll prepare it outside. Best if I mix it in the open air."

He isn't particularly eager to leave their little nest, but Bull doesn't want Dorian exposed to even the fumes in a closed space. Bull turns slightly so he can get into his trunk and carefully removes a smaller, carefully secured box. He sets it aside for now, intent on finishing the last of his breakfast first.

"Do we have time?" he asks. Dorian mentioned a slow morning and Bull just wants to be sure. He doesn't want to rush any part of the process.

"We have plenty of time," he assures, and presses a kiss to Bull's brow just above the empty socket before he settles down beside him. "Lavellan doesn't intend to leave until the afternoon." Dorian had made certain of that this morning, when he wasn't sure how well Bull would be doing.

It feels good to look after him like this, especially when Bull is so often doing it for others--for Dorian himself, even. Pleased, Dorian reaches for his plate again to finish his breakfast.

"Tell me about the pattern," Dorian requests, nodding toward Bull's shoulders. "There must be a meaning?"

"Must there?" he asks with gentle amusement. "We use geometric patterns because they are meditative to work with. They represent natural patterns and structures."

Bull sets aside his empty plate and shifts to face Dorian more. He traces the long lines that end in diamond shapes that appear on each shoulder. "Growth, vitality." His fingers move inward toward one of the symbols on his chest. "Iron and earth, for strength," he quips with a dry smile. "A few marks that soldiers use for good luck."

He turns his arm to look at one of the more abstract patterns on his bicep. "These are just a pattern I saw once on a wall in Par Vollen. Might have been meant to represent the sea or a river, I don't remember."

Bull sits back and pulls the small vitaar kit closer. "They have meaning if you want them to have meaning. There are more specific patterns that you might use to differentiate between ranks in the army. Squares tipped onto a point with interlocking lines on the inside always represent the Qun."

Edited 2019-10-08 23:04 (UTC)

Dorian might have huffed that yes, clearly there must, but he becomes far too quickly absorbed in Bull's explanation, curiosity getting the better of him. He follows Bull's gestures from one set of patterns to the next, noting the way they interact with each other, how they follow the curvature of Bull's muscles. He's studied his vitaar quite a bit by now--and not only because he'd been staring at his shoulders or his back, thank you--but it's fascinating to learn the reason for each of the geometric designs.

It makes him feel closer to Bull to learn these things. It makes him want to draw close again, to trace his fingers along the same path that Bull's had just followed. Just as when Bull had recited the Body Canto to him in the Hissing Waste, the intimacy of these moments is utterly unique, and Dorian has to wonder yet again just how he ended up in this position with an actual Qunari spy.

"So you're permitted to choose what your vitaar looks like, for the most part? You didn't have a particular pattern for being..." Dorian hasn't truly forgotten the name--the title--but he takes a moment before he continues. "...Hissrad?"

"No," he answers with a faint, far-away smile. "The point of Hissrad is to go unnoticed. It's not something I should or would project through vitaar patterns, though there are patterns for Ben-Hassrath agents if they choose to use them. The Ariqun, the Viddasala, the Tallis. But the Ben-Hassrath outside of the northern territories are Viddathari and can't wear vitaar."

He knows some that have still painted the patterns on themselves like war paint. It is their right to do so.

"As Hissrad I choose patterns that suit me or that give information that I want given." He's already described the good luck symbols used by soldiers and the other symbols have broad enough meaning that anyone might find reason to use them. Anyone that knows how to read the patterns would have no reason to suspect him of being anything but a soldier.

"I suppose that does make sense," he agrees, and allows himself to reach out and trail his fingers lightly over the pattern on Bull's closest bicep. Everything the Bull is and does here in the south is a convenient cover for his true purpose, after all. Why should his vitaar be any different?

Well, not...everything. Or at least, Dorian hopes not. After the last few months, and the previous night in particular, he thinks he can say with confidence that he knows the man Bull really is better than most.

With his plate empty, Dorian picks up his dragonskin gloves in preparation. "Well, show me how it's done, then," he says brightly. "I'm certain this is to be a moment for the history books; a Tevinter Altus learning to apply vitaar for a Ben-Hassrath agent. There's something to keep the gossips occupied."

"If you ever want to kill your father, that story might be a good place to start to give him a heart attack." Bull eases up so he can leave the tent, carrying his kit with him. He moves away from their tent and toward one of the campfires still burning. He settles down a log put there for that purpose and carefully opens the kit.

For a moment, he sorts bottles and vials. There's a knife in the kit that he sets aside, then an empty glass bowl. He passes that to Dorian.

"To collect the blood," he instructs. Easier to do this part with two people. When Dorian is settled and close, Bull chooses a place on the inside of his forearm and neatly opens the skin. He holds it over the bowl, watching as it collects. When he deems there's enough, he plucks a clean cloth from the kit and presses it over his arm to stem the bleeding.

"Add the pigment powder," he says with a nod toward the black jar sitting nearby.

"Oh, is that not taken care of?" Dorian asks, affecting confusion. "I thought you were going to write him about our first night together." He chuckles at his own humor as they leave the tent together and make their way to a campfire circle, still smoldering with embers. He settles beside Bull, though not too near while he prepares.

The process is fascinating, if momentarily worrying. He's never actually watched Bull do this before, and thus had no idea that the paste was mixed with his blood. He'd assumed water, or...literally anything else, really. But Bull is so very clinical about it, barely reacting as the blood drains from his arm into the small bowl from his kit. It's clear he's been through this process a thousand times.

Only when bid does Dorian move closer, and though he itches to press the cloth against Bull's arm himself, he instead puts on his gloves and carefully picks up the jar Bull indicates. He removes the lid, finds a small wooden tool inside for dividing and measuring the powder. "Tell me when I have enough," he asks, and begins scooping small measures of the powder into the bowl.

Bull watches the pigment as Dorian measures it out. "That's enough," he says after a few scoops. Then he plucks a vial out of the kit and holds it up to the light. "Turn your head, maybe hold your breath," he warns Dorian. "Does't usually smoke or anything but sometimes the pigment reacts strangely."

He's pretty sure that means the pigment isn't as pure as it should be, but it happens rarely enough. Still, he isn't taking chances with Dorian. When he's certain the mage won't accidentally inhale anything, he dumps the vial of poison into the bowl. It hisses and foams, but does not splatter. He finds something to mix it with, carefully working it until the consistency is smooth and similar to a thick paint.

"Alright... should be fine as long as you don't get any on your skin."

Bull tries not to sound concern. The last person to ever help him had been Krem, and he'd covered himself up from head to toe, just in case.

Dorian moves well away as Bull adds the poison to the mixture, as far down the log they're seated on as he can, and turns away as he hears the concoction sizzle. Still, curiosity gets the best of him, and he ends up looking back again as Bull begins to stir. It takes a little time to become smooth enough for application, and Dorian can't help thinking about how dangerous it is for him to actually try this. The things he does for Bull, apparently.

With Bull's confirmation, he accepts the bowl in one gloved hand and reaches out toward Bull with the other, palm up as he waits for him to hand him a brush.

"Out of curiosity," Dorian says, far too lightly, "what would this poison do to me, exactly, if I were to get any of it on my skin?"

"Depends on how much. You might need to remove a limb before the poison spread, or you might die quickly and in a lot of pain. It's highly caustic and will... burn through flesh. The poison gets into your blood and that's the end."

Bull gives up the bowl and brush to Dorian and moves to sit on the ground so that Dorian has full access to his shoulders and his back. He'd seen reports of magisters testing vitaar on their slaves and experimenting with living Qunari prisoners. He keeps that to himself. Dorian is not those men.

"It'll be safe when it's dry."

If there's any left, Bull will bottle it or discard of it as necessary, but that usually means burying it. For now, he'll carry it with him.

With that question thoroughly answered, Dorian is careful to a fault as he handles the bowl of liquid. He thinks of the number of times he has passed his hands over Bull's body, over the vitaar painted across his arms and shoulders and chest. When his lips have strayed from the thick tendons of Bull's neck to the great slope of his shoulders, mouthing at those same patterns. He hadn't thought of it back then as poison. Once dry and hardened, vitaar is safe. Still, it is a sobering thought.

"Then I shall endeavor not to spill a drop," he promises gravely. As he dips the fine tip of the brush into the mixture, he says, "I'll start by refreshing what's already there. If you'd like anything new, I'll handle that afterward."

Dorian has a very steady hand, made so by years of learning how to sketch complex magical sigils and glyphs, where the wrong slant of a line or misplacement of a letter would mean a botched spell at best. As a result, he's very handy with diagrams, and with precise geometric shapes. It's a boon when painting the Bull's right shoulder, where even the designs with more sweeping lines follow exacting rules and measurements. He's careful to roll the brush against the edge of the bowl before lifting it so as not to gather any messy excess paint, and in that way, brightens the faded edges and cracks in the designs already present on Bull's skin. He's never drawn on a living canvas before, and almost unconsciously, he finds himself matching his breathing to the Bull's. If he were not so hyper-aware of the dangerous material he is working with, Dorian might almost call it soothing.

Edited 2019-10-12 22:23 (UTC)

The whole process seems rather soothing and meditative for Bull, too. Eventually his eye drifts close and his breathing is deep and even as Dorian covers old marks and renews the ones that have cracked and flaked off. It's not hard to see how a process like this could be ritualized, what it could do for both the one having vitaar applied and the one applying it. The only difference is that other Qunari need not fear a splash of vitaar.

"What do you think?" he asks after a while, once Dorian has moved on to his other side. He finds himself curious: this is not a small thing Bull is sharing and it is so thoroughly Qunari.

After a moment to consider Bull's question--because there's rather a lot there to think about--Dorian answers simply. "I think that it looks good on you," he allows, a rare open compliment.

The designs are beautiful if austere, and the way they follow the curve of Bull's musculature, the way the black ink contrasts the grey of his skin--he looks dangerous, yes, intimidating, just as he's meant to. A hulking brute in intricate war paint. Doubtless, that is all many people will see. That will be the last thing many people will see. But Dorian knows more. They've known one another long enough--and intimately enough, now--for him to have thought more than once that the Bull is probably the smartest man he knows, which is saying something. Vitaar, too, is subtly clever. Armor without seeming it, many purposed. The application must be an important ritual for the Qun's soldiers, no doubt, creating a culture among them, a point for peer bonding.

"It must be blasphemous for me, of all people, to be doing this for you," he comments, sounding like he rather delights in the taboo of it all. He does, but he's also feeling more contemplative. Perhaps it's the way he can feel Bull's measured breathing, the patterns he himself is following. Emptying the lungs, clearing the mind. He almost doesn't want to break the spell. "Will you turn this way a little more?" He asks, dipping and wiping the brush again.

Bull moves when Dorian asks him to, turning more toward the mage to give him the angle he needs.

"Blasphemous on both sides, I think." A Tevinter altus serving a Qunari spy; a Qunari spy allowing a Tevinter altus to know this process. Bull keeps his head turned carefully to make sure that Dorian doesn't have to duck around his horns.

He watches the camp as people start going about their day. Some look over, watching the strange scene of a Tevinter mage and Qunari engaged in this ritual. Given the right spin, this sort of thing could be a morale booster. The Inquisition could use that, but Bull finds himself hoping that this doesn't leave the camp. This is something between him and Dorian, not something being done for the sake of the Inquisition.

This is something that feels like his own.

"Oh, naturally," Dorian agrees. Bull shifts just as he needs him to, and Dorian trails the tip of the brush along Bull's skin with a steady hand, following a smoothly curving line that reminds him of a wave. "That's the best part, isn't it? If we're going to be offensive, we ought to offend everyone possible."

Dorian tries to pay little mind to the passers-by, though he doesn't doubt that they're gawking. He and Bull have become quite the topic of conversation since the Hissing Wastes, apparently intriguing enough to pass on camp to camp. For the most part, he's tried to ignore it; he's had far worse back home, and by this point he doesn't care what's said about him, but more so what's said about Bull.

"I'm nearly finished, I think," he says, head tilting as he considers the canvas of Bull's torso. "Unless you'd like me to add more?" He can think of some designs, but isn't certain that Bull would want him simply free-hand drawing whimsical patterns on his skin with long-lasting poison paint, especially when his people hold this process so sacred. Either way, it pleases him to know that he has quite literally had a hand in protecting Bull. He'll feel that much better about whatever they face today.

Bull thinks the same: he doesn't really care what's said about him, but what is said about Dorian. He knows what the mage has endured, he shouldn't have to bear the burden of more rumors.

"Not this time," he says with a a smile. "Next time we're at Skyhold, when there isn't so much pressing business."

The Inquisitor will want to get across the river eventually, and Bull needs a bit of time to let the vitaar dry to avoid putting anyone in their party at risk. Bull has to admit quietly to himself that he's curious about what designs Dorian would put on his skin.

Bull reaches to take the bowl and brush from Dorian, then turns more to brush a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs, gratitude that is just for Dorian.

"At Skyhold, then," Dorian agrees, intrigued by the idea of Bull allowing him to paint him with brand new designs. That seems more blasphemous yet. But this had been such an unexpectedly positive experience that Dorian finds himself looking forward to it. He finds that he'd like to help Bull with this sort of thing in the future.

Dorian hands the bowl and brush back, and it's a good thing that he does, or he may very well have dropped them in surprise at the relatively simple touch of Bull's lips against his cheek. Bull murmurs his thanks, and Dorian is quietly stunned. This is not usual for him. It is, in fact, the first time a man has shown him such affection openly, here in the midmorning sunlight in the center of camp, where anyone might notice. Sad, but there it is.

Dorian's heart is in his throat. There's a swell of feeling in his chest, but also of confusion, and he genuinely isn't sure for a moment whether he's going to retreat or reciprocate. Retreat, probably. This is beyond the scope of his experience. Bull clearly has no issue with being open about their association, but Maker, they're only fucking and sharing a bed for comfort. How does that translate to such tenderness in public? Dorian steps away, busying his hands with removing his dragonskin gloves as he manages a thin smile. It seems that his courage has fled him all at once. "You should be more mindful," he says softly. "There are some people who will misconstrue that sort of thing."

Bull is still and quiet as Dorian makes his retreat. He should have anticipated that and it makes him a little grateful that he didn't kiss Dorian full on the mouth, the way he'd wanted to.

"Mm," he hums quietly. "And wouldn't that be terrible." There's something mild there - not chiding or sarcasm, but something warmer, more gentle. It's the sort of tone he absolutely should not be taking with Dorian; he shouldn't even insinuate that what they're doing is more than fucking. Bull isn't actually sure what to do if it is. But--

He can't really blame Dorian, either. Fucking is one thing, but doing anything more than that with someone like Bull is probably ludicrous.

Bull looks down and shifts to set the brush aside, to cap the small bowl and put it away in the kit. He wraps the brush in cloth; he'll clean it later, somewhere that won't be a risk to their water supply.

Bull's response visibly startles Dorian. If he was surprised before, he's shaken now. Confusion creases his brow, and his lips part slightly as he searches for something to say, but is rendered speechless. That alone is rare enough. What is Bull saying, exactly? That he'd like for them to be thought of as...more? That can't be it, can it? Bull wouldn't--a Qunari couldn't. While the Tal-Vashoth mercenary that the Bull purports to be could have a real relationship, the Bull as he truly is certainly cannot.

But it forces Dorian to imagine something that he has been deliberately avoiding. What would it be like to be with Bull? To really be with him, truly belonging to one another? What would it be like to have with Bull the sort of impossible relationship Dorian has always craved?

There's a response on the tip of his tongue: I didn't say that. But that would mean admitting something to himself and to Bull that he absolutely should not. He says something else instead, shifting quickly from vulnerable to arch and standoffish as he draws his armor around himself.

"Terrible and entirely misinformed," he says, dismissive. "I know it's all foreign to you, but sex and romance are not always intertwined, even for humans. I shouldn't like anyone to think that my standards are so low." And with that, he turns back toward their tent, intending to clear his mind by finishing his preparations for the day. He knows it won't be so easy as that.

Bull doesn't expect it to hurt when Dorian grows sharp, but it does. I shouldn't like anyone to think my standards are so low. It sinks into him, past the armor of the vitaar and his own years of steeling himself against abject difference. Bull knows that when Dorian feels vulnerable he gets dismissive and aggressive, he knows that.

But maybe there is some truth there. What Bull has foolishly intimated is not possible. He'd thought, for some time, that Dorian's interest was different; maybe it isn't after all. Is he more ashamed of this than he'd been letting on? As the idea takes root, Bull decides that it may be time to end the depth of their intimacy. If Dorian wants to keep having sex, that's fine. But there's no need to fool himself by continuing to share a bed. It would be for the best.

He finishes tending to his kit, waiting until Dorian is done in the tent before he finishes preparing himself for the day's excursion. He doesn't exactly know what they'll find across the river, but given the state of the ramparts, he suspects it won't be pretty.

The remainder of the morning is spent in mostly silent preparation. Dorian converses quickly with Lavellan, getting the same brief she's been giving everyone, and finishes readying his kit, and then dressing for battle. By the time they're setting out, he and Bull haven't spoken again at all.

Bull must be upset with him, he thinks. Normally he's quick to forgive--even last night, when Dorian had stepped in it rather badly--but he can also be stubborn at times. As can Dorian. Really, he thinks, it should be Bull who apologizes to him. What had he meant by a comment like that? Was he trying to tease him? If so, it wasn't the least bit funny.

They make their way across the recently repaired bridge to Citadelle Du Corbeau across the river, just as Lavellan had planned. What awaits them there is a gruesome and brutal slog, which includes fighting a void-cursed revenant and a tornado of fire which simply won't quit coming back. They discover that the fortress' ancient elven defenses have been triggered by Celene's soldiers in a last effort to rid themselves of the undead. Dorian might be intermittently angry at and confused by and remorseful toward the Iron Bull, but he doesn't allow that to impact his focus or his casting. Such a distraction could mean a fatal mistake--not only for himself, but for any member of their little party, should he miss the timing of a barrier or another crucial spell. In such close quarters as the halls and ramparts they're forced to fight their way across, he winds up in direct combat more than usual, having to use his staff blade nearly as much as he does his offensive spells. But Bull is always there just a little ways in front of him, a force of sheer destruction, brutal and intimidating painted with his fresh vitaar, the lines that Dorian himself had applied.

The undead are concentrated even more heavily here an in other parts of the Plains, which is understandably terrifying to most, but to Dorian, a boon. He is able to turn many to his own purpose, his magic and his will stronger than the force which binds these spirits to their husks. Reaching the top of the Citadelle means fighting the largest group yet. Many of them are not the corpses of soldiers, Dorian notes, but of ordinary civilians. They must put them down all the same, and Dorian uses his own methods to do so. After it's over, Lavellan activates the device that disengages the fortress' ancient defenses. Dorian takes a moment to breathe, holding his staff close.

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