He supposed it was only natural his temerarious attempt at escape would succeed in entirely the opposite direction. Distance he had wanted, perhaps even what passed for freedom in the world, but he hadn't quite wagered that slipping from one noose might corral him into another. This one, at least, had no pretenses of responsibility or independence - the rather hideous collar fashioned around his neck dispelled any uncertainty about what awaited him. He could appreciate honesty, even the sort that chafed and interrupted his fur's glossiness.

Sadly, his tolerance ended there. Whatever they had crafted the collar with - besides the obvious dull iron - had cut Dorian off from himself. Not completely, as he still maintained control of most his facilities; he just found that there was a disturbing nothingness that met him when he reached for where his magic should be. It launched him into a panic, and Dorian was not the breed of man to swoon or slacken when so profoundly perturbed. It would have ended better for the slavers were he as delicate as they thought him.

Their finale was much like many of the plays he frequented: tragic, and deadly. However, he doubted anyone would mourn them quite as much as adoring fans did the deceased handsome protagonist, artfully sprawled at the foot of his love's bed; they did not die as gracefully. If Dorian could have resorted to more than tooth and claw, they might have at least died spectacularly, but such was their own doing.

He hadn't fully dried from the necessary bath to wash their blood away, and Dorian wished he had given his fur more time. The temperature had far surpassed a tolerable chill, and he shuddered as he pushed his way through tall grass, hopelessly homesick for warmth and the salt-smell of the ocean. Tevinter was far away, however, separated by land and time and the looming reason he had for fleeing at all.

"Kaffas - I'm to freeze to death at this rate, and my corpse won't even be presentable. Such is my fortune." 

//thank you!

Home was quite the investment, wasn't it? For all its advertisements as a sanctum of peace and repose with a generous heaping of relaxation, in actuality, it promoted what one wanted to avoid. Dorian rather loved strolling the streets of Tevinter, whether they belonged to Minrathous or Vyrantium, but with them came the scorn carefully veiled behind layers of molded wax all the houses of his homeland bred into their children. Of course, Dorian loved home for both its flaws and its gems - they were one in the same. That did not mean he couldn't recognize a need for polish and sanding. Were it only so easy to sand away blood sacrifices and scheming madmen as it were to reshape a diamond.

However, he knew very little of diamond-sanding; perhaps it was as equally troublesome, though at least the jewels didn't wear the faces of mocking old biddies. It would be far too tempting to throw them at the wall.

All jesting aside, Dorian adhered to the phrase, "once bitten, twice shy," and quite firmly. There was no other lesson Tevinter and his father had so successfully sewn into his every breath and whim. If the goal was to dissuade him from trusting any well-meaning - or otherwise-meaning - fool, they should have been proud of how thoroughly they met it. 

Dorian found no pride here, or anywhere. Certainly not in his father's eyes, the only home he had wanted.

He came back to himself and the collar fixed uncomfortably around his neck with a shameful flinch, smearing haphazard paint atop until he smiled too smoothly at the small child. "And save me the trouble of dying in the weeds? That is terribly kind of you - where do I sign to sell my soul for your aid?" The obsidian feline tensed subtly at approaching steps, and had relaxed by the time there came a voice.

If this were some sort of theft, he had nothing to offer but compliments - they both played quite the part, disarmingly friendly and adorable. "'Oh,'" he parroted, his mouth quirking. "I assure you, I am devastatingly handsome beneath all of this mess. A group of unsavory men evidently agreed and kindly collared me, but fortunately, no one else will be subjected to their horrid taste in fashion." A long-winded manner of informing the striped lion that no, his pretty neck would not join Dorian's. Not unless he wanted it to, but that was a test for another time - if such a chance ever arrived.

"At any rate, I've gotten ahead of myself. Dorian, of House Pavus." The lion dipped into a graceful, short-lived bow. "Although I can't imagine that means very much in the south. What is the name of this patch of dirt?" Dorian would not yet accept their offer of help, his footing unsure in this place of strangers, but he knew he had little choice. Where was he to go?