a gale force wind || joining?

[DORIAN]

[align=center]

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." 

[Grimm]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 420px; line-height:120%; font-family: arial; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"][ welcome to the ascendants ]

Press of weight about the fine structure of throat, restricting the breath as well as it laid upon the bearer a claim, unspoken but known – there is no freedom here but a tool, nothing of a man laid within the structure of these bones, made to be expended and disposed of once the time called for such.

Within a way bliss was found within the innocence of lack, knowledge of such things nothing more then shadows gathered in the depths of corners he bore no wish to probe, pools of ebony the light may never dispel. Better was it this way though naïve may one deem the youth, blind the eye turned to such pursuits, evil others deemed necessary for purpose was within if self centred, worked until they may be relieved of guilt. Time was all he needed, stretching and warping about him, extending into the darkness. For now he enjoyed his time, found nothing to worry for there was little in the dark, the mechanics of a mind so centred around the aspects of reality allowing him some brief freedom.

“And the stars fill the river...” Voice arose in gentle breath, worked within the structure of each soft exhale, broken until hum perched upon his lips. Cold the press of weight about his chest, the slight touch of fine chain decorating his neck. Lesser was his collar, a mark his own though one to tie him to this place not those within, lack of intent to hold, bare from him the world and the freedom dancing across his tongue, found in the depths of amber eyes. Struggle within each step, rolling of weight upon each limb to balance out a stance worn weak, part of fur enough to reveal the lines across side. Flower almost branching across his skin, bundle of thick scar about his neck and shoulder, working down until leg and side were branded. Lightning touched was he, echo of pain within muscles grown tight, calling for rest.

Brief the thought of such, turn of attention to grass holding tones of brown and orange, bowing beneath the lining of frost, few the patches clear of snow. Shattered such a thought, crumbling away beneath the raise of a voice, strange the words the other spoke though intent clear no matter the structure in which they were set. Twist of ears, gaze moving about the landscape, weight shifting until toes bore the brunt of it. Slight the lift, paws leaving the earth for but a moment before movement caught his attention, colour different from the white expanse. Worry gnawed along the edge of stomach, found root within his thoughts but on he pushed, continued his path towards this stranger.

“Do you need help...?” Unease coiled within the depths of the question, puff of breath arising from pale toned lips, touched up the tip of tongue in a gesture of nerves. Better might it have been if he allowed another to approach first, confirmed the man before him offered no harm for easy may it have been to crush one so young, small his stature within comparison to a great many, yet youth was not known for their smart decisions. "I can get you some blankets and food... or, um, you can come in the observatory."

[ORPHEUS]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]For better or worse, Orpheus understands homesickness. Like Dorian, it's not something that could ever return to him — home is well and truly lost, which was his mistake. He's the one who made homes out of other people. Learning to see this prairie-like territory as home instead was proving difficult, too. Of course it was. Though it would be far safer for him to love his room instead of everyone else who called these rooms their own, he's never been all that attached to things. Things were breakable, temporary. Carry around a teddy bear for six months and watch it get torn to shreds, treasure a necklace only for the cord to break in a fight. But hell, he loved people and they died — his dad, his friend, the person he thought he'd loved. He knows better than most that love doesn't have to be a permanent thing, that loving someone now doesn't make him incapable of loving someone later. It sure fucking hurts though.

At least being attached to people means that he adjusts to new places well enough. His explorations here made him more comfortable with what went on and he navigated the majority of it with ease. Today's wandering is aimless, though he's on high alert too. Wary. Ants crawl underneath his skin; he wants to leave this place, find another place to live even though he loves everyone here too. Maybe because of that. Orpheus is a delicate thing, one that loves other delicate things, and the last thing he wants is for his scars to end up on their bodies too. That's a little egocentric, isn't it? To think that it matters, that someone would get hurt because of him at all, in any way. Having convinced himself of that every day, he doesn't leave. Instead, he finds himself taking care of the others as he can. Today it's Keyne that concerns him, though the lion doesn't follow him closely. It's only when he hears his voice call out that he turns to walk fully towards the child, pace quickening to a light jog.

"Key? What's going on?" He freezes when the grass parts to reveal another large lion, this one with dark fur and a neat mane marred only by the collar. He blinks and then shifts, head tilting slightly. Another lion, though he isn't as large as Ambroise. The sight still makes something jump up in his throat. "Oh." Maybe it's just him, but Dorian's corpse would be plenty presentable. "Well you look a little under the weather." Orpheus doesn't get any dangerous vibes from the stranger, but he still comes to stand behind Keyne with a friendly smile past him. "I think that was a fair offer. I don't suppose you're here on purpose?"

[DORIAN]

[align=center]

//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?

[ORPHEUS]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Closeness in its entirety was something that Orpheus struggled with these days. It wasn't simply the idea of calling a place home, or even a person — it was allowing them close enough for anything like that. Luckily, his experience with madmen is a thing of the distant past, or... it had been. At least it had never been institutional, engraved into the very bones of his home. There'd been parts, but Brigand had taught him to tear down the worst of the world wherever he saw it. Those lessons were old and worn now; he was softer, more flexible — that didn't mean it wasn't a good thing he wasn't aware of Dorian's homeland. One person could only do so much, and he's not all that certain that he would go a little past sanding it down. Maybe he's still like his dad in that sense. Sometimes you couldn't fix things. Sometimes it just needed to be torn down.

He'd been taught that from the day his dad brought heaven's wrath (or hell's fury) down on the group that had put a collar around his neck. Taking notice of Dorian's almost makes him flinch too. Instead, a softly troubled expression crosses Orpheus's face at the larger lion's jest. "I guess you've already tried to take it off?" Absently, he rolls his neck and shoulders. Shaking of an unpleasant memory, perhaps. A moment later and his expression is warming again, the storm well behind him now. It'll catch up again one day, but for now he'll manage to joke for a while longer. "I'm sure you are — devastatingly handsome, that is — but we don't need your soul. Your charm'll do just fine." He shakes his head, trying to look disapproving but just amused instead.

The disapproval shatters even further when he laughs. It's short and bright; he barely manages an indignant, "Hey!" through it. Some of his protective posture behind Keyne relaxes, even if Orpheus isn't the best at trusting either. Maybe he's easily charmed, maybe he's just nice. "We happen to like this patch of dirt, Dorian of House Pavus." Once the lion settles back into his small smile again, he's better suited for a more serious conversation. "I'm Orpheus, and this wonderful patch of dirt is home to The Ascendants. You really should at least come inside to dry off."