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when in doubt, shoot the wizard
Mar. 30th, 2019 03:18 pmTevinter, in some ways, reminds Numair so much of Carthak that some mornings it's easy to forget where he is. The clothes, the scents, the food. Sometimes even the language. Numair manages to get by: for the most part, he understands what people are saying to him, he can hold fairly fluent conversations.
But every now and again, he makes some stumble, some subtle mistake of meaning, and Dorian Pavus, his gracious host, giggles.
Numair gives him a look across the table. They're about the same age - Dorian could have been a friend or colleague at the university. He could have been a person he'd grown up with, one that had once-upon-a-time known Arram Draper. Then again, given his family, he could have just as easily been one of his tormentors. No, he thinks. Dorian is as bookish as he is, just as fascinated by the esoteric and unreachable, and no amount of breeding would have saved him from those that weren't.
"What?" he demands, somewhere between cross and embarrassed and amused. "What did I say?"
Servants come and go with trays, bringing food and removing anything that's been left untouched too long, or plates that are nearly empty, refilling glasses and making sure that all needs are met before they can even be voiced.
Dorian's private home feels like the only respite for his sensitivity here: all servants are paid. But it is difficult to forget that outside these walls, the situation is very different. It's like being at the university all over again.
But every now and again, he makes some stumble, some subtle mistake of meaning, and Dorian Pavus, his gracious host, giggles.
Numair gives him a look across the table. They're about the same age - Dorian could have been a friend or colleague at the university. He could have been a person he'd grown up with, one that had once-upon-a-time known Arram Draper. Then again, given his family, he could have just as easily been one of his tormentors. No, he thinks. Dorian is as bookish as he is, just as fascinated by the esoteric and unreachable, and no amount of breeding would have saved him from those that weren't.
"What?" he demands, somewhere between cross and embarrassed and amused. "What did I say?"
Servants come and go with trays, bringing food and removing anything that's been left untouched too long, or plates that are nearly empty, refilling glasses and making sure that all needs are met before they can even be voiced.
Dorian's private home feels like the only respite for his sensitivity here: all servants are paid. But it is difficult to forget that outside these walls, the situation is very different. It's like being at the university all over again.
