He's not fond of sensible hours. Well, they're perfectly sensible for Dorian's own needs, which are usually whenever he feels like getting up until whenever he stumbles off into his own bed, someone else's - or on the truly interesting days - an ornamental garden, the antique map room in the library at Carastes or the backseat of an unknowing Magister's second-best carriage.

If it's been a while since he's had quite that much fun, there's no reason anyone here needs to know it.

He prefers to wear the Dorian Pavus of a few seasons past, regardless. The echo of a man without dull secrets to ignore, tawdry sins lumping up all the rugs. Only the proud Altus, riding high on every expected privilege of fortune - brilliant student, talented mage, with every scandal perfect for after-dinner storytelling.

A pretty party favor. Dorian thought he'd understood how his world worked, where all the sharp edges were and how to make the endless climbing look like easy art. He thought he'd known the difference, what was disposable and what would endure, what he could rely on - only to discover he'd had it backward the entire time.

What happens now? If this falls out from under him, where else is there to go?

Attempting to outmaneuver Alexius had been an excellent distraction from all kinds of uncomfortable questions. All that time to spend loathing the outdoors, cursing out the local wildlife, wearing his clothes for three days in a row and, of course, trying not to die while averting the global apocalypse.

Maybe not so much that last one.

He thinks this Herald might prove the far superior diversion. If nothing else, Dorian's intrigued, and that's never a bad feeling.

He's only managed one real conversation with the man so far, and even that was a series of stilted fragments on the return trip to Haven. The 'Get to Know Your Friendly Tevinter' primer, all those lovely questions about blood magic and slavery and the Black Divine. Oddly enough it hadn't turned into the argument he'd expected, though that could have been the Herald running off every other second to speak with Fiona or one of the other mages, answering questions and calming fears, making assurances the whole way back.

The man never stops moving. If anything, it was even worse once they reached their destination. Dorian has watched him cross Haven a dozen times in a span of hours, back and forth and back again, sometimes appearing out of nowhere, in what seems the opposite direction from where he disappeared, as if he's lugging about some spare time magic of his own. Determined to keep the alliance together, even if he has to do it one man at a time.

The Imperium's been all too delighted to spectate ever since Kirkwall exploded, with Templars running mad and the mages scattered like frightened nugs and from a distance it was all so very entertaining, watching the wheels come off that particular cart. Dorian is ashamed to admit he'd felt a bit of smug satisfaction himself, that superstitious fear and self-righteousness coming back to bite them - but then he'd been there, in the middle of it, all that carnage right up close. Close enough to see the rational and the sensible and the good swallowed up right alongside all the fools, where the only remaining options were run and hide and hope the worst didn't follow.

The mages here are not without talent, and they're only a scattered, weary sample of what the southern Circles have to offer - not that any of them will talk to him. Dorian could say it's a mixture of awe and fear that's kept them away, but that's not what he sees. The Imperium prefers to think of it as envy, but there's no mistaking this - it's hate, nothing less, pure hatred and a very real disgust. No matter what hasty deals the First Enchanter had forced on them, most of the mages would rather die here than go North, and even the more curious won't risk implicating themselves with so much as a 'good morning' in his direction.

Dorian wonders what kind of stories are circulating back home, even now - that damned fool Pavus, gone to mingle with the barbarians in a gap year fit of pique - and what sort of odds they're giving for his survival. Alone on a cold rock, surrounded by only the most grudging of allies, with no heated floors or private baths or even, at the moment, an extra pair of socks. He'd like to think he's already surprised them.

He would very much like to surprise himself.