congrekate | dragon age au!

dragon age au!

The rumor mill is still going on as to why Jonathan Strange fled the circle to become an apostate mage. Some say that it's as simple as an argument with his former tutor. Others say that the man never really recovered from his actions in the Mage-Templar War. The most likely answer is that something snapped after the death of his beloved. The one thing everyone can agree on is that it's really a shame someone with such potential threw it all away. He could have easily made his way up the social ladder, working at a court somewhere!

To which Strange would respond that he was doing perfectly fine right now, thank you very much, even if he was currently living in a shack that leaked when it rained, he had not even half of the books he was used to, and he heard people whisper behind his back, calling him the 'mad mage of the Dales'. So be it. His plan was probably a bit mad to begin with: Jonathan Strange planned to summon a god.

Not just any god, of course. He had gone through the various pantheons, trying to find the perfect one to grant him what he wanted (power, mostly, a way to take the tools and trade of necromancy and make it more solid, to raise the dead instead of raising spirits.) And eventually, Strange settled on Fen'Harel. He could draw upon the power of the location of the Dales as well as his status as an outsider himself to appeal to the god. The ritual itself was the most complex part, but modified necromancy bindings and a few of his own additions should suffice.

And so, Strange performs the magic. And poor Solas is probably just damn confused as to what he sees when he's forcibly woken up from his nap. The shack is small, covered head to toe with knick-knacks and trinkets, some of magical significance, others not. Dried herbs cover a table and books cover almost any other flat surface. Good luck trying to find where Strange sleeps as the bed has also become storage space. The mage himself looks wild: a middle aged human with scruff and hair that looks like it hasn't seen a brush in years, clothes ragged and dirty. And he just regards Solas with sheer confusion.

"I thought the wolf part was literal."

This is an elf. This isn't a dog. Did he make a mistake in the summoning? And if he didn't summon a god, then who the hell did he summon?

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"Because you will learn nothing staying here." And he needs to obtain his focus if he's to do anything he wanted to upon waking. There's the matter of preserving the body however. The way the elves used to preserve bodies, preparing them for their long sleep, may not be applicable here. How would those techniques affect a human corpse? Or at least, he's assuming it's a human corpse.

"Our preservation methods differ. Where do you keep the body?"

"In a root cellar, below the house." If one could call it a house in the first place. There's a pause, as Strange looks over at Solas. Obviously he'd need to change the spell up a bit so Solas actually could examine Arabella's corpse but if he removed the spell entirely, Solas would cut and run.

After another moment's pause, Strange knelt down on one knee, placing a finger on the binding circle itself. He mutters something under his breath, barely audible, before smudging the binding circle, then using the finger that smudged the binding circle to wipe some of the chalk of the circle on his wrist a second later.

"There. The nexus of the binding circle have been transferred to my body. I wouldn't recommend going too far away from me as, god or not, the results are probably...a bit messy." Is this dangerous magic? Probably! Does Strange care that it's seemingly dangerous? Not in the slightest! Obviously a distance of six or so feet is safe enough as before Solas can say anything, Strange moves towards the back of the hut and pushes some books off of a trapdoor in the floor.

"Down here," he says, as he yanks open the trapdoor.

That the binding circle stops him from matching Strange's approach leaves him scowling. All he could do is watch as the man transfers the spell over. If only he hadn't been weakened from creating the Veil, if only he had his damn focus here with him--

But none of that was the case and he would have to handle what he was dealt.

"I will be sure you are informed of my every need," he returns as he's finally able to step outside of the initial circle. How far would he be allowed to travel? He'd find out shortly if he was forced to drag the human with him whenever he needed to take a leak. He's none-too-pleased as he follows Strange, remaining a pace behind. Would killing the man remove the spell or cause it to backfire?

"Should I be expecting a shrine?" Some sort of honoring for this dead woman. She had left enough of an impression on the other man.

"She's my wife, not a saint," Strange remarks, with a roll of his eyes, as he starts to climb down the ladder. So no, there's not a shrine.

What there is is cold. Lots of it. The root cellar is supernaturally cold compared to the main floor. There's a simple wooden coffin sitting on a long table. When Solas approaches, he can tell that there's all sorts of spells of preservation cast on the wood, a giant mish-mash of Circle spells, more elven spells, Tevinter magic, anything that could possibly help has been cast on the wood in the hope that it would help.

"She's in there," Strange simply says, as he gestures to the coffin. When Solas opens it, he'll find a remarkably preserved corpse of a woman in her early thirties, dressed in funeral attire. She's well preserved for being dead a few months, but a few signs of rot have started to creep in.

Simple, much like the rest of Strange's house. The man was consistent if nothing else. He notes the spells currently in use, letting his gaze trace over the each symbol and circle. A start, but not enough for Strange wanted.

When he opens the coffin, it's with care. Solas may be angry for being there, but disgracing the dead would do him no good here.

"Are you hoping revival will fix the damage that has already been done?" he asks, glancing over at the other man.

"Oh, I can fix any damage done myself," said with a bit of a nonchalant tone. At least, Strange definitely believes he can fix any damage that's already been done himself. Whether he can or not...well, it's not like he's had anybody to practice on.

"It's just the revival part that confounds me."

Just the revival part. Like they're comparing notes or talking shop, not discussing how best to raise the dead. For someone who takes this so seriously and desperately wants this to happen, to the point where he summoned Fen'Harel himself, there are moments when Strange is oddly flippant about the whole matter.

"If repairing a corpse is so simple then please, demonstrate," he says dryly and motions with a wave of his hand towards the body. "If I am to assist you, I need to see your magic in action."

And why not repair what harm has already been done. Waiting may be more beneficial, but it's far more fun to call Strange on his bluff than wait for however long this fool's errand lasted. Or until Solas could break the damn spell binding him to this man. Whichever came first.

Once again, shut up Solas. Strange just glares daggers at the elf, but his pride prevents him from doing the logical thing and admitting that he has no idea what he's doing. Because you know what? Fuck you, Fen'harel! He's got this!

Or at least, he's slightly got this. As Strange walks over to Arabella's corpse, he places his hands over the body and starts muttering. Nothing. He changes his hands around, making various gestures as he continues muttering. Nothing. He snarls, giving one of the signs of rot a glare, before he mutters something fervently in a language that's rarely spoken, and makes a gesture like he's grabbing something from the air above the rot. Oddly enough? He is. The rot slowly vanishes from the corpse's face, lingering around Strange's hand like a smokey black fog. And honestly? Strange looks damn surprised, as if he didn't know he could do something like that in the first place. What Strange had in power, he was lacking a bit in technique. It's obvious that his method of magic is patchwork, taking previously established spells and techniques and improvising and adding his own additions until he gets a result.

The problem here is that he doesn't really know what to do with this small swirling cloud of rot, about the size of a strawberry, now hovering over his open palm. There's a pause as he looks it over before Strange takes one finger and traces it down a vein on his forearm. The cloud dissipates. However, at the same time, a trail of black something swarms through Strange's veins, going from his hand to his arm, as his face turns slightly paler. Who knows where it goes after that, as Strange's clothes prevent Solas from seeing the trace of the rot as it dissipates through Strange's body.

So maybe there was a little bit of truth to those rumors of Strange's madness. One thing's apparent: he doesn't care as much for his personal health and well-being as he honestly should. Still, Strange at least realizes his actions are a bit worrying. "Like I said. I would prefer her revived sooner rather than later."

Solas is watching as Strange approaches the corpse and fails more than once to do as he had promised. As Solas had suspected. He's about to make a sarcastic comment regarding Strange's magical abilities when the man manages something.

His brows furrow and he focuses on the black fog that's coming out of the dead woman. Whatever this man had done it wasn't planned and that made it far more dangerous of a magic to handle. How far would Strange go to finish this plan of his? No matter, all Solas had to do was get them far enough to retrieve his focus and the rest would fall into place. Solas doesn't want to be tied longer to Strange than needed if the man is willing to destroy himself for this.

With a shake of his head, Solas stands tall and seemingly unmoved. "You may have need to cover your whole body with rot before you see this through," he remarks idly and begins inspecting the enchantments more closely. "Your magic is patchwork. I will need time to decipher it and see if I have a way to strengthen its effects."

This wasn't Solas saying no. Deciphering the magic wasn't an out and out statement that he couldn't do anything. Strange moves to take a few steps forward...but quickly staggers back, grasping at his chest as he does so. He's still in one piece. He's still able to talk and grump and do all those things, but there's just a low, throbbing pain that wasn't there before.

"If you need to decipher my magic, then do so," he remarks, with an idle wave of his hand towards the corpse. Solas needs to decipher his magic? Well then, decipher away. "I give you full permission to explore the enchantments placed on the corpse. Likewise, feel free to ask me anything about my magic--I think, however, that I'll sit down while you do so," he admits, more to himself than to Solas. It's obvious where the rot's settled now: hanging low and heavy in Strange's heart.

So, backing up to the wall of the root cellar, Strange slumps down, sitting on the ground, but on a place where he can keep an eye on Solas while he inspects the enchantment.

Somehow, Solas manages to not roll his eyes as Strange grants him permission he did not seek and has to resort to flopping on the floor. Would he even survive traveling away from his home? The elf could attempt to heal the man, but given the circumstances, he's not inclined to expend unnecessary magic toward the other man.

Instead his attention is entirely focused on what has been done to the basement and the dead woman in it. There's no singular source or style, it comes across as a frantic attempt by a desperate man with no other options. Which one look at strange confirms that to be more than correct. He wonders if it would simpler to undo the man's work and start fresh because Solas is certain he could do a far better job than trying to build off this mess.

"Where did you learn this magic?" he asks, kneeling down to get a better look at a symbol etched into the floorboards.

Magic from the Circle of Mages mixed with a more Tevinter style of necromancy mixed with a little bit of blood magic here and there. Strange's spells and symbols are very much a kitchen sink approach to magic. Why not throw everything at the problem and see what sticks? It's good work but some spells are obviously not thought through, cobbled together without fear of any consequences.

"It depends on which aspect of the magic you're talking about," Strange adds in, with a wry little smirk. "My training is with the Circle, though I've added in various styles and tricks from other disciplines--mostly Teventer necromancy, for obvious reasons."

Obvious reasons being the corpse in the middle of the room. Strange still leans against the wall, clutching his chest slightly as he watches Solas examine his work and tries to catch his breath again.

So partially ancient elvhen in some styles, if the man was drawing from Tevinter strongly. He can see traces of it and nods slowly as a fingertip traces a rune. He could work with this if he must though the temptation to scrap it all and start again nags at the back of his mind.

"If I prolong the preservation of her body then you must be willing to journey where I tell you." And Solas would not tolerate any arguing over the matter or so help him he will turn this adventure around before it's even begun.

The elf had already asked about travel. It doesn't take a genius to realize that whatever spells Solas intends to use to revive Arabella, he can't do that from here--something a bit to be expected. Gods performed miracles in temples, not in ramshackle huts in the middle of nowhere.

"If you preserve her body and if the journey isn't you leading me on a chase out of sheer pettiness, then I don't mind travel. I can leave shortly after you cast the spell."

After all, it's not like he has family, friends, anybody who he would need to tell them he was traveling.

If Strange is expecting Solas to lead him to some hidden grand temple to Fen'harel, the good mage was going to be very disappointed.

He ignores the other man's concerns. Solas was the only one who knew where they would be headed and if Strange wanted a chance at his goal, he would have to blindly trust the 'god' he's summoned. It wasn't a place Solas envied him being in. As for immedaite travel, Solas eyes the other man curiously.

"You are fit for it after your... display?" Because what else did one call Strange's absorption of rot from a corpse?

Let's be real here, he's going to be very disappointed no matter what, you're a terrible god, Solas.

As for Solas's question, Strange gets to his feet, taking a few steps closer towards the elf and the corpse as if to prove that he's perfectly fine. Which, of course, he isn't, he looks a bit paler and a little bit more haggard than he did when the conversation first started, but at least he's able to get up on his feet and walk around.

"I suppose so. The alternative is sitting around and waiting until I'm entirely fit for it but that's not going to happen." He's done too many worrying things to his body already for that to be the case. Strange knows he's never going to be back at 100%, peak physical fitness no matter what he does and how good he takes care of himself.

He makes a small sound of acknowledgment. Perhaps if Strange drove himself to death by exhaustion Solas would be free of the spell that bound him. He had a feeling it wouldn't be as simple as killing the man through his own hand, but death by other means might be enough. It was enough of a possibility that he would let Strange's failure to impress him pass.

"No part of you has started decomposing?" he inquires flatly though he is digging through Strange's materials for what he needs to start crafting a ritual of his own.

"No visible part at least," Strange explains with a small shrug, as he starts looking over his body. All of the fingers, all of the toes, he'd feel it if something started decomposing, right? At least, he'd feel it if one of his limbs started decomposing. How the hell could one tell if they were rotting from the inside?

As Strange looks up, he quickly bites down the urge to yell at Solas not to touch his stuff. If Fen'harel wanted to use some of his materials, then he'd let the man. Strange has a collection of various plants from all across Thedas, carefully preserved in labeled jars, as well as a few dead small animals, carefully preserved in a murky liquid that's probably his attempt at formaldehyde mixed with preservation spells.

"I've some more things upstairs if you need them."

Even if Strange had yelled at him, Solas would do it anyway. If the mage wanted the help of an elven god that he ripped from slumber with no warning, he would have to supply whatever would be of use to him. A few extra items should be hidden somewhere on his person for good use later, sleight of hand would come in use for that.

For now, he'll play nice and wait until Strange is more distracted.

"Let me see them," is all he says and motions for the man to lead the way back upstairs. He could see and decide for himself if anything upstairs was useful.

"Follow me." And so, they climb the ladder back upstairs. Once upstairs, Strange pauses for a moment as if he's forgotten where some things are before he remembers. Walking over to the bed, Strange starts yanking a medium sized trunk from underneath the bed. Considering how the bed starts to slouch once said trunk is yanked out, it's obvious the trunk was also serving as support for the bed.

Opening the trunk up, Strange gestures for Solas to take a look. Inside are various dried herbs, bark, other plants, and so on as well as some rocks and minerals. Each is in a glass container and labeled with readable, if messy, handwriting. Some of those plants are straight up poisonous, not that Strange cares. It is 100% obvious that Solas was summoned by a packrat.

"Take whatever you need."

Some were very poisonous and those plants got cursory glances from Solas. He could pocket a few, but the risk of contaminating what he did need would be too great. Another time perhaps.

He doesn't bother keeping an eye on Strange as he begins going through the trunk, picking out a few items that appear the most useful. The magic he has brewing in his head would be rooted in ancient techniques, but bent out of place to fit in with the mess the other man already had set up. He examines a vial closely and adds it to the growing pile he has set aside from the trunk.

"I am ready," he says with an expectant motion to the items. Chop chop, Strange, he needs someone to carry those back downstairs for him.

Strange looks at the items...then looks back at Solas...then only grabs about half or so of them, putting some in his pockets but precariously holding some of the vials and jars. Yeah, he's got a feeling he knows what Solas wants him to do and Strange has far too much pride to be a lackey and to fetch things for a bound god. And yes, this is far too petty but he doesn't caaaaaare. Solas can deal and grab the rest of the items himself.

"I assume you can get the rest?" said in a tone of voice that's far too fake and far too innocent to be genuine. Carefully, Strange starts to head back to the ladder to climb down to the cellar. Chop chop, Solas.

Solas rises to the challenge. While it may be a complete waste of magic, he uses his to levitate the items and have them follow behind him instead of trying to balance them. Far safer than the way he notices Strange holding the delicate pieces, but if something broke well... That was on the other man. This was being done for his cause, after all.

"I do, yes," he returns mildly and follows only a step behind Strange.

Rrrrrrgh fucking show off. Strange resists the urge to glare daggers at Solas as they head back down in the cellar. Once there, Strange starts carefully laying down the various jars he was carrying. Stupid elf with his showing off and his levitating magic, were all gods so obnoxious or was he just lucky enough to summon the most obnoxious of them all?

"Well go on," he snaps, obviously grumpy and trying not to sulk. "Do the magic."

It's with a light flourish that he magics the items on the table beside Strange's pile. It had exactly the effect he had wanted. At the demand, Solas merely raises a brow.

"I do not know how you do magic, but this cannot be rushed. Or do you want me to risk wiping out the guards currently in place?" he asks flatly. With how he was having to insert his magic into the hodgepodge version in place, it was going to take some time. Well. More time if Solas dragged his feet to annoy the man.

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hey who's ready for magical bullshit

me me!

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