• Closed • Tell Me More

[Doran Cooney]

On the 80th day of Ashan of the 718th arc...
Two days had passed since the events that had transpired between himself and Alistair Venora. While he still found himself wresting with everything he'd learned that day, Doran had found two things caught in his thoughts since then. The first was the gentle request he'd received, to "be safe". While they had said - and done - many things that night, Alistair's tender appeal had stuck with him - a firm contrast between much of their interactions that night. The second was, perhaps, less concrete an item, but second all the same. It was of Alistair's body, from his head to his toes and everything in between. It had become so distracting that, even as Doran wasn't certain it a wise idea, he had decided that it was time to revisit Cappola. After all, he would be leaving in a couple trials and, most likely, would not be returning for some time, if at all.

He knew it was in his best interests to simply leave without looking back. It was a carnal desire, something he had no experience in, but even he knew such things would fade with time; the term "young love" seem apropos. Nothing truly good could come of his visit, and yet Doran had gone anyway. The walk had been long, plenty of time for him to reconsider, but with each footfall he found himself growing more and more excited - both in the sense of looking forward to seeing Alistair one last time and of a growing apprehension. He wasn't sure how well he would be received, after all, Alistair had already shone with a collection of emotional responses, but he wanted to believe that, at the very least, he might be willing to answer some of Doran's questions. There was quite a bit he'd left unanswered and Doran had never been very adept at letting sleeping dogs lie. He simply hoped that should this particular dog find him a nuisance, it would not result in blood and tears - though there was certainly the possibility.

The ranch itself was sprawling, and Doran had little idea as to where he might start his search for the large, muscular mountain of a man. Though the sun had only risen a handful of breaks earlier, he had come to realize that the denizens of Oakleigh tended to be up quite early. If Alistair were the same, it was more likely he might find him out in the fields or barns rather than his home, but as the house was much smaller than the entirety of Cappola's domain, Doran opted to start there. Remembering that the door was never locked, he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, calling out an airy, "Hello?" before beginning to turn the knob.

Before he could begin his investigations, there came a ruckus from one of the buildings farther down the way: a mix of frantic whining, the banging of something against wood, and a familiar voice shouting various, frustrated expletives. Following the convenient cacophony, Doran soon spied the culprits and, as things seemed to have settled down, called out a soft, "Hello!"

[Alistair]

"Damn horses!" he yelled, growling at the dull-witted animals. There was nothing that infuriated him as much as domestic beasts, for all of them were proud as Lions but more empty headed than a Necromancer's Gaunt. They whined and worried at the pain consuming them, but acted out with a reflexive violence at the mere suggestion of treatment. This particular horse - Wilson - had a horrific infection growing across his belly, but each and every time Alistair's fingers delved against the wound that had initiated the fester, it squealed and kicked and threw its body from one side to the next, slapping Alistair with its long tail.

He was horrid with animals. Alistair knew the whole procedure of being calm, remaining quiet and gentle... but for some inexplicable reason the things never showed fondness towards him. Damien suggested that it was perhaps due to the very nature of Necromancy. Alistair's touch had often been used to shape and meld corpses, wither flesh and bone, and reanimate the dead. That then implied that the brainless horses he'd treated had a sixth sense, however, which he seriously doubted consideration of.

These animals were completely imbecilic. There was no way they could recognize the inherent nature of a mage.

As he continued to struggle with Wilson, however, he heard a booming yet soft voice call out for him. Hello! a man yelled, and he immediately recognized the bearer. Doran. The mage's face lit with instant and sheer delight; he opened the door of the stable, shutting the horse in and popping out to circle the ranch until he found the source of the voice. Conveniently, though, he was right there - looking right at him. The mage grinned, waving at his... friend. Whatever he was.

Alistair was dressed simply, with a white linen shirt and brown trousers of a similar material. He wore sandals against the soles of his feet, and thin leather gloves that he quickly stuffed into his pocket upon seeing Doran - who was beautiful just like before, and Alistair's face was lit with an inhuman excitement. He couldn't believe he'd come back. After the first trial, he'd given up hope, just glad that he hadn't taken on the temporary occupation of a town crier to sell him out. No one in the town seemed to regard him any differently, and nothing suspicious had occurred. They'd left one another in relative peace, which was more than he could have asked for... but of course he wanted to see him again. And now he was here.

"Doran," he greeted him gleefully, stepping forward to close most of the distance. He remembered that he'd wanted to hold him a few trials ago, on the sunset of that evening, but he hadn't. Now... he wondered if things had settled down enough. He had to ask.

"Can I hold you?" he questioned, his eyes puppy doggish, wounded but filled with intention. If Doran said yes, he would immediately wrap his arms around him, providing him a firm embrace. Alistair was a physical, passionate man. As peculiar as his request may have seemed, it was natural to him.

"I missed you," he admitted. "I've been thinking about you all trial, and all trial before that. I'm so glad you came to see me, Doran," Alistair confessed in addition, smiling faintly. "I'm sorry," he said again. It was clear that there was still guilt, even apprehension. But Doran came back - that meant something. Maybe they could spend time with one another, without manipulation, or the pretense of a false name, or the volatility of a noble post-descent.

He wanted that; Alistair found himself longing. He needed to know him, to be warmed by the goodness of his heart.

[Doran Cooney]

A small smile spread across Doran's face as he watched the other man walk towards him, just as striking as he'd been the first time they'd met. While he could admit he was glad to see him, Doran's smile took on a sad tilt at the question. Glad that he'd asked, he still shook his head, extending a hand instead. "Not... right now." There was no coldness or judgment in his voice. If anything, there was fair amount of relief at having been given a true choice. It was difficult not to wish that things had been different, that he'd just given into to Kieran's advances and enjoyed a night together. But, Doran had made his choice, and Alistair had made his.

Just the mere concept of someone missing him was a bit foreign to Doran. Not since Lily had been alive had someone said those words to him so earnestly. He found it odd that they had felt very much the same in regard to one another over the past few trials, though he still nodded, his cheeks a slight pink, and replied a soft, "You have been on my mind as well." The apology was acknowledged, but that was not what Doran had come to speak about - or at least not yet.

Curiously glancing around Alistair's massive shoulders at the stalls behind him, he set his gaze back on Alistair's face, glad that the man was fully clothed and not nearly as distracting as the trials before. He was still absurdly handsome, but it was a relief to be able to appreciate the strength of his jaw and firm jut of his chin without the added distraction of his body in a state of undress. "I hope everything is alright." He wasn't really certain how best to approach the subject of Alistair's history, but neither had he ever worried too much about it - it wasn't everyday he met a man living in hiding . So, he opted to lower his already soft voice as he continued.

"Do you... mind if we talk? I... I have questions, if you're willing to answer them." There wasn't anything urgent in Doran's voice. His tone carried with it a sort of gentle probe, clearly suggesting that while he would be disappointed should Alistair decline, he would not press the issue further. "And... it is good to see you, Alistair." He made certain that the name was little more than a causal whisper. The very last thing he wanted to do that trial was to prove himself an untrustworthy ally - of sorts -, but still, hearing his own name said with such warmth, he wanted to return the favor. Though, where Alistair's voice had given sound to Doran's name with pleased abandon, when Doran spoke Alistair's, there was a soft respect tempered with a gentle sadness, all wrapped up in a gentle fondness. He was glad to see the man in high spirits, so different from how he'd left him.

[Alistair]

Not... right now, the other man spoke, declining his request. Of course, he would've preferred his consent in the matter, but he wasn't necessarily disappointed. He expected that response - but like always, he at least figured he'd ask. Well -- like always excluding two trials ago, but somehow he could already... mostly... laugh that off, at least until Doran mentioned it, which he knew would be a topic that would eventually arrive. He just didn't see the point in adding that shame to the pile of things he'd felt guilty over. It didn't happen. He apologized, Doran was still here, the two still held fond feelings towards one another. He needed to focus on that.

And there was so much else to focus on, too. Doran's cheeks were always such a charming, rosy shade, constantly expressing an intrinsic satisfaction with Alistair's words and actions. He blushed like a madman, and it made Alistair blush too. The two of them were much like juveniles in yearning - seeking togetherness, but with a thick layer separating them from one another. The thing was, Alistair had never had something like that. He'd been so afraid of his own sexual vices as he called them, that he'd never showed any attraction as a youth. It was only now that he'd first experienced the flowering of a budding crush, which somehow persisted despite it all.

You've been on my mind as well, he whispered. Alistair's smile expanded, hearing as much. There was always the possibility that some of those thoughts were negative, but - clearly many weren't. He was here, and the Venora simply needed to take advantage of that. So, putting on a gentlemanly demeanor by straightening his back and eyeing Doran with respect, he nodded and paid close attention to everything the younger male said.

"Everything's well," he nodded, stepping to the side of Doran and staring forward, out at the fields of wheat lining their surroundings. There were rows in-between them, meant for maneuvering the farm without crushing the stalks and deterring the bounty of the harvest. Alistair beckoned the other forward, suggesting with his gestures that they should walk the paths in between the crops. No more maintenance needed to be done on them for the wheat to come to fruition, as tomorrow and the trial after they would be loaded into the grain houses and the other foundries for stock and reserve. It was the perfect opportunity for quiet.

"I'll answer whatever you want," he responded. "I want to explain something to you too, though. I hope you don't mind," the mage started, stepping gently through the grass, one foot after the other, his eyes averting to Doran as he spoke. "I am a mage, I wanted to start with that," Alistair admitted, though this was already known. "I'm a mage of some reputation, and I've been practicing for many arcs. So, I won't say that I merely... stumbled into the art and therefore didn't deserve my fate. But magic was always legal until just an arc ago. The King changed his heart at a moment's notice -- all because of one man." Fridgar - Alistair's... dead husband.

"Because of a door thrown near him, an act that could've been done by anyone, man or mage alike. It wasn't even aimed at him," he rolled his eyes, still frustrated over the ordeal. This was why he'd always believed Cassander was a narcissist.

He always had thought that everything was about him. Veljorn's war wasn't even about him. It was about Veljorn. And magic wasn't about him, nor was it a threat to the Kingdom until he made it one - the politics of mages had been going on for hundreds of arcs before he was ever born. Yet the fragile balance of the Kingdom was shaken, and an inquisition was born, all because of a momentary fear he'd felt at an action that could've been performed by anyone. A door was not a magical object, it was a door.

"Rynmere will die because of him," he lowered his head, almost somberly. "By removing the Seekers, he quelled the greatest obstacle to the Coven. And now, I... I don't know what will happen. Magic will be hated even more, because the Crown rallied all the good mages and burned them. The bad mages - the ones left - will leave scars upon that land that won't heal for a thousand arcs. And it'll always be our fault - all of us," he shook his head. He wanted to start with this because he needed it to be known, that this war was wrong. That the reason he was exiled was wrong, and all those men and women he killed were walking threats to his continued existence. He defended himself against injustice, and killed some of the figures responsible for perpetuating Cassander's law-abiding crimes.

Alistair was a mage... for Rynmere. He wanted to use magic for the Kingdom, to help root out groups like the Coven. But people like him were punished, while Ellasin and her psychotic cabal continued to recruit and roam. They grew in Etzos, they grew in Rynmere, they grew in Ne'haer. This was a faction that would soon challenge the whole of the world. It meant a lot to him that they were pushed back. But the King, the Empress, their arbitration... had helped push Rynmere to the depths. There was no other truth but this one.

[Doran Cooney]

Narrow as the rows were, Doran opted to walk behind Alistair, keeping close enough that they need not raise their voices as they waded through the grassy field. "Not at all." His words were genuine, relieved even. Though he did not usually balk when it came to asking questions, he'd also never met someone like Alistair. He wasn't certain what might set off his temper or draw him down into a malaise, though without the added pressures of him needing to keep up pretenses, Doran supposed outbursts would be less likely. Still, if Alistair wanted to tell him something, it was by far the safest bet, and anything he could learn about the other man, good or bad, would help paint a better picture. A part of him wanted it all to be bad to make his departure easier, but a much more significant part of him wanted to better understand the sadness and anger and fear. In either case, what Doran most needed to do was listen, so though the natural beauty of the world around them was quite stunning, Doran made certain not to let his mind wander and Alistair continued.

It seemed that magic was a source of pride for Alistair. Doran had never been particularly fond of such things; magic, legal or illegal, was dangerous. It turned normal men and women into something with power, yes, but also something... else. At least, that was what he'd always been taught. He knew that Rynmere's magic prohibition was a relatively new development, but when the kingdom had declared to make the change, Doran had thought little of it. As far as he was concerned, it was merely to protect the citizens of the nation. Thus, he wasn't sure how to feel about Alistair's declaration. Doran had known him to be a mage, but it had been more of a vague title up until that point. Thoughtfully, Doran nodded slowly, his brows knit but eyes clear for the time being.

From the way Alistair spoke of the king, it seemed as though he knew him on a personal level and had very low opinions of him. Checking that he had heard correctly, Doran repeated with a confused, "A... door?" He assumed Alistair spoke of the attack upon the king. He had not been aware that Alistair had been there as well, or perhaps it was all the same even? Whatever the case, Doran continued to listen intently, his hand absently brushing against the tops of the wheat as they languidly made their way through the field. He didn't really understand what Alistair was talking about, but he nodded nonetheless. It sounded much more like a personal account, a retelling more so for Alistair's benefit than to provide elucidation on any specific subject; though while Doran had no doubt a man like Alistair would have little difficult hurling a door across a room, he wasn't certain that that qualified a "man or mage" denotation. Not everyone was built like mountain.

Talk of the Coven sent a slight chill down his spine. The way Alistair spoken of them, it was almost as if they were real, not just something to call the mages who proved dangerous or unstable. Though, the more he spoke, the less Doran began to doubt that the Coven was, indeed, a real problem. It was quite a bit to take in, from the blasphemy of Alistair's praise of magic to the claim that their king would prove the death of their county to that of the Coven. What had been said mulled about in Doran's mind as he processed what he could, and some time passed as they walked in silence, his eyes distant and thoughtful.

From what he understood, according to Alistair, mages were much like anyone else: capable of good and bad. Seemingly, Alistair had done no bad, unless one considered aiding a man who threw a door in the direction of a king to be acceptable enough, and the resulting ban upon magic was what would surely bring Rynmere to its knees, supposedly at the mercy of the mysterious Coven. In honesty, it all sounded a bit ridiculous, but Doran did his best to accept as much as he could as Alistair's truth.

When he did speak, his voice carried with it a fair amount of apprehension and a good helping of healthy skepticism. "The Coven is... real?" He wondered if those captured and burned had been part of the cult, or if they had been like Alistair, trying to twart them only to be rewarded with a fiery death. Whatever the answer, all the talk of magic had made him decidedly uncomfortable. "Your magic doesn't... frighten you?" It was an impulsive question. Though he had intended to employ tact, he had never had much need for it, and listening to Alistair's passion recount had drawn him into a place of relative comfort, even drawing a bit closer where before he had maintained a fair distance between them. "It doesn't worry you??"

[Alistair]

The Coven... is real? he asked, as he followed behind the mage, Alistair's feet stepping more quickly due to the length of his legs and the energy with which he spoke. At the question, though, he paused for a moment. Doran would see only his back, frozen, as one of his palms clenched and opened, his fingers coming together to pop his knockles, bones and other joints. Right. He supposed this was a part of telling the truth - telling the whole truth.

"Yes... the Coven is real," he nodded, sidewardly glancing at Doran. He then swung his body around, before lowering himself onto the grass, taking a seat. The wind blew threw the fields and rustled the stalks of wheat, but the sound did not overlap his voice until he'd brought himself lower than the level of the grains. This would be good for ensuring no one could really hear, so he decided that for a moment, they could pause their walk through the fields. This was nice, anyway, and beautiful. And he could stare at Doran as he spoke.

"I was... a high ranking member. Next in line for Sae'a'fei, too, which meant I was to be one of the regional commanders for the organization. But I was valued for my power alone, not my commitment, or my devotion. The Coven and I broke bread once, when I was younger, but the older I grew the more distant I became. They are evil, Doran," he stated. "They want to abolish society as we know it, break the world into endless vulnerable pockets that they can torment and control. They scowl at the Immortals and seek to topple all the structures they've ever created. Their malice is pure."

The Coven really was a comical sort of villain - they had little good qualities, so many bad ones. But how did they get like that? And why did so many people cling to them?

"Belonging," he reasoned. "That's why most people join. It's why I did. They're a cult, so they operate like any other cult. Family, community, a sense of importance for those typically ostracized by society. They take the mocked, the ugly, the irredeemable. Their ranks are lined with child sodders, madmen and the infirm. But they make them into warriors - nightmarish women and men. They turn rejects into armies. Only a few hundred in each stronghold, but with the quality of their forces, that means a lot. They may soon be able to topple cities - it's just, Ellasin is a slow and progressional leader. She has time, so she waits."

He didn't really need to explain much more, but instilling fear of the Coven into Doran was something he considered a duty. They needed to be feared, to be acknowledged. By thinking they were a myth, the people of Idalos made themselves susceptible to their influence. The people who really believed, who sought them out, fell easily through the cracks... while the armies of ignorant continued marching on. Magic was a threat, but it was a self-containing system. The Seekers needed to exist as a counter balance, and so did coalitions of free mages.

Nevertheless, he had more questions to answer. And... they were important ones.

"My magic does worry me," he admitted. "But only... theoretically. In practice, I'm a very cautious mage who typically avoids exerting myself to my limits. I've not had an incident of my own magic going awry in arcs. It is volatile, to the untrained, but it can be harnessed and controlled. To those who can control it, it's an incredibly useful tool to have. We can cure disease, evacuate whole cities in trills, make storms subside. But I believe that magic should only be held by the elite, the disciplined. People who can master it, who seek it out for good motives. The liberal spread of magic should be prevented at all costs - but in moderation, it can change our world."

He looked to Doran, and held out his hand, narrowing his eyes as his fingers danced within the warm spring air. A black-indigo vortex appeared central to his palm, feeding from the pinkish-purple tethers extending into it from his fingertips. Out of the vortex came a pear, landing onto the open palm of his hand, the portal subsiding immediately after its production within his hand.

"A minor demonstration," he called it, grinning faintly. "Great mages can do all manner of things. If only you knew the stories - of Reyard, of Talesin Galien, of the wisdom of Sect. People understand what they want to understand. They want to see mages as a great darkness washing over the land. But we aren't - we are merely the people that live within the humming, the buzzing of ether. We close our eyes; feel it, see it. Some of us see specs of stardust in the air, like me. Some of us hear frequencies around us, Attuners. Some of us see companionship within death. Some see lifelong friends within the Elements. Some seek alliances with spirits, or bonds of subjugation. There are so many beautiful things given to us by magic. It would be a shame to burn us all alive and expunge us from the world. I can't imagine a reality like that, Doran. It seems so... empty of life."

[Doran Cooney]

When he had been young, before Lily was old enough to read, Doran's uncle would tell them stories - especially to Lily, but Doran was always allowed to listen, his uncle never turning away an audience. His tales had always featured the prevalence of good, the triumph over evil, and dangers of power; in them, magic was near inseparable from evil. It was powerful and consuming and no matter what the hero or heroine might say or do or believe, it always corrupted them in the end. He had been raised to be wary of magic, to question those who used it and to avoid them if possible. If his uncle only knew what Doran had gotten himself into now, he surely would have startled him into an early grave.

Yet, Alistair's tale was not so different. Good and evil, power and corruption... They were all cut from the same cloth, fables and history. Alistair's just simply wasn't finished yet.

He almost ran into the other man when he abruptly stopped, but caught himself in time, taking a step back and eyeing him curiously. As Alistair turned and sank down beneath the grasses, the rustling wind shivering through them, Doran followed suit, gaze searching. Rather than sit all the way down, he crouched so one of his knees pressed into the earth, ready to stand should the need arise. What was next revealed to him was met with an understandable mix of shock and disbelief. Though Alistair continued right along, seemingly unfazed, Doran found himself still stumbling over the admitted fact that all his knowledge of the Coven was drawn from first hand experience - not only that, but apparently Alistair had been "high ranking". He did what he could to recover from his surprise, nodding along. The Coven's goals seemed... odd but certainly sinister. While Doran didn't understand the reasoning behind it, he supposed that an ex-Coven member would know what he was talking about.

The picture he pained waxed more tenebrous with each word, and Doran found himself involuntarily inching his body away from the man. It was all so twisted and malefic. How Alistair was able to see magic in any sort of positive light after being a part of them, Doran couldn't understand. If the Coven were only a threat because of their magic, was not magic the problem? If the Seekers were the only people who could combat the Coven, was not it better to simply have neither at all? He supposed that, no, that wasn't the case. If the Coven fed upon the outcasts, as long as magic existed, so too would they, it seemed. It was certainly a dilemma, but one that Doran had no desire to solve. It was clearly not his fight. All he could do was hope that the ashcloaks might be successful in their routing of the Coven - a grim prospect as death only even seemed to breed more of its kind.

When Alistair spoke of his magic, his tone was completely different. It was like listening to an artist speak on his process, or a professor in his chosen field. Alistair considered magic to be a tool - one meant for those worthy of wielding it - but a tool nonetheless. It was a novel concept to Doran, who had always equated magic with folly, but a hammer in the hands of a fool was hardly on par with the sheer destructive power of magic - or so he'd been taught. It all sounded so idyllic and, in it's own way frightening. If only the elite had magic, then what good were those without? Who would stop the strong from destroying the weak? Doran agreed that magic had the potential to change the world, but he wasn't sure he agreed with what that change might bring.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Doran's gaze was pulled down by Alister's own as he focused on his outstretched hand. Upon the appearance of what looked like a hole that opened up in the middle of the air, Doran rose to his feet and took a few cautious steps back. "M-magic...?" When the fruit emerged to fall benignly into Alistair's hand, Doran only blinked in disbelief. "Where did the-?" The display was impressive, even if Alistair claimed it minor, but Doran remained on his feet, eyes still fixed upon the pear. Though magic had not been prohibited until recently, Doran had never actually seen anyone use it. It filled him with an uneasiness - that Alistair had so easily bent the rules that governed reality... It didn't sit well with him. He couldn't help but wonder what else the man was capable of. He'd known Alistair was dangerous, but perhaps he had only just scratched the surface of a far greater truth beneath it.

"Merely... people?" Doran shook his head, brows knit but eyes open, honest, and confused. "Empty of life?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair, staring at Alistair but with a gaze that passed straight through him, into thought. "People can't... shouldn't do those things, Alistair. It's not natural. No one is born with it; life exists outside of magic. Even if it disappears, we would still remain. It's..." He struggled for the word, finally shaking his head. "I'm... I apologize. I can see it is important to you, but it... it terrifies me." HIs face was flushed, several shade lighter than before without a hint of the rose blush that tended to dust his features whenever he looked directly at Alistair. "Everything that you can do, it's..." He took a deep, shaking breath, his eyes closing for a moment before they opened again, a whisper of a smile on his lips. "Incredible." The smile faded. "And horrifying."

[Alistair]

He seemed so... alert at his actions. The usage of even that tiny portal frightened him, causing Doran to wonder immensely at the nature of Alistair's magic, and the potential. He had done much greater, however, like in Scalvoris only trials ago. The younger one - he was convinced - would change his tune around magic if he had the chance to observe spells much greater and more benevolent. All anyone ever heard of was legions of the dead pillaging townships, or a Defier setting a forest on fire and dooming the residents of a lumbering village. It wasn't like that in reality, and it didn't need to ever be like that in the first place if people did not ostracize mages from the world. A cornered animal was far more likely to lash out.

Doran had his own perspectives on the matter, however. He called it unnatural, which was actually an argument Alistair hadn't heard often. Typically the arguments against magic devised from religious zealotry, calling it an affront against the Immortals, or an attempt to arrogantly challenge their authority. But unnatural - that was different. He crossed his arms over his chest and thought of a proper response. It didn't take him long to rationalize it, however, and it was an argument he was confident he could win.

"Should we regress to the caves, then? And bashing one another with rocks?" he questioned the logic. "Magic does exist naturally within the world, and it has a natural element to it: the spark, which humans have shown to be able to sustain and develop. A sword is less natural than magic is, and so is a home, and so is an instrument. These things are all created unnaturally, none of them exist by default within nature. Magic does exist in nature, it merely needs to be bonded with. And, most importantly, magic interacts with nature. It allows a mage to manipulate a piece of Idalos for their benefit - it gives us mastery over this world. For example, how long do you think it takes me to get from here to Ne'haer? If I boated, it would take... what, seventy trials? Something like that," he considered, though he didn't know the exact number. It wasn't a voyage he'd gone on in a very long time.

"The answer is - a few dozen trills. Right now, if we wanted to, you could wake up the next morning within the expansive Neapolitan city. Because I can manipulate the laws of space around me to let me slip in through the cracks - to create a doorway that connects point Helion with point Siima, cutting down thousands of miles with a single step. Mages are natural, we are masters of nature," he said, and even though his arguments may have grown overlong, he wished to make one final point. "If that hasn't convinced you, then let me tell you: the Immortals are just as unnatural as we are. Ether comes from Emea, and so do they. And they perform all sorts of actions that defy nature in much the same ways as we. An Immortal, as many mages agree, is not dissimilar to an extremely powerful mage. We use domain magic - literally - and they use domains."

He figured at least if Doran wasn't convinced by the 'greatness' of magic, he could at least acknowledge that there were a great number of things unnatural to Idalos. According to the followers of Kem and Yashul, the Immortals were not even native to this world, they were invaders. All-in-all, there was no correct system of belief on Idalos. And there were little things truly natural to it, save for spirits - which, coincidentally, could be bonded to via magic. It was far too nuanced a conversation to have a right or wrong answer, and he knew that.

So why argue it at all, was his question? Why debate whether or not mages should exist, when they did exist, and many of them were good? The scholars would never ask that question, nor answer it. They found a million justifications for why magic should not exist, and the mages offered a million more justifications for why it should. It was endless.

"It's alright that it terrifies you, Doran," he said, mind moving from the question of natural versus unnatural. "There are many great horrors dwelling in our world, but by understanding their purpose the fear always recedes," he spoke, nodding sagely. He was just glad to be having a conversation like this. His emotional disturbances had quelled, and now he could - he felt - show Doran what the other side of things looked like. Even if he didn't change his perspective at all, at least Alistair could show that mages didn't believe they were over-exaggerated villains twiddling their fingers and sacrificing children. They had their own justifications, like anyone else doing anything.

"But - let's move from this topic," he nodded. "You said you had questions for me, and I rudely moved on from them before you'd even had the opportunity to ask. What would you like to know, Doran?" the mage questioned, rising to his knees before he sprung up to full height, beckoning for the other man to follow him again through the fields as they spoke.

[Doran Cooney]

Unsure what Alistair meant, Doran listened, but his eyes did not light with the gleam of revelation as might the mage would have liked them to do. To Doran, it didn't matter whether or not magic existed within the world or not; it was that where stones and swords could be picked up and put down, magic could not. Alistair had called it a tool, an instrument of power and change, but that was only a way to wield it - it did not change the fact that magic irreversibly altered the very core of a person. Doran, of course, did not understand the specifics. His knowledge of magic was limited to the stories and cautionary tales he'd heard, but in all of them it was a constant that once magic was a part of one's life, that life was forever changed.

While perhaps Alistair's explanation was meant to inspire confidence, it was clear on Doran's face mastery and dominion over the world were hardly a positive thing in his mind. It was neither a matter of convenience. Though his eyes did widen at the prospect of near instantaneous travel, he lightly shook his head as Alistair deemed himself a master of nature. Men were not meant to be gods - if they were, they would not have been born men at all. The argument itself, however, did not fall on deaf ears. Having never heard anyone praise the benefits of magic, he was far to ignorant in what it truly had to offer to say much else. Nothing that had been said made him any less apprehensive - if anything, it had worsened his fear of the arcane; but he was better able to understand how a mage viewed himself, what place in the world he imagined he belong. Ironically, in spite of everything Alistair had said to correct what he believed to be Doran's misconceptions, it seemed that the pride of mages so often warned about in tales was based in truth.

"Emea...?" But Alistair spoke in circles. Magic existed naturally, and the Immortals existed with magic. Doran didn't understand the point trying to be made: the Immortals were natural, some of them literally the embodiment of nature itself. If anything, it painted mages as all the more aberrant. The Immortals, the gods of Idalos, they were meant to have their power; it was as much a part of them as a voice or a soul. He could not see what it was Alistair wanted him to; magic was a natural force, but it was never meant to be wielded by the mortal races. Not as far as Doran was concerned.

But, it was a matter of opinion, in a sense. Whether he accepted magic as a tool or a curse, it didn't change the fact that Alistair had it - that he was mage. Nor did it have any bearing on those of the Coven or the apostate mages who had fled the harsh consequences of Rynmere's prohibition. He had simply wanted to better understand, and in that sense, he supposed he had gained some insight, whether he agreed with it or not. Though Alistair's tone was reassuring, Doran was only able to muster a weak smile in return. He hardly felt as though anything they had spoken of had helped to sooth his misgivings about magic. If anything, they'd been worsened. Alistair's claim to his own magical strength meant, in turn, that his chances of self-destruction were just as great. Though of him meeting his end at the hand of the "tool" he seemed so adamantly fond of was a sobering one.

"Yes... perhaps that would be best." He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the warm, sweet air. With a sigh, when he opened his eyes again, some color had returned to his face, no longer quite so pale now that the initial shock of Alistair's display had faded some. Though all the talk of magic still buzzed about in his mind, Doran pushed it aside. He wasn't even certain he'd understood most of what had been said, and while he was not necessarily afraid of appearing the fool, he needed time to mull over everything Alistair had told him. "I don't believe you were rude?" His smile was reassuring, though as they started again through the field, he kept his distance. "It's nothing so... serious as magic or Immortals. But," His fingers absently caught at the blades of grassy wheat as he passed by. "Why me?"

It had been a question that had rooted itself in his mind more firmly over the trails past, and thought Doran's airy voice was soft, there was an intense concern in his tone. "I am neither noble nor mage, just..." He trailed off, brows knitted as he stared contemplatively at Alistair's boots as they continued. "When I look at you, even now, I fell my chest tighten. But you are a grand man, a powerful man. I don't understand what you seem to think it is I can offer you." Though his cheeks blushed slightly, his words were not an invitation for intimacy. They were a request for clarity; his own quiet way of letting Alistair know that he did not trust nor was he able to comprehend his desires, though even Doran didn't realise it to be so. In his own mind, he merely wanted to know what it was Alistair saw. There were, of course, other questions, but with all the talk of magic, what Doran had asked seemed most appropriate. Even in hiding, it had been made clear that Alistair had the ability to be... anywhere, with anyone. Why then choose a young, faceless man who had neither land nor title to his name?

[Alistair]

It was obvious that Doran didn't see things his way. Alistair's explanations seemed to puzzle him, or at least, fail to persuade him of anything. He could see his logical decomposition of the arguments he'd presented, meaning he was deconstructing them but without the desire to inform Alistair of his responses. He... didn't want to argue, probably. So the mage merely said nothing, staring into his eyes with perplexity as he questioned what counter-arguments he might've sewn together. It was unfortunate that he was not as convincing as he thought, but he supposed that magic was a political issue at heart.

Not everyone could simply be persuaded to see the light. It was based entirely on perspective. Alistair held very little significance on the vast majority of Immortals, so it was easy to him to compare Immortals and Mages. But a pious man might take severe offense at the thought, and an Etzori religious abolitionist might take it a step further. Doran simply had - presently - irreconcilable differences with him on the subject of the arcane. But that was fine. As compelling as his passions could be, he did not need each and every man on Idalos to agree with him. He just required that they at least refrained from burning mages at the stake.

Regardless, they moved forward.

Why me? he asked. The noble figured he knew where this was going, and so his answers already began to spin within his head. Doran had apt questions, but only if one were speaking of Alistair's predilections in the sense of a noble marriage. Doran's nobility or lack thereof was irrelevant, considering Alistair had been excommunicated by the church of Rynlism. He could no longer bare the titles and power of the Venora name, which meant if anything that partnering with another noble was only more... complicated.

As for the magic, well - he didn't need a mage. Alistair couldn't help but crinkle his brows and quirk them in amusement - it was perplexing that Doran thought magic was a qualifier for him. It was only a requirement for himself, not his friends or lovers or anyone of significance. He wanted to have power, to protect, to rule, to surpass. He'd never been very high maintenance towards others in his life, whether they lived at a quiet pace or one of outstanding ambition.

"You're aware that the King is actively hunting me, yes?" he asked, rhetorically. "I have neither land nor titles myself. I am nothing, and no one. Do you remember your exact thoughts when I told you who I was?" the fallen noble asked. "That's my name, now. The meaning of Alistair Venora languishes in superstition and the garments of heresy. So -- how could I ask anything of you?" Alistair questioned. If anything, he thought, Doran should be the one to shy at his advances based on his credentials.

"You have a lot to offer, anyway," he grinned. "You're sweet, and understanding, and smart. You're friendly, and easy to talk to, and a good listener. You're also cute," the mage stated proudly, turning to waggle his brows at the younger man.

"So--" he hummed, swaying his body so that he was walking backwards, yet still facing Doran. "I have a question, too. Why did you come back, Doran?" he asked. "And... do you have any intentions to ever see me again?" Alistair's brows bent, as his expression shifted to one of a solemn anticipation. Doran would leave, soon, surely. And then, what? They would never see the other again. Alistair wasn't going back to Rynmere - he couldn't without great risk. And Doran wasn't coming back to Kingsley any time soon, he was certain of that.

So why did he bother? For curiosity alone?

"I want to see you again," he said. "I would like for this to be the beginning, not the end. But I suppose the one who's already decided is the one who does not have a choice."