[Location: Arrival plaza] [Open] The night is long, and the path is dark...

[altus_pavus]

It's a nice room, the one he wakes up in. He's stretched out on a lovely divan, clad in the most exquisite brocade. It's a room he could stay in for quite some time, given half a chance. It's certainly better than his current prospects - perhaps there'll be a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the night, provided they find a way back to the present time.

That is to say, not the present future they're stuck in. The horrendous future, where red lyrium spreads to take over entire wings of Redcliffe castle. Where one of his countrymen made everyone's preconceptions about Tevinter mages come true - one of the foolish mages who think the ends justify all means you can think of.

It's a big, hard, bitter pill to swallow. No wonder his head aches.

Come to think of it, he can't remember what happened after jumping through the vortex for the second time in so many hours. Time magic. Such horror. No one should have that power, but trust his former mentor to find a way...

He rolls his head side to side, back and forth, and only then gives the room a more enthusiastic once-over. It seems rather strange, aside from the lovely furnishings. It's like a box. Like a gift box you give to children, filled with miniature furniture and dolls...

Dorian doesn't enjoy the idea of being anyone's puppet, but the image sticks.

Further inspection reveals he has his staff, and a book is laid out on that table over there by one of the four walls (how peculiar: is it a ruse of Alexius's doing? Petty revenge for going behind his back? It doesn't seem like him, but Dorian has been wrong about people before).

[Welcome] says a disembodied female voice that seems to fill the entire room, and despite its soft qualities Dorian still half jumps out of his skin.

Seems like it will be a long night.

~*~

The first person will do, he tells himself. First human, dwarf, elf or qunari he finds will do - he'll ask what in Andraste's ashes is going on, and maybe then he can figure a way out of here.

Yes. That's a perfectly workable plan: assault the first unsuspecting poor bastard he finds. Excellent.

Comments

[infinitelystranger]

There are no obvious dwarves or qunari in the arrival plaza, but there is a man scratching at the building's outer wall with a rock. The rock is a smooth-looking river stone; the wall is not showing any appropriate damage, not even the fine marks the rock ought to be making on it. The graffitist looks unconcerned with any observation. He has the intent expression of someone doing important work.

When Dorian emerges from the building, the man looks up, pale-eyed. Then he goes back to his task.

[altus_pavus]

He'll do, not only for sheer proximity's sake, but for how very casual he seems about a mage marching towards him. One has to be cautious of the panic stricken gentry, after all. No one likes a mob wielding pitch forks.

If only the place wasn't so...enormous. So foreign.

"You, ser! What is this place? When is this place?" Greetings can come later: he has more important things to do.

"I am not in the habit of trusting disembodied voices telling me to go out and play nice with the other children, you see. Do you know the year? It's very important."

[infinitelystranger]

"I do not," says the man with a slight frown; he looks unfazed by the question and lack of greeting, however, like this has been coming up a lot recently. Given the place and circumstances, this would not be surprising. "No one seems to concur. There are some of us from entirely different star systems and calendars in the first place, and then those of us that share one all disagree on the precise point. It's all moot, anyway--" He gestures with the rock. "If what they say is true--if--we're not orbiting a star. We may as well be making notches on a cell wall."

Sherlock doesn't mind people who want to discuss their situation without the formalities of small talk: in fact, he tends to prefer it. He has every intention of going back to what he is doing (which is testing the building material with various objects to see if he can narrow down what it might be). But this man snags his attention anyway for the moment--if only because he's so cavalier about his question.

He glances at the stranger, but he can't ascertain anything from the man's peculiar outfit. "What year were you expecting?"

[altus_pavus]

Ah! A man after his own heart - someone who knows the value of priority.

However, Dorian isn't exactly delighted with the news. A disparity of knowledge is almost worse than a lack thereof, and if there's one things he can appreciate, it is fact. Fact, unlike truth, for instance, is clear cut. A stone is a stone whether someone believes it to be true, or not.

"Nine forty-two Dragon," says Dorian with the flash of a wry grin. "Though I daresay it means absolutely nothing to you. No offense, of course."

[infinitelystranger]

"Nothing at all," says Sherlock without rancor. He holds up the stone, makes a face at it, and tosses it away; it clatters along the ground. Not littering in Spaceship Prison, as it is now termed in his head, is not his top priority. "I was last in 2012 C.E. in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. What language are you speaking?"

The less the stranger seems to recognize, the more interested Sherlock becomes. He's now dealt with people from historical Earth, alternate Earths, future Earths--but not many from other places entirely. It's another data point for his graph. Metaphorically speaking. If there's an equation that can plot the distribution of people and worlds in this place, he doesn't yet know it. This place is full of a near-infinite number of things he doesn't yet know. But then again, that's always been true.

He favors the strangely dressed man with half a smile. This is not to be polite--which wouldn't have crossed his mind--but because something about his manner sets Sherlock mildly at ease. It's a sense of affinity.

[altus_pavus]

The young man might as well be spouting nonsense words, for the degree of recognition in Dorian's eyes. Which is to say none.

Easier then to focus on facts. "I'm currently speaking the common tongue of Ferelden, as it's called. Or, the King's Tongue, if we're to be fancy. My mother tongue is Tevene, but I don't use it unless I'm highly agitated."

It's also fun to watch Southerners squirm, but, alas. He is attempting to play nice, for what it's worth. So far he isn't regretting that decision.

"To tell you the truth, I was hoping to go back to 9:41, after some rather unfortunate events involving time magic catapulting me into the future. It seems as though..."

A slight frown, then the light of scholarly excitement flies across his face. "Oh! Of course! Since I didn't go back, or forwards through time, I must have gone sideways. Fascinating!"

He settles himself leaning against the wall. "And what of you? Is this anything at all like your...united kingdom?"

[infinitelystranger]

Sideways in time. Sherlock has always preferred a sense of absolute reckoning--one space-time universe, one timeline, the simplest explanation possible out of a universe of theories, Occam's principle--but the best theory he's had that incorporates all of that is still 'computer simulation.' Which is a bit of a cop-out, really, as theories go. And doesn't account for everything. But it makes a bit more sense than transdimensional alien abduction.

Again.

"Not particularly," he answers. "It's all very--"

How to term it? Alien, of course. Incomprehensible. It doesn't obey the laws of physics or physical construction as he understands them; it all operates along the biology of an unfamiliar ecosystem. The arrival plaza is, at least, approximating human standards--but from what he's briefly seen of the rest, this does not have the look of something constructed for humans. Or rather, it has the look of something constructed for humans by someone or something that does not particularly understand them.

"--odd," is what he selects. "I spent some time talking to the voice in the arrival chamber." (Voice is substituted for AI; from the man's dress and manner it seems unlikely AI is in his vocabulary.) "It's not particularly sapient. I don't suppose you had any more luck, Mr...?"

Sherlock's attention has swiveled back to the stranger, and he has catalogued what he knows about him, which is not very much: youngish, vaguely Mediterranean (which may be a meaningless concept in 'Ferelden,' anyway), well-groomed and vain, with none of the marks of labor or hard use--a nobleman, or scholar, or both. No grand leaps of deduction there. He speaks of time magic like anyone ought to know what it is. But that says more about Ferelden than about him.

[altus_pavus]

Odd is certainly a passable term for it. In fact, it strikes Dorian as very fitting indeed. Everything about the place is odd, from the sounds of people milling about on who knows what kind of flooring/ground/whatisthatthing, to the sound of mechanised...somethings-or-other in the distance.

It does rather sound like a thousand golems throwing javelins at a singular target. Perish the thought.

More importantly, he doesn't think he's had the distinct pleasure of seeing such cheekbones in quite some time.

Ahem. Priorities, remember.

"Dorian Pavus. As in 'of House Pavus'. I doubt it means anything in this place, but for what it's worth, and so on. 'Dorian' will do. Or 'Ser Pavus' if we're to stand on formality. I don't see why, personally."

[infinitelystranger]

"Sherlock Holmes," says Sherlock in return--fairly indifferent to 'Sherlock,' or 'Holmes' or 'Mr Holmes' or whatever else people choose to call him. He glances at the wall he's been trying to deface; his eyes traverse the long shine of reflected light in its surface.

His frames of reference are all gone. Once again. He's acquired a lifetime's worth of knowledge that applies to the 'present-day' UK--building materials, architectural styles, age, weathering, structural weaknesses and signs of remodeling--and absolutely none of it avails him faced with something like this. He cannot make bricks without clay, it's true; but he doesn't even have clay now, he has mud. Endless, shapeless mud. Data with no points of comparison, no taxonomy, nothing to start from.

Of course, he has to start somewhere anyway. So that's what he's doing.

His stomach makes a disquieted noise. Earthly needs always present themselves. "You have 'magical' abilities," he says precisely: not quite putting that in air quotes, but not quite not, either. "I suppose you've already tried leaving that way?"

[altus_pavus]

Sherlock doesn't need to be putting anything in air quotes when they're perfectly audible. Dorian's eyebrows twitch with undisguised mirth - how fun! Discussing magic with someone who isn't having a moral pissing contest!

"You sound like you're bursting with disbelief. Don't worry - I won't start calling on unsuspecting spirits, twisting their purpose. Or shaping the elements to my will. Not unless you ask pretty."

He tilts his head, and sweeps his right foot from in front of his left, to the back of it, shifting where he stands. Being affable is such hard work, see.

"And to answer your question: no, that didn't work. Nothing I could think of to do seemed to have any effect, until I picked up the damned book. I like books. I just don't trust this one."

[infinitelystranger]

The damned book. Sherlock's interest snags on what Dorian is carrying--and it doesn't take him long to snap to the conclusion that his 'phone' and Dorian's 'book' are functionally the same object. Now that's new. And fascinating. So something is creating communicators according to the apparent needs of the subject--now, whether or not the subjects agree--

"May I see?" He holds his hand out for the book with the obvious faith that Dorian will, indeed, let him see. "Here, here's mine." He offers his tablet phone with his other hand, as if turnabout is fair play.

[altus_pavus]

The corners of Dorian's mouth turn downward in direct opposition to his mustache, then his eyes settle on the...very intriguing object, yes-let's-trade-toys.

Dorian's book is as straightforward as most non-fiction books: it has a directory and a foreword with addendums containing the User Guide and whathaveyous, chapters denoting different areas of Things Worth Knowing, like community functions, people of notice, such as doctors, and a handy list of denizens, including one Dorian Pavus. It also happens to have a fair number of blank pages, or only partially finished chapters, as if it's someone's work in progress.

That's how far Dorian himself got, anyway: always good to know what other people think they know about you.

But this...thing now in his hand. He turns it over, runs his fingers along its seamless edges, and accidentally swipes across the screen, "Oh!"

Oh really. "You're equating that book with this? What manner of world are you from, exactly? This is like a scrying mirror, but much less-- what did it do now, hang on."

All these little symbols that make varied sense, Dorian can't help but crouch down into a leisurely bit of learning by doing, legs a-sprawling on the ground in front of him.

[infinitelystranger]

Sherlock is paging through the 'enchanted' book with some little wonder: tapping here, writing in it with his finger there, exploring the varied functions of the interface, as he understands it. He looks up at the question--"Earth in the year 2012," is his absent answer, and then he's back to Dorian's book. The inquiry does snag at his attention for an instant or two longer, though: how to describe what manner of world he's from to another unfamiliar with its technology? Post-industrial means nothing without the context of industrial; previously he's at least had the reference point of an environment to point to. Now he just has words and words of meaningless history.

"The world I'm from is rife with devices," he says, "like the one you're now holding. Our technological development accelerated after the discoveries of new sources of power. We now depend largely upon--electricity, and electrical engineering."

A moment later he sits down next to Dorian, legs crossed, for the purpose of comparing the two devices side-by-side. He looks (and is) engrossed.

[altus_pavus]

For a while, there's nothing but the silence of inquisitive minds poking and prodding at each others' communicating devices. For Dorian, it is a crash course in whatever manner of technology this is, but there's an elegance to the tapping and swiping that he quite appreciates. It's like drawing glyphs in the air in front of you, watching their mirror image settle into the ground - immediate, pleasing jolts of accomplishment. Instant gratification.

"Fascinating," he says, quiet but no less expecting to be heard. "And telling. Ship's Services seems to be catering to our needs, as she sees them, regardless how unfamiliar the ship itself is. I wonder just how well she knows them. Us."

'Ship'. How quickly does he fold like a deck of cards? At the first sign of foreign territory? Hardly! A ship among stars?!

But he's always preferred pragmatism to sentimentality. Always.

[infinitelystranger]

"It's difficult to say. Machine intelligence is so--immeasurable by our standards," Sherlock indicates something with his fingers, half absorbed in the interesting challenge of communicating with an at-least half-intelligent man from a pre-industrial but magically inclined culture, "so vast and so limited. I take it you've noticed it hardly converses like a human. Yet there's the strong possibility it's adapted to us, like you said--unless there's more than one intelligence at play here, and this is just the one we've spoken to--" His thoughts are running off in a hundred different directions. Instead of trying to marshal them, he latches on to a different one: "Have you looked at the map in any detail? It's a bit perfunctory--I doubt anyone's undertaken a detailed mapping project."

This is an invitation, if one knows where to look. A haughty and indifferent-sounding one; but then again, Sherlock is always playing these games.

[altus_pavus]

Dorian's mustache twitches, much because that corner of his mouth can't help half a smirk. His new friend makes it sound so very simple: man-made intelligence for dummies, or something along those lines. Nonetheless he listens, just as intrigued by the concept, as trying to picture the other man in a world where he fits in. Somewhere people talk of strange matters of ingenuity, and no one bats so much as one set of eyelashes.

"I think it's more than likely the case: the Face of an operation is hardly ever the mastermind behind it.

"But, more importantly," he adds, quickly, so as not to bog them down with parentheses on potential power structures.

And besides, he does quite appreciate subtle invitations. Most of his social calendar used to consist of subtle invitations to secluded locations. Especially haughty, indifferent-sounding ones.

"What manner of house guests would we be if we didn't have a good snoop? Don't answer that. Lead the way!"