[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]

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!"