• Closed • Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Alistair please!

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Doran Cooney
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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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On the ninetieth trial of Ashan during the 718th arc...

Time alone, soaking in the bath, had done Doran well. He had not realised how tense he'd allowed himself to become during his earlier conversation with Alistair, and while the information he'd shared with him was, in and of itself, both interesting and well-received, Doran still found himself a bit frustrated with Alistair's state of mind. He understood they were different, raised worlds apart, but at some point, one of them was going to have to give - and Doran wasn't certain which one of them it would be. He wasn't particularly stubborn, but neither did he care much for changing his views on the world, especially on matters of love.

His perception had been shaped by Lily, and though Alistair had shown him new avenues and shed light where there had only been the darkness of ignorance before, it didn't replace what Doran already knew and believed, merely allowed him to apply such things to new knowledge and act accordingly. That Alistair was so worried Doran might betray his trust was the worst part of all they had discussed; and Doran understood it was not something the man could simply say he wouldn't do any more and behave thusly. It was going to be a journey - an exhausting one, especially if he was going to keep worrying about what he should and shouldn't tell him.

Sighing, Doran sank a bit lower into the bathwater, the heady scent of oils and spices rising with the steam that drifted up for the water's surface. He'd found a mix of salts, something familiar in that Venorans were quite fond of smelling sweet and would often add such things to their baths, but foreign in that he'd never smelled the scents before. They were earthy and reminiscent of resins and far more savory fragrances. He quite liked them, and had accidentally added a bit more than he perhaps should have. It didn't particularly bother him, as his nose quickly became accustomed, but to any who had not been settled in the washroom for a time, the aroma was quite overpowering. To Doran, it mostly made him hungry.

Drawing his head beneath the water, he scrubbed at his hair for the last time, before he surfaced, drawing in a deep breath and pressing his hands against his head, wringing out the hair caught between them as they moved from hie forehead to the nape of his neck. Alistair had been kind enough to provide him a towel, but whether it had skipped his mind or been intentional, there was no change of clothes anywhere within the washroom, and he'd been asked to leave his dirtied clothes in a small hamper outside of the door. Whether ploy or harmless forgetfulness, Doran found himself standing quite naked, legs submerged up to just below his knees, and brows knit over a perplexed expression.

The towel was entirely too small.

He hadn't really noticed when Alistair had handed it to him, but Doran imagined that things were becoming far too deliberate to be accidental. Rolling his eyes, he shook what water he could from his dripping body and stepped carefully onto the rug at his feet. The towel was just large enough to cover both his front and back when wrapped about his waist with a solid inch or two of bare skin on the side. Patting himself dry, Doran paced about the room as he gently began drying his hair, his bare feet moving quietly over the smooth wood. Though the room was well furnished, there were no other fabrics about he might further guard himself with, though there was a mirror, in which he could see the silvery markings of his scars scattered across his pearly, sun-shy skin.

Chewing on his lower lip, hair about dry, he drew the plug from the tubs base, and watched as the water slowly drained. Rolling his shoulders, Doran wrapped the towel about his waist. He did find the situation a bit amusing, but mostly he just wanted to get dressed. The bedroom wasn't too far down the hall to his left, but in the space between, the hall opened up into the main room: wherein there were windows aplenty gazing out onto the veranda. Uncertain whether Damien had yet arrived or not, Doran took a slow, steadying breath as he squared his shoulders. In the next moment, the door was flung open and he dashed madly across the hall, his eyes catching a red glint in the sunlight outside as he hurtled by, feet only thudding gently as he did his very best not to make a ruckus.

Gripping the bedroom handle, Doran quickly darted inside, glancing once around the familiar, tubular room before shutting the door behind him and letting the near useless towel fall to the floor. As he headed over to the wardrobe, heart racing from both effort and mild embarrassment, Doran made a mental note to always double check what Alistair gave him - especially when it came to baths or clothing.

After some time, he finally settled with a sigh on a pair of surprisingly well fitted pants - though, clearly the clothes were meant from someone of Alistair's size or bigger, meaning the pants were, supposedly, designed to be quite tight. It was a bit odd to wear another's smallclothes, but Doran didn't have many options. Over his unders, Doran found a pair of trousers that were only two sizes too big, held up like a baggy skirt with an old belt he'd managed to stab a hole through to create a notch that would actually fit him. His shirt was essentially a blanket, the arms far too long and the hem riding just above his knee. It was the only one he could find with a drawstring high enough that, when tied, didn't expose the greater half of his torso the to the world. He'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, the fabric awkwardly bulging in uneven rolls.

Though clean, he smelled strongly of exotic spices and looked very much like a child playing make-believe in his father's clothes. It was hardly the appearance he wanted while first meeting Damien, but as the old adage went, Doran was a beggar and thus, had very little in the way of choice. He chose to forgo socks, deciding if he absolutely needed them for later, he could always come back, and headed back out into the common room. Though he had managed to conceal most of his body, the shirt's neck was wide to begin with and exposed his collar bones. With a another sigh, Doran opened the door and lightly padded his way towards the patio, where he could clearly see the two men seated, awaiting his arrival.

From his vantage point, both Alistair and his guest were turned away, looking out into the green wilderness that surrounded the cabin in a verdant, beautiful embrace. He hadn't noticed it much when he'd first arrived, taken with Alistair as he had been, but he did find his spirits rise some as he was greeted with the sweeping greenery that extended out into the distance, a sea of trees and grasses and other bushy plants. But his attention was quickly arrested by the red glint of Damien's crystals. Though he could not see the man's face, Doran paused in his advance as he examined him from behind, through the window.

Whatever he had been expecting when Alistair had described the man's ailment the evening before, it paled in comparison to seeing the jagged protrusions in person. It was not so much a matter of growths as it was a seemingly reconstructive process, interrupted partially through, though not before claiming the man's entire left arm, all the way up to his shoulder. Though alarming and - admittedly - a bit grotesque, Doran drew a steadying breath. He could already see Alistair's face as he spoke with the other man, no hint of revulsion or fear in his features. If Alistair was unafraid, Doran resolved he would try to be much the same. After all, he claimed Damien was a good man, and Doran had met plenty of men far more charming and noble seeming that were little more than rats in a man suit.

Quietly pushing the door that led to the porch open, Doran stepped out. His gaze immediately flicked towards Damien's face, and he found the man's eyes surprisingly soft - or... perhaps the better word was vacant. His entire demeanor, in fact, seemed a bit disjointed, but Doran smiled in spite of himself. It was clear he was not wholly comfortable, but as he could do little to hide his emotions, there was also the firm gleam of determination in his eyes, one that was mixed with genuine curiosity and warm greeting. "You must be Damien. Hello." He bowed toward the man, rising with a warm smile, though he did not move to join them immediately. "I'm Doran Cooney; it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Alistair spoke quite highly of you." Here, he let his gaze flick towards the far less disfigured face of the man who claimed to love him. "Though, I pictured you with... darker hair." He let his focus settle on Damien as he offed his genuine surprise at the man's blonde hair and, aside from the crystalline structures that jutted out from his cheek, fair features.



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Alistair
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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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You must be Damien. The Lich could never truly feel fatigue, but in the days since his rebirth into the crystalline abomination he was now, he had always felt... rather alarmed by others; perhaps he was so disgusted by his own recreation that he could only worry what others felt, upon looking at him. After so long in pristine preservation, to be remade such a vulgar thing was... disheartening. And so, as his name was called, he nearly winced in reaction - though ultimately, Damien mustered a smile as the eyes he watched the world through turned to messily greet Alistair's lover. His... other lover, at least.

"Yes, hello," he said with a handsome grin, smiling into narrowed eyes as he waved politely to the other. He was... cute, and certainly Venoran. Damien had lived there for some time, and the appearance of the men and women that walked the Duchy was one distinctive. They had... a light to them that others did not; a youth that lived beyond their physical forms, even into the degradation of age.

"A pleasure, Doran," the Lich stated, nodding. He stood from his seat, slowly, and offered Doran a shake - before realizing he'd offered the wrong hand. His crystal, jagged appendage extended out and nearly slammed into the other, though instead they met with a light thud. Damien felt nothing; he no longer bore any sense of touch within that limb. Instead, he frowned before withdrawing it, and offered an embarrassed, correctional shake of his right hand instead.

Alistair could only observe with a vicarious embarrassment. In all ways but for their genetics, Damien was his father, and so this meeting held great weight. To have it begin as such was... worrying, though in truth, it was funny too. He mixed his embarrassment and nervous shuffling with the pleasure of a small laugh, and Damien responded in turn. "Oh, flummery," he wailed, a mocking exuberance in his voice as a chuckle slipped through his lips. "Anyway. I have no clear understanding as to why you'd assume I have dark hair, but then... I assumed you would be well over six feet, bearish and heavily endowed. I suppose the final remains to be seen, however," the Lich concluded, waggling his brows. He was clearly... trying to make the other uncomfortable.

Which, in truth, had already been accomplished by his appearance alone - but broadening the discomfort was always a treat.

Alistair cringed. "Damien, quit being ridiculous," he responded with a hint of irritation.

"Sorry. I'm... genuinely pleasured to meet you, I promise. You're very polite, Doran. Clearly you weren't raised in Lamonte."

The noble rolled his eyes. "It was Furdan, I believe. Farmland."

"Huh. Farmers are usually cunts. The men are all... falsified, hyper-masculines; three wives, eighteen children and a dog, fatally territorial like blighted animals." The Lich turned to Alistair and peered at him. "I feel as if I'm beginning to describe someone currently present."
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While he took a step forward to meet Damien's handshake, Doran blinked in confusion as first the man's crystalline left, then right was extended. His own did much the same, mirroring the other man, until he decided to simply shake with both, a firm but gentle grip on the man's warm hand before he released. It was difficult to find such a blundering introduction anything but amusing, the man's physical deformities aside. His smile warmed, though he was able to keep himself from joining in Alistair's laughter. He didn't want to embarrass the man any more than he already was.

His next words, however, drew a confused knit of Doran's brows as he tiled his head to the side. He wondered if the man were describing Jonathon or Kleine - or perhaps... Fridgar? The final comment, though, was more than enough to warrant a deep blush from his cheeks as Doran let out a flustered, "Erm..." On one hand, he had almost responded, as - after all - it was polite to answer questions and offer information where invited to do so. On the other hand, Doran wasn't sure if the man were joking or not and didn't really want to share such particulars with one he'd only just met.

As he was well aware of what lay beneath Alistair's clothing, Doran knew already he hardly compared. If Damien meant to suggest Alistair was more attracted to the things he'd listed, it seemed Doran was lacking in all of them. Though if that were entirely the case, he imagined Alistair might have treated him a bit differently when they had first met. Choosing to place some faith in his host, Doran only shook his head at Damien's apology. It seemed that if Alistair had a type, then he was an exception. "It's... quite alright."

Both men discussed the land of his upbringing, but Doran didn't clearly make the connection of Damien's joke, thinking instead he was referring to him. Quick to correct Damien, with an airy but polite tone, Doran didn't want him drawing any of the conclusions he'd just named - though, as he had grown up around the farmers and wealthy landowners of Furdan, he wondered if Damien spoke of the same Furdan as he. "My uncle was a professor at the University. He chose to purchase a plot of land in Furdan to pursue a more... rural lifestyle; though, in truth, he spent most of his time among books and scrolls, preparing for lectures and debates. He made certain I did my fair share of reading and speaking, though I am no stranger to a plow." Blinking, he added a genuine, "He was born and raised in Andaris, so... I wouldn't describe him as... hyper-masculine. Or myself, though... I suppose that's rather clear." His cheeks flushed a rosy glow once more.

"W-where do you hail from, Damien? I can't say I recognise your accent, and your features-" He paused, awkwardly realising what he was about to say but already committed. "Are... difficult to place." He winced, clearly aware his words might be misconstrued to imply the man's disfigurement was some sort of indication of where he came from. "B-by your face, I mean. The... shape of..." He trailed off, entirely embarrassed and, clearly, far too preoccupied with his own blunders to remember his initial shock at the man's appearance. It was strange how quickly one was able to adapt to something so ghastly - though it helped he had his foot solidly lodged in his mouth. It was difficult to be frightened of a man when one was too busy being embarrassed in front of him. "Is it... Eztos?" He chose to name the first city that came to mind, hoping to draw what attention he could from his prior gaffe.



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Damien noted that, despite his rural upbringing, Doran was well-spoken; his tone was fair and educated, and his mannerisms and usage of words did not display a wholly humble upbringing. The origin of his uncle, then, made sense-- a successful Andarisian man utilizing his wealth to retire to the countryside of Venora - a splendorous location. "It's good to hear of your educated background, Doran," he said simply, appearing to calm some from his prior exuberance. Instead, he peered cautiously and quietly, observing the man without any telltale signs of amusement as he stammered about.

Doran's rosy blush seemed -- rather -- glued to his face, as if he were perpetually embarrassed. This of course was an oddity to Damien, though he supposed he'd only seen him in limited quantities. Perhaps, in truth, he was merely putting on a coy front; Damien could not know, but as he was determining viability for his beloved apprentice, he was intentionally skeptical. This perhaps played into the narrow state that he offered Doran in response to his fumbling, though Damien curved a gentle smile into his lips after a time to appear more jovial.

"I'm from Yaralon," he responded. "I did live in Etzos for some time, but... as far as I'm aware, doing so did not change my features," he stated with an abrupt - if perhaps too abrupt - chuckle. "Yaralon is, I hope you're aware, the city of Blades -- a land of countless mercenaries. One of the wealthiest cities, relevant to its population, and one of the most fearsome." He supposed his minimal lesson was rather unnecessary, though it led into a deeper explanation of his roots.

"I was a Bishop of Ymiden, a priest and acolyte within the city. Mercenaries perform many, varied, vulgar deeds in their lives -- I was the man they would go to in penance. They would confess to me their misdeeds, offer me some coin, and seek my solutions. Unfortunately for the souls I promised to save... I never truly believed." The man said this with a certain disquiet, as if it were a tragic thing. Perhaps it was. Perhaps if his faith had been more secure, he would not have become the abomination that he is now. Which -- unfortunately -- he did not intend to keep as a whole secret.

The man sighed. "I became a mage when I was very young, like Alistair. Not a lot of wisdom to be had within youth, particularly not in those with considerable magical talent. I..." he frowned, "am the way I am -- now -- because of those foolish years. You cannot place my features because they are not that of a man's, not entirely, but..." he paused, looking to Alistair. The Archmage appeared horrified - Damien had promised not to tell him. Not to tell him that he was a Lich; how could anyone accept that? Why did anyone need to know?

But Damien did not intend to disclose that section of the story. Only the one thing. He was merely... exhausted with their lifestyles of lying. They always lied -- always.

"I'm certain Alistair told you of the Revelation; he told me as much," Damien concluded. "I... am a revealed mage. Before my current condition, I was among the strongest of them. And now... I am watched over like a fallen carcass; a cocoon already crawled out from, with Alistair my progeny. Soon -- I hope to die."

Solemn. Alistair felt, and looked as such. His eyes felt the swelling, though no glaze of tears glossed his eyes, or rained down. Damien was an old, but loving man. How would life be without him? Lost. Despondent. A world without his guide -- a tragic thing to know.
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There was some relief as Damien opted to simply respond to Doran's question, rather than address his bungled delivery, but he found the other man had an odd lapse between the expressions of his emotions, as if his smiles and frowns were afterthoughts rather than true reactions. Combined with the jagged, jutting crystals that fused with his flesh in a near perfect meld, he hardly seemed human at all. It was unnerving, but Doran did what he could to push past it. Damien's physical appearance aside, he was well spoken, polite, and bore as regal a bearing as any kindly noble Doran had seen pass through the barony he called home. There was no reason he had given for Doran to fear him, and instead of backing away as his instincts yearned for him to do, he chose instead to remain close and listen closer.

While he knew nothing of Yalaron aside from a vague familiarity that came along with the name, Doran was glad to have Damien's brief summary of what the city was like. It sounded rather rugged, and certainly not the place he imagined Damien might have come from, not with his manner of speech and clear cut wit. As the man continued, however, Doran, given the pieces, was able to put together a more believable picture. A bishop, doling out absolution under the name of his god, was a much better fit for the eloquent, if not bitter, man before him.

As a child, his uncle had made it a point to instruct both him and his cousin on many things. The Immortals were one of them, but not in the sense of great and wondrous deities that roamed Idalos, all-powerful and meant to be worshipped. He taught them more as things, objects with defined definitions and domains wherein they're names were merely synonymous with certain concepts; his uncle had never been very religious, and it had kept both Doran and Lily from ever finding much desire to seek their answers to the question of what religion meant to them. Thus, he knew of Ymiden as Dawn, Rebirth, and Forgiveness - any other details of the Immortal had been unimportant to his uncle, and thus unimportant to him.

"Rebirth" seemed almost ironic to Doran, as he continued to listen to Damien's abbreviated history. A man who had been the face of his god, only to find nothing there but doubt and disbelief in what his Immortal had to offer, cursed with a new form that could be considered by the faithful a consequence of his apostasy. It was really quite poetic, if not tragic, and Doran frowned softly to himself in thought. He could not imagine living a life so unfulfilling as to be presiding over a congregation of believers with no conviction of one's own. "That must have been... trying." His voice didn't carry pity, but it was soft and gentle, almost an apology.

What came next should have been surprising; after all, even with all the paranoia and panic regarding mages and their craft in Rynmere, there were only so many burnings and hanging. Magic wasn't a common occurrence, thus it was logical to assume anyone one met was, in fact, not a mage. Yet, there was also the fact that Alistair was most certainly a practitioner of both voiding and whatever other magic helped him control his emotions: like often flocked to like. Thus, when Damien revealed he too was a mage, Doran didn't react much to the revelation. It could have gone either way, and he was more interested in what Damien meant to say as he trailed off, his eyes glancing back towards Alistair, some unspoken words exchanged between them.

Whatever it was, by Alistair's expression alone, it seemed a secret he wanted kept. Though Doran did find subterfuge entirely pleasing, when it came to the realm of magic, he was much more lenient in his desires to be told the truth. After all, there was so much he didn't understand, and he was well aware that magic, as much as it was a tool, as also a weapon. He was not one to revel in stories of conquered kingdoms and foes slain by swords and arrows; he did not much want to hear of the depths to which magic could sink. That The Coven was a true entity at all was more than enough knowledge that there were... less savory uses of one's ether given powers.

So, when Damien continued, Doran found his jaw clench just slightly in brace for what might come - if Damien would ignore Alistair's mute pleas or if he would acquiesce. What he received was something more confusing than anything else. Alistair had explained that to "reveal" in one's magic was to merge with the "spark", to become something different than what one was - a rebirth, of a sort. Though, from what the once-bishop explained, his "revelation" had not been into the form currently displayed, but something else. Recalling that Alistair had explained Damien's ailment was caused due to an injury within, as he had called it, a "fracture", Doran imagined that whatever Damien had been before that had been stunted by the crystals that now grew out from him. To have such power, only to lose it all in the blink of a moment... Doran understood the despair that flickered in the other man's eyes quite well.

His closing statement brought a sharp, hard glean to Doran's eyes, and for a time, his apprehension was forgotten as his gaze flicked to Alistiar's sombre expression then back to Damien's. "Yet you walk and speak and are constrained only by fear of your appearance, yes?" There was a slight waver to his voice, one of an uncharacteristic anger that he did his best to control. After all, he was in the presence of two incredibly powerful men - both of whom he could scarcely believe were so content to let such a thing pass as a wish for one's own death. "Alistair tells me he is striving to correct your condition. I understand, quite well, hope is a dangerous thing, but so long as it exists, do you not owe it to the one whom you call your progeny to allow him to attempt to heal you? To wish for death is..." Doran clenched his jaw, restraining his words from growing in further intensity. "It's selfish and leaves those behind with a wound far deeper and far greater than any you bear now."

Doran shook his head, his manners not entirely forgotten, but his frustration clear in his slightly turned down lips and hard gaze. "I understand I have known you for perhaps a bit or less, but I would beseech you to never wish for death. When there is no other option, when you are truly nothing but a corpse, unable to do anything but draw breath and shed tears over a life you will never know... perhaps then." His voice grew quiet, eyes distant for a moment before he shook his head again. "While I do not know you, Damien, nor all it is you've lost and long for, I see before me a man quite capable of life. Don't throw it away because you're not what you once were; if you never believed in your god, at least put some faith in the nature of rebirth. You are changed, but you are not destroyed."

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing, and suddenly finding the other man, crystals and all, far less frightening and far more pitiable. "I... apologise." Though he had spoken with nothing but genuine ardor before, his words now held no false pretense as his airy voice settled into a softer tone. "You're not the first I've heard long for an... escape. After I-" Again, he shook his head. "After what happened, I vowed I would live life for the both of us, and it has been a heavy burden to bear. Please don't cast such weight upon Alistair. Not when you are in so better a state than she was." His words were little more than a murmur, but his eyes stared resolutely into Damien's. "And... if there is anything I can do to help you, please know I will try. As I hold Alistair dear to me, so too would I care for those he cherishes."



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Doran was a sweet thing. It was clear from the way he spoke that he had known loss, and so Damien's wistful longing to become a loss himself was... sore, and not easily reconciled. Alistair felt much the same way, and so as Doran spoke, he nodded slowly with his eyes lowered largely to the wooden floorboards of the patio. The younger mage wondered, now, if Doran referred to Lily - and if she'd died at the hand of suicide, rather than natural means. It was... tragic a thing. Theodore, also, took his own life; Alistair didn't know why he did. He had it all - the wealth, the face, the handsome smile and the suitors all... lining up.

He killed himself because of Alistair, apparently. Because he left too abruptly - because he didn't take him with him. Alistair now understood... that every person had their own reasons, and some could bear much greater pain than others. Damien's suffering had been a quiet lull, ongoing for decades and more. He lived in spots of life, though in others he felt a grievous guilt. In that regard, he was not dissimilar to Alistair... who tried as he would to atone, but for his deeds whilst entrapped within the Coven, never could.

Both of them had been lost long before their respective injuries, of late, both in the crystalline spires ascending from his body and the painful loss of a havendal and husband, Fridgar, on Alistair's part. Though one could only wonder if knowing love and then losing it was better than living a whole life without its feeling. Damien never really had anyone. He'd been left for dead, orphaned in Yaralon, taken in by charlatans and harlots. He'd never had any true lover, nor bore any children.

Perhaps, this longing for a final death, had lived with him for a long time.

But still . . . in Damien's mind, Doran was a sweet thing. Only having now met him, and knowing of his nature as a Revealed mage, he showed such passion for the sore state of his mind. The Lich nodded to his words, and cracked a weakly, half-smile. "I should . . . wait for Alistair to uncover a cure," he said, nodding. "You're very right, Doran."

He wasn't entirely positive that he believed in his own resilience, and in truth the words acted much as tools to obscure Doran's 'intervention'. Damien's thoughts were written on a tapestry that spanned timelines. He had thought, and wondered, and known many things. Nothing anyone could say to him was truly knew, though it was heartening to see that the man cared so strongly for the people dear to Alistair. He... was worth his apprentice, certainly. Jonathan remained a question, but Doran -- he could bring him much satisfaction. He had the temperament to handle the mage, too.

"Perhaps I will come to agree with this form I bear. Perhaps I will not. I suppose, in the meantime, I can give this new life a chance. I owe it to Alistair," he whispered, glancing to the titan of a mage, who he - more than anyone - had brought up into this world. Perhaps that was his accomplishment, and this was the place he belonged. With Alistair... as his father. A guide that did not ventilate his vices onto him, or abuse him, or treat him markedly wrongly.

Just... a guide. He deserved that much.

"Thank you, Doran," Alistair whispered, looking to the smaller man and smiling faintly. He was clearly happy to have someone else on his side, as he too did not want for Damien to pass on. Even when Ellasin was dead, mages would need great allies, and great philosophers. Damien was as essential to his people as ether, or water. He, a Lich who knew far more love than evil, was a living reminder of the good that mages could bring forth, regardless of their state. Even Revelation.

Though many of them wandered, none of them needed to be lost.

"Doran," the Lich whispered, "how is it?" he asked. "Living life for two people. Is it as sorrowful as it sounds?"
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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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Though he was not so naive a fool as to believe Damien's mind to be changed by the words of a stranger, Doran was glad to see the man at least acknowledge his feelings. He was well aware the crystal marred man before him had led a life far different from his own, and no two men thought the same nor viewed the world through the same eyes. If Damien truly wished to die, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him, not Doran nor Alistair; but he desperately hoped that Damien might reconsider or, at the very least, abstain from such talk until it was certain there was no return for him. Even then, Doran found it frustrating that the man might wish for death - presumably due to his appearance. While it was quite gruesome, the more one spoke with Damien, the surprisingly less alarming his features became, though he doubted walking down a crowded street would fare well for him.

With a soft smile, Doran sighed, unaware he'd been holding his breath. "I'm afraid whether you agree with it or not, your body with resolutely remain the same. It may prove more helpful to you to find what it is you're grateful to have retained, even gained, rather than imagining you have a choice to reject it in entirety." There was only polite suggestion in his voice as he offered his own thoughts on the matter. "I'm glad to hear you will endeavor to remain with him." His voice grew more gentle then, and he smiled tenderly at Alistair as the mage offered his own thanks.

At Damien's quiet question, Doran's smile took on a wistful quality as he stared back. "For Alistair, I believe it would be." He sighed, his breath gently slipping from his lips, voice little more than a hushed murmur. "As for myself? I have come to find beauty in sorrow." There had never been much room in his heart for anything but love for his cousin. After she had fallen into her final sleep, he had despaired, but his love had never dwindled. It was his undying devotion to her that had allowed him to carry out her final wishes as well as he had and continued to do. Alistair was nothing like him; if he were to feel as though he should live life that Damien threw away, Doran imagined the weight would crush him. What it might leave behind was anyone's guess, but he doubted it would be anything good.

Drawing in a breath, Doran found a lighter tone, eyes brightening some with kindness. "All things have an end. I don't wish to deny you yours, Damien, just that... you live your life so that when you do go, Alistair will have the choice to carry on your legacy, not the burden of shouldering that which you had yet to do." He smiled then, clearly no longer wishing to speak of death if possible. "Does it... hurt?" His fingers gently trailed over the skin of his own face where the crystals in question protruded from the features of the man before him.



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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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For Alistair, I believe it would be. While others may have taken offense at the assertion that one could handle such a burden and they could not, Alistair took no such offense. He knew that it was true - everything that Doran had said to Damien, and about him. Alistair... was not emotionally strong, least of all when it came to death. It was an imperfection of his to be unable to bear the weight of tragedy, but one that he was content with. He... liked being able to feel for people, and to miss them, and love them.

For so long, he never really could. All within his heart was a dim hollow, a chasm filled with nothing but escaping wind. To know love and feel loss... was beautiful to him as well, though perhaps in a much different way than Doran and his sorrow. "Yeah," he spoke, quietly. "You know the toll they've all taken on me, Damien. My whole life, and all my family, has been stripped away. I even find myself missing men like Peake - the arguments, fights, we used to have. Don't... make me miss you too."

The Lich... nodded. They were all right. If anything, knowing that he was living to keep Alistair grounded... and afloat, it was meaningful. It provided him with some level of purpose, beyond just fighting back against the Coven, an aspiration seeped in violence. To live as a guide, a friend and a father, meant something... more. Transcendent, to all that came before.

Does it hurt? Doran asked. Damien shook his head, pressing his fingers into the spaces around the impaling crystals, nearly digging in with his nails as he demonstrated... the sheer, emptiness of his expression. Nothing about his face shifted - no wince, no frown, no grimace. He was... stoic, as he often had been.

"I never actually feel pain," he admitted. "Or... much of anything. I can... regenerate all wounds. Even if you were to chop off all of my limbs right now, including my head, I would be back and mobile within trills. My body no longer feels pain, or knows the same mortal inhibitions. To be Revealed is to move past all that," he stated. It was not much different for other Revelations, too - he knew that. Transmuters wore flesh as a disguise, their true form was ether. They could likely recuperate lost parts, as well.

Becomers were a shifting amalgamation of entities, tens of conjoined forms. No injury really marred them.

Liches, in this way, were the same - and better. But for some reason, the crystals continued to return no matter how ferociously they were culled from him. They seemed to - somehow - be linked intrinsically to his body, as natural appendages. Thus, they regenerated like any other limb. It was... infuriating.

"Many revealed mages are... nearly invincible," Alistair added. "They are not humans, any longer. The things we fear, and worry of... don't apply the same way."

"No, not quite the same way," he added, glancing quietly between the two.

"Anyhow - I... suppose that's enough of me for one trial. I've been rather down, and I don't wish for my state to demonstrate contagion. It was good to meet you, though, Doran. You are... very kind," he whispered, nodding his head as a weak smile followed his words with a disconcerting delay. His facial movements had been more flawed since the 'incident', as he liked to call it. Slow, delayed, or missing altogether; he was not so life-like as some other Liches, which was... only another source of despondence.
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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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Doran's eyes widened with curiosity as he watched Damien's fingers press both into his soft flesh and the rigid crystals in turn. Their connection to him was surprisingly flawless - a true part of him that only seemed to masquerade as a foreign entity. It was far beyond anything Doran had seen before, and with Damien's relatively stoic nature, he found himself more fascinated than fearful. That there was no pain at all came a surprise, and though he was about to ask if Damien had developed some sort of sense in the crystals themselves, his questions was answered before he could speak.

The inquisitive glimmer in his eyes slowly faded as Damien explained what it was to be Revealed. "How... lonely." His own words were murmured, an escape of thought not meant for either of the men before him. While there were certainly clear benefits to such a state, Damien could no longer feel the warmth of the sun against his skin, the cool waters of a refreshing dip in a streams, nor the gentle tingle of surprise and excitement at the unknown that raised the hairs of a common man's skin. It was a tragedy in and of itself, and Doran found himself wondering if the man before him were not more wounded by his magic than a mundane man might be from a blade or arrow.

His expression had taken on a quiet concern, though as his gaze flicked towards Alistair's face, his own softened some. Though Damien's face had quickly become something more peculiar than outright astonishing, it did serve to cast the other mage's features all the more handsome. Yet, his words were hardly soft, and the man's addendum to Damien's impromptu lesson were received with a slow, thoughtful nod from the would-be student. "To reveal is to merge with the... the 'spark', correct? It is called so because it marks the birth of something new?" He chewed his bottom lip for a trill. "That is certainly... something."

At Damien's acknowledgement and almost-apology for the turn their conversation had taken, Doran shook his head, eyes lighting up brighter both out of politeness and a genuine warmth, glad that the man Alistair cared for was not wholly averse to his company. "And you, Damien. Would that I could offer you anything but, please know I would see to it. I've always found my interests sparked by the extraordinary, and you are certainly that if not more so. Please know I am quite resilient when it comes to such matters of the mind, and should you wish to speak of your worries further, I would be most glad to do so." Without hesitance, he reached out his hands, gently taking the man's human one in his and patting them with a firm reassurance. "While perhaps now is not the appropriate time, I would much like to hear of the events and thoughts that led up to so grand a decision as shedding your humanity." His voice was soft and honest as he released his hold.

A soft breeze had begun to lazily drift though the trees, the gentle, rustling susurration seeming to pull his focus from Damien and onto Alistair, a small, almost sheepish smile spreading over his lips. "Thank you for allowing me the privilege of meeting your friend, Alistair."



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Are Those Crystals, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

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Damien stared blankly at Doran as he... both stated his willingness to listen to his emotional troubles, and to hear the story of how - and why - he'd chosen to surrender his life as a mortal man. The Lich was charmed by Doran, certainly. He spoke eloquently, his words were both quaint and well put together... and he was strikingly polite. A pleasant one to be around, and, certainly... the type of man that Alistair needed in these trials.

The Lich focused his features into a warm smile, not delayed nor awkward, but appearing genuine. The long, clawed structure of an arm was lifted high into the air, to wave a small 'good-bye' to his new friend.

"I will take that offer, gladly," he responded, jubilant. The arm then slumped dramatically to his side, swinging down at a high velocity before correcting itself into place. At least, Damien was careful not to hit anyone -- his claws were much as weapons, in their current form. "If you want to know why I surrendered my life..." he continued, "I will tell you, some other time. But, know that by doing so, you are accepting the man that Alistair associates with - me - regardless of what you may uncover. I won't relay any such tales only to have you flee in fear, or recoil at my presence. I am a changed man from who I was, all those arcs ago."

With those words, he began to leave, stepping slowly away with small thuds in his movement, though he began to jog after a brief stint of his quiet paces. Damien, as a Lich, had no concept of stamina. Running, sprinting, these things could be done infinitely. His legs and muscles would merely regenerate.

Alistair watched him go, then returned his gaze to Doran, who thanked him for his introduction. The mage shook his head, smiling gently at his lover. "Thank you for... being kind to him." Alistair lowered his brows, the edges tilting downward to almost appear... sad. "He appreciated your gentle candor, Doran. Damien is, in truth, an old man. He doesn't want to be yelled at, or argued with, or debate magic - he's not like me. He just... wants to be loved, and appreciated. You showed him great respect, and even admiration. For that, he will be a loyal friend to you, whenever you may need it. He's... a good man."

Alistair nodded, grinning. It was true. Few good people were genuinely so, but... Damien was. He had always been.

Standing from his seat, the mage stared out into the forest, a deer prancing on as a raccoon strolled through the garden of the cabin. The Willow Woods were incredibly wild, in Ashan.

"We have Jonathan to meet, now," he said, nodding. "But first," he whispered, "a meal."
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