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Captain Flint Today is a good day for first-time visitors to Nassau. The tavern is abuzz with activity this evening, boasts and/or rumors of riches beyond the wildest respective dreams of anyone who will listen flying freely from festive fellows of fortune. Most of the 'boasting' part of that is coming from one crew in particular, and that crew is so drunk, so proud that they don't care who knows it. Booze is flowing as freely as the boasting, which keeps resentment from the less fortunate from boiling over into anything unmanageable.

     The leader himself, a man called Flint, drinks at a table--by himself. Every so often, a member of his crew will come over, with a beer, a girl, or both, and indulge in some revelry with the captain. He's a good sport, and even gets some jabs of his own in. "Hey, you bastards," he cries with raucous amusement. "Don't get too drunk. We've got work to do!" This gets an uproarious cheer from his crew, and he smiles.

     Every time, though, when the members of his crew go back to their revelry, that smile on his face gives way to a pensive frown and a furrowing of the brows, the captain peering thoughtfully into his drink just as often as he sips at it.
Dorian Pavus     At least it's not COLD. Dorian hates the cold. This heat's made his usual attire -- close-fitting leather armor and a heavy white cloak -- pretty damned unbearable, though. So instead he's opted for something lighter. But of course Dorian does not wear RAGS. PERISH the thought. Though while Tevinter tends to lean towards darker fashions, Dorian prefers lighter colors. That in mind, he's wearing mostly white. At least it's period for the era this world appears to be in. Then again, he's seen several modern suits in his way in...

    Anyway, what he's got on now is a white button-up shirt, eggshell-colored cravat -- oh God it has so many ruffles -- and well-fitting beige breeches. He's got a pearl-colored coat over the lot. They're made of lighter fabrics, but they're very clean; with them all being some shade of white or off-white, any stains would show.

    The only dark thing on his person? A black cane, with the head worked into the shape of a serpentine dragon. He has, however, kept the light-colored leather boots with the snake-shaped serpent kneeguards. He rather likes those.

    He enters the place near-perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place on his head or his mustache. Moving aside from the door, he looks around to see who all is inside the place. No, he doesn't seem to know anyone here, not from first glance. Good.

    With that, he heads to a table. He orders... a beer. Or ale, whichever they have here. Cheap stuff. Which is probably a huge disappointment to the waitstaff...
Captain Flint There are eyes on Dorian the moment he steps into the tavern. The usual types of looks are leveled towards him--most of them predatory, a good deal of them incredulous. Some of the patrons are beings from other worlds, and even they seem to notice that the amount of money in the room has potentially increased by quite a bit.

     A serving girl is along shortly, to provide him with a mug of ale. It tastes exactly as cheap as it is, but, hey--sometimes cheap and cheerful is the way to go in a tavern. By this point, the eyes in the room have shifted around to each other, the patrons trying to suss out who's going to make the first move.

     "A word of advice," offers a slightly gravelly British baritone. A glance towards the source of this voice reveals a man undoubtedly native to this world. His hair is well-groomed, though nowhere near as well as Dorian's--an amber-brown color, with his bangs tied behind his head to keep them from his vision.

     His seafoam eyes appraise Dorian with a quick, up-and-down motion. "You're attracting a lot of attention." His expression as he delivers this advice is a slight, curious frown. A figure more imposing than ostentatious, he, too, has his share of acoutrements--but they spell a fairly different kind of affluence, especially taken with the sword and pistol hanging at his belt.
Dorian Pavus     Perhaps not surprisingly, the man dressed in all white carries himself as though he expects a lot of eyes are going to be on him. He doesn't pay them any mind. Or at least, he seems not to. What might be surprising is that he doesn't wince at the cheap taste of the stuff. He does, however, address the serving girl. With a smile, he offers, "Much appreciated, my dear." He sounds like an aristocrat too.

    The words draw his attention, and Dorian looks in that direction. He too seems to size up the man who spoke, though the smile doesn't waver. The very astute though, might pick up a couple of things. Firstly, the eyes linger on any visible weapons. And second... the ever so slight hint of an edge forming in his smile. Not as though he's offended. It's almost... amused? Sardonic, definitely.

    As for attracting attention? "Well, I would hope so," Dorian replies, brows raising. "It'd have been a wasted effort to dress this well and have no one admire it." Ballsy or oblivious? Hard to say.
Captain Flint Flint chuckles, pulling up a seat at Dorian's table and joining the mage. With a clink, he sets his mug down. The pirate captain leans forward. It /is/ hard to say whether that's bravado or ignorance, and Flint draws attention to that very thought. "A man dressing like that in these parts may not like what passes for admiration in Nassau," he hints.

     He takes a sip of his rum, offering a hand bedecked with stolen rings to Dorian in greeting. "Captain Flint, of the Walrus," he says with a lopsided grin. Flint doesn't quite know what to make of this one, and that's rare. "What brings you out here?" It certainly can't be the smell--although the overly boozed-up smell of the tavern is much better than the port town outside. Someone in the Multiverse needs to tell these folks about the wonders of waste disposal.
Dorian Pavus     Dorian seems interested in what Flint has to say, and leans forward a bit, to hear him better. He chuckles. "I appreciate the headsup. Though that's true in most places like this that I've seen," Dorian notes. "It would also be inadvisable for anyone to... harass me too much." He leans forward again, whispering conspiratorially, "Don't tell anyone, but I tend to set things on fire when I get upset." The jovial tone of his voice makes it hard to tell whether he's kidding or not.

    Surprisingly Dorian isn't wearing rings on his fingers. Or any other jewelry. He returns the handshake, and it is not a weak handshake. "Dorian, of House Pavus," he offers in return, bowing his head a bit. "Pleased to meet you, Captain." The question gets a smirk. "Oh you know, the usual -- exploration, curiosity... and having booze doesn't hurt."
Captain Flint Flint raises an eyebrow when Dorian leans in to offer a secret. He looks around the tavern as Dorian gives his faux-confession, only to face the mage directly with a disarming smirk. Whether it was meant to be so or not, Flint finds that comment quite amusing! "If that's true," he says, "With a ship and a crew you'd fit right in."

     Flint's handshake is firm, too, and after the fact, he seems pleased. "The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Pavus," he cordially replies. It's practiced, too, hinting at a history away from places like this. Dorian claims to be a curious, wandering sort--which makes Nassau as good a place as any to hold his interest.

     "Where have you come from, if you don't mind my asking?"
Dorian Pavus     "Only until the ship left the dock, I assure you," Dorian remarks, his tone half-amused and half-wry. "I'd spend the rest of the trip either leaning over the side of the ship or sick in a bucket below deck, no doubt." He doesn't have any shame in admitting that. Though he does add, "It would be rather embarassing." He takes a drink of his ale. Pause, headtilt. "Also probably rather hilarious from the crew's point of view. I never did get accustomed to that bloody rolling and tipping."

    The question of where he's come from gets a thoughtful tilt of his head. "Most recently? I couldn't even tell you. This Multiverse is filled with so many strange sights." Wryly he comments, "By now, I think if a ship crewed entirely by living stuffed animals pulled into the harbor flying a pink flag with a red heart on it, I would probably just give the whole thing a thoughtful grunt and go back to my drink."

    He chuckles. "That said, if you meant originally? A place called Tevinter, in a world known as Thedas. Horrible place of late, mind. Giant demon-spitting hole in the sky, people with religious clout oppressing people with abilities that fall outside their scope..." He waves a hand dismissively. "Though that last thing is business as usual. The giant demon-spitting hole in the sky is rather more of a problem."
Captain Flint "It takes some people longer than others," admits the captain on the topic of sea legs. "Though I question whether it's worth the effort. Once you get used to the literal rolling and tipping, you encounter the figurative." He gives a nod to a developing situation nearby--two of his men shouting drunken threats at each other over some imagined slight or another. "Trying to secure a future for men eager to piss it away, for example."

     He gives a beleagured sigh as he takes another swig of rum, setting the cup down to rub at his forehead in quiet exasperation. The remark about stuffed animals ignites a sudden fit of laughter in him, the captain shaking with mirth before offering a retort of his own. "I met someone in the Americas recently," he says. "They actually turned /into/ a stuffed parrot when they got wet." As his amusement fades, the mention of religious clout used as a bludgeon earns a sympathetic look.

     "We know that tune here, too," offers Flint. "What's worse, it doesn't even have the distinction of being based on the supernatural. It's all about what king sits on what throne." Flint takes a hearty swig of rum. "I'm sure the demons coming from the sky are giving your clergy all sorts of convenient excuses to tighten their grip, though."
Dorian Pavus     "I've only sailed twice," Dorian replies. "The first time I legitimately thought I was going to die of being sick. Bloody Waking Sea..." Though he looks towards the ruckus as Flint indicates it. "Oh dear," he sighs. Looking back to Flint, "It's so hard to find good help these days, isn't it? Mercenaries back home are like that. Maker help you if you trust them farther than you can throw them."

    The mention of someone turning into a stuffed parrot gets a blink. Though to illustrate? "...Huh." A thoughtful grunt! "An actual stuffed parrot? Could it move around, or was it stuck on one place unless someone picked it up?"

    The mention of the king gets a raise of his brow. "Literal demons from some other plane of existence? Simply by having a certain king? What, does the crown give him access to some dimension of great power, or some such?" And to the mention of the glergy tightening their grip? "Oh, indubitably," Dorian confirms. "Particularly since the ripping open of said hole in the sky also managed to kill the Divine." Pause. "The leader of the clergy is called the Divine. Admittedly the warpgates and the Breach appeared at the same time, so I left shortly after it happened. I've not been back, but I have... contacts there still. I keep an eye on the place."
Captain Flint "I'm not sure," he says. "I was in the midst of discussion with the local authorities at the time--but as I'm sure you can imagine, it did rather catch the eye."

     Flint gives a rather abrupt snort at the notion of a crown having any meaning. "It gives him the most powerful force in the world, possibly even the Multiverse," he says with a knowing grin. "Money. But when the authority to spend that money comes from the Church, they have the final say on who wears the crown. When it's someone they don't like, they go to war over it--and they're perfectly happy to let those wars spill into the streets." Flint nods towards the outside, to the town square with the rundown buildings and the dreadful stench. It seems as though the island's been on the receiving end of such a war.

     "So far, I haven't seen a convincing argument for organized religion in any of the worlds I've visited," Flint muses with a bitter frown. He finishes the last of his rum, grimacing slightly. "It's quite disheartening," he says with a slightly jovial inclination towards Dorian. "Tell me, Mr. Pavus--what's society like, where you're from? Does the clergy control the matters of the state totally?"
Dorian Pavus     Dorian suddenly gets a knowing look. "Ah. Was it discussion with the authorities or 'discussion' with the authorities?" he inquires. "I'm assuming the former, since at a glance you seem to have all the parts they tend to lop off for wrongdoing still attached."

    He makes a disgusted face, though, at the mention of the Church controlling the state like that. "That just sound like a recipe for disaster," he remarks. "'Separation of Church and State', that's what I've heard it called. I think it's a wonderful idea. Spread the power out, so no one person has enough to cause trouble. There are worlds that do that. The downside is that their governments take FOREVER to get things done. Still, better than one person grabbing power and lording it over others. A tyrant is a tyrant, I don't care what robes he wears."

    Perhaps that's unusual talk for someone who's obviously an aristocrat. But it's something he clearly believes, as his tone is firm, without a bit of stammer. And without a bit of shame, either!

    As for good arguments for organized religion? Dorian raises his index finger as if preparing to make a point. "Ah. But 'being religious' and 'being part of organized religions' are not mutually inclusive," he points out. "I consider myself religious. I won't set foot n a Chantry building though." Here he pauses, and then tilts his head, first to one side and then the other, as if to say '...well...'. "...Then again, that might also be helped by the fact that unless I was in Tevinter proper, I'd be dogpiled by fifteen armored templars as soon as I stepped foot in the building, and in irons before my head cleared."

    As for whether the clergy controls things? "That depends on where you go," he notes. "In the south they might as well. The south is full of uncouth but well-meaning sorts who think adherance to the Chantry's doctrine will guarantee them a place at the Maker's side. In Tevinter? The Divine is less an authority figure and more of a figurehead. Then again, the magisterium isn't much better..."
Captain Flint Ah, yes--he'd tried to hide the invisible quotation marks around 'discussion,' and in his line of work, subtlety goes a lot farther than one might expect. But, if Dorian is the type to frequent this sort of place (dressed to the nines though he may be) it's certainly not hard to pick up a certain emphasis on the word. "The latter," replies Flint with the same knowing look. And a smile. "I can't help but notice," he says, his smile widening, "You seem to have them, too."

     Dorian's remarks about statecraft strike a resonant chord, as well, the captain nodding in agreement. "Any country needs some... way of communicating authority, of proving it. Early civilizations tend to enforce it with violence. As they develop, I've noticed that violence is still the bottom line, for those who have a habit of swimming against the current." His eyes harden slightly.

     "The king of England, for example. We're supposed to give a fuck about him because the Church says he has the divine, God-given right to rule, and that as long as he continues to govern, all is right in the world." He makes a motion with his fingers, signaling a serving girl.

     "Rum," he says. "Leave the bottle." Shortly thereafter a bottle of rum is brought to the table. Flint thanks the server with a quiet word and a grateful nod, then gestures to the bottle (and Dorian's cup.) He pours some for himself, then adds, "Feel free."

     He takes a moment to recall where he was before that brief interruption... ah, yes--separation of church and state. "Now, when the king decides to fuck someone, and that someone doesn't want to be fucked? Then the violence happens. But, in the eye of the people, it's okay, because the Church says the king was put there by an infallible God. My crew--every crew here, actually--is democratic. It's not a perfect system, and when you're in charge, let me tell you it's a rather stressful system. It does spread the power out, nicely, though, and more importantly, it ensures that the people I'm leading have a say in their own destiny."

     And then, during the comments about organized religion, Flint hears something even more interesting. Namely, the notion of Dorian being locked up just for entering a church. And... the word magisterium. That's an interesting word. Perhaps it's an intricate legal system? Flint chuckles. "You'll have to forgive my rambling, Mr. Pavus. I'm an unabashed reformist and I rarely get the chance to discuss it at length..." He nods backwards to his two arguing crew members, one of which has the other in a headlock as their drunken comrades cheer the fight on. "As you might imagine." He seems quite resigned to leading this... colorful ensemble. "Still--I don't disagree with you. While I'm not religious myself, neither am I wholly against the notion. I'm simply against the tendency of organized religion to ingrain itself in the government, with varying degrees of subtlety."

     "If I might inquire, Mr. Pavus--why would this Chantry have you in irons? Are you by chance a gentleman of fortune like myself?" That's probably slang for pirate. Or at the very least, criminal or mercenary.
Dorian Pavus     Dorian nods to the observation that he still has all his extremities intact. "I'm quite good at escaping," he offers. Then, with mock shock, he places his free hand on his chest as if he'd just heard the most scandalous thing ever. "I'm even starting to learn ''subtlety'' and ''stealth'' of all things. Can you imagine?" He chuckles, the mock surprise leaving him. "Clearly I'm not utilizing that here, mind."

    He gets serious when Flint starts talking about violence. "Ah, yes." Dorian's voice is a little sad here. "That seems to be the overwhelming sentiment amongst people -- 'it doesn't agree with us, so let's hit it until it either agrees with us or is a bloody paste on the street." By the end of that statement some wryness has sneaked into his tone, though. "I can't even blame race or species -- humans, dwarves, elves, and Qunari all are qually guilty of it."

    Dorian tilts his head at the mention of the Church giving their authority to the secular king. He looks confused. And more than a little incredulous. "Oh, the Chantry doesn't meddle in affairs nearly that much in Thedas," he notes. "No Chantry priest ever claimed His Majesty King Alistair as the Maker-destined ruler of all of Ferelden, that's for certain. Everyone seems to listen to him, so I don't think he needs the Chantry to ensure his rule."

    Oh hey! Anybody offering him booze can't be that bad a guy, right? He nods at the offer. "Ah, thank you." He'd drained his cup before, so no mixing of boozes will happen. Well, maybe only in his stomach. With some of the swill he drinks it shouldn't matter much. He pours himself some of the bottle as well, and listens. The mention of that little... 'arrangement' that causes violence gets a chuckle. "Literally OR figuratively, unless I miss my guess," he adds, wryly.

    The mention of an infallible God gets a sigh, and a shake of his head. "I'm not qualified to say whether the Maker is or isn't infallible," he admits. And then a nod. "Having a say in one's own destiny does tend to prevent things like mutiny and getting stabbed in your sleep, I'm told." There's the sarcasm again!

    As for Flint's rambling? Dorian looks up at the fight, mainly to ensure it doesn't spill into anywhere in his personal space, and then looks back to Flint. "Oh, that's quite all right. I'm something of a reformist myself. You see, Tevinter has this delusion that it's perfect. However, the amount of assassinations, infighting, corruption, and blood magic says otherwise." Yes, he did just say 'blood magic'. "I love my country, but it really is a hot mess. You should hear the opinion of people from Tevinter in Ferelden. Or anywhere else but Tevinter, for that matter." He shakes his head.

    The question of his being a 'man of fortune' gets a chuckle. "Not anymore," he notes. "I left all that behind, you see, all the sleeping on silks while gold shits down over me. I'd be locked in irons because, anywhere in Thedas that isn't Tevinter, a mage outside a Chantry Circle is considered an apostate. That's punishable by either death or being made Tranquil, and I'm not certain which would be worse."
Captain Flint Flint listens intently to Dorian's description of Thedas, sipping conservatively at his rum out of a desire to actually remember what's being said. Assassinations, infighting, corruption, and blood magic? What a combination. "Nassau's got all of that, save the delusion of perfection," he remarks. "And the blood magic." He swirls the rum in his cup.

     "I assume the Chantry uses this blood magic as one of many excuses for its treatment of mages." He strokes his goatee thoughtfully. "Something along the lines of preventive punishment? You have the capability to do it, so, clearly, you will, unless you're under constant guard by those... what did you say, Templars?" He shakes his head. "If I'm anywhere close to right, I don't blame you at all for leaving."
Dorian Pavus     The mention of Nassau having blood magic interests Dorian. His brows raise in surprise. "Does it now?" He sounds less horrified, though, and more... well, honestly he sounds like he's restraining the urge to wriggle excitedly in his seat. "What sort of blood magic?" he inquires. "A ritual sort? Or instant-cast? I've met someone in the Multiverse who can do the latter. It's really quite amazing."

    But then the question of the Chantry. "Yes and no," Dorian replies, to the question of blood magic being used for that. "Magic in general is thought of that way by most of the world. You see, when it manifests, it usually does so... rather explosively. It runs in families, but there's no way to tell if a given child will be a mage until either something happens, or it doesn't happen."

    He sighs a bit, then take s a drink from his cup. It's a slow motion, and he has a thoughtful look on his face, as if he's thining. Then he explains, "you see, in Ferelden people fear mages, so they lock them up in tiny little prisons called 'Circles', and they aren't allowed out without a proper escort. In Orlais, Circles are... you might call them a boot camp? It's more a military. Mages are 'drafted'. I'd be an apostate in either one.

    "Tevinter is the only place I wouldn't be dragged to a Circle," Dorian continues. "Worse fates await me in Tevinter -- an arranged marriage." He shudders. "Bright girl, beautiful, and a razor wit. I imagine she's just as glad as I am that I left."
Captain Flint "All of that /save/ the blood magic, Mr. Pavus," replies Flint with a good-natured smirk. "Though, take a look around," he adds with a nod to a being that's clearly neither human nor a resident of this world, dressed in some sort of combination armor/uniform. "We tend to embrace what's different here, especially if it's marketable. I imagine it might appear, at some point."

     "Suppose, hypothetically speaking, you found a place where your treatment was entirely based on your actions, and nothing else? A... democratically-minded place. What would you do, if there were such a place?" He leans in with interest. "Would you stay?" He pauses. "Would you defend that place from outside harm--from people who would see you locked in a Chantry?"

     "It's an ambitious endeavor, but... I'd like to think Nassau could be a place like that, with hard work." He tilts his head, letting Dorian draw whatever conclusions he likes from the line of questioning.
Dorian Pavus     "Ah. Terribly sorry." Dorian does seem a little disappointed, but recovers quickly. But he nods as Flint points to the non-human being. "I noticed that, yes," he notes. "I'm glad to see that, actually. Though if I'd known that I would have just worn my lighter suit. I like the cut of it, and it's quite flattering on me." A smirk. "In all seriousness. It's refreshing to be able to go and not be immediately identified as a bogeyman due to my origins."

    The question gets an immediate answer, too. "Of course," he agrees. And then his voice takes the tone one might associate with straight talk. Shorn of the flamboyance and flashiness, speaking as person to person, beyond title or upbringing. "I don't exactly consider myself a hero, mind you -- that's the thing that gets carved on the grave of an idiot, as far as I'm concerned. But I definitely remember my friends -- I have too few of them not to. And I always pay back favors, even if I dislike being indebted to others.

    "And I also understand when one man's trying to move a mountain by himself," he continues. "Far from trying to convince you otherwise, I commiserate. Part of why I left Tevinter was exactly that reason. I want to try to root out some of that corruption. But /I/ have to be the one to do it. If someone else did it, it would just be 'being conquered'. If it happens from within, with one of its own people at the forefront, that's 'changing'."
Captain Flint Flint quirks an eyebrow in amusement at Dorian's mention of fashion preferences. "Flattering, you say. Here I thought your present ensemble was quite flattering. You've quite the dress sense for a political dissident." And speaking of political dissidence, the talk of reforming Tevinter seems to spark interest from Flint.

     "I'm glad to see that we're of similar mind so far," Flint observes. "There's a philospoher I'm fond of." Wait, what? A pirate even knows more than one philosopher? "Plato," he says. "The average person, according to Plato, is a prisoner in a cave, illuminated by a fire which burns behind them. Above them is a parapet, where puppeteers stand to cast shadows upon the wall using the light from the fire. The prisoners mistake the shadow puppetry for reality, knowing nothing of what creates it, nor anything that goes on outside the cave. I believe in helping others turn their heads, to see what actually creates the shadows--and I think that, with your help, I could do that, here, in a meaningful way."

     "There's the matter of your sea sickness, of course--but my crew can help you past that, if you're of a mind. If not, we could still use your help here, and either way I'd ensure you were paid fairly for your time. At the very least, I'd like to express my hope this won't be your last visit to Nassau, as I must unfortunately cut this one short."

     As a final gesture of goodwill, Flint clinks the payment for the rum, plus for Dorian's earlier ale, on the table, standing up. "It was a unique pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Pavus."
Dorian Pavus     "Why thank you," Dorian replies, at the compliment of his fashion sense. "I must confess, it's far from what is normally worn in Tevinter. But that's part of why I wear it. There IS a certain allure to wearing the 'pariah' badge, after all." A bit of a mischievous smirk at that. Yeah, he likes being a dissident.

    Though he gets serious when Flint starts to talk about Plato, and describe the situation of most people. He nods. "That is very true," he agrees. "Sadly. Most are afraid to look up for fear that the sky will fall, or to look behind them for fear of there being a monster there. Most don't WANT to see, because it's easier to deal with the monster you can't kill if you ignore it. Ignorance being bliss and all."

    As for his sea sickness? He does wince a bit, remembering that ill-fated trip on the Waking Sea. "I admit the last time I was on a boat, apart from feeling like utter shite, it didn't bother me too terribly," he ventures. "And it WAS just the first time that was so horrible. Might also have had something to do with that bottle of grappa I was nursing..." Drunk AND seasick? Ew.

    He smiles. "Oh, you can be assured this is not my last visit here," he confirms. Dorian nods at the farewell. "Thank you, Captain." Referring to the paying for his drink. "It was a pleasure to have met you. Do take care."