It begins as an anxiety dream.

He’s experienced no end of nightmares about no end of trauma, but this time the stakes are banal: Doctor Strange is dressed sharply in a formal suit with a scarlet pocket square, giving a speech at a medical conference, standing at a podium staring at the hundreds of faces staring back at him, and finding that his iron-trap memory has suddenly failed and he’s forgotten his entire damned speech. It’s almost a relief when the enormous tentacled eyeball monster barges into the conference center, sending people screaming and scattering, and just as the Cloak of Levitation reappears around his shoulders, Strange finds himself —

somewhere else —

What ensues is a disorienting battle on the outskirts of Orlais, with a rifter appearing in anachronistic formalwear and a red cloak gone inanimate, with a conference lanyard hanging around his neck and a little adhesive nametag (‘DR. STEPHEN STRANGE, MD, PHD, NEW YORK METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL’ now rendered in Thedan script). And in the fight, Strange realises that almost none of his magic behaves as he expects it to. It’s not the first time he’s found himself unexpectedly dumped in another universe, but this is the first time his own capabilities have failed him. Even after the battle ends, wraiths banished and his dream-monster killed, he keeps trying to light a spark of fire between his hands and finding it more difficult than it ought to be. On the carriage ride back to Kirkwall, with both him and the Riftwatch agents covered in horrid black ichor and gore from the eyeball monster’s innards, at least Strange has the decency to look a little sheepish while the other agents scrutinise him.

“Done this sort of reception a lot?” he asks, lightly, while he keeps unconsciously kneading at his left palm. His hand aches. This is normal. What isn’t normal is the green shard embedded in it like some kind of ethereal splinter, and it makes the usual pain in his scarred hands even worse.

Afterwards, during his quarantine, he can be found in the library at all hours, surrounded by stacks of books, devouring them even late into the night – he’s an avaricious student, and wants to learn everything about his new circumstances. He breaks the polite silence when a glob of hot wax from a candle lands on his wrist, and he curses with a sudden sharp “Oh, what the fuck.”

Strange goes for long walks around the Gallows. You might literally run into him where he’s crouched in a hallway in the lower levels, examining the cleansing runes embedded in the floor which prevent the growth of red lyrium, puzzling over the clearly-magical symbols, feeling that faint hum of magic in the back of his teeth. “Do you happen to know what these do?”

He grew up in landlocked Nebraska; his family wasn’t rich; he never actually learned how to sail.

So Strange is down belowdecks in the ship and feeling useless, losing his balance and tipping into the walls whenever he tries to walk, miserable and sea-sick and queasy.

“I’ve heard there are griffons. I’m going to need to learn how to ride a griffon,” he declares, gripping the edge of the galley table as the deck pitches. “Did you know, I had a Cloak of Levitation and used to fly everywhere? I think I miss it even more than my own bed.”

[ Thank god for the crystals, because Doctor Strange’s handwriting is atrocious and unreadable. But his voice comes through the recording, crisp and clear and precise: ]

I only just got back to my own universe, and now I’ve been dropped into this one. I need a stiff drink.

So. I’m taking recommendations on the best places to grab a drink in Kirkwall once my quarantine is up — and, ideally, to not be pickpocketed while I’m at it.

feel free to toss me anything and i’ll roll with it, or hmu @ quadrille to confab! i’ll match prose or brackets. also help i’m fresh meat, pls be gentle as i try to remember everything i’ve forgotten about dragon age