Off-World Traditions (Dorian Pavus)

Off-World Traditions (Dorian Pavus)
Date of Cutscene:	19 June 2016
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Bloody off-world Holidays. Always making him realize what he's missing...
Cast of Characters:	774

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        Silly, that's what it is. At least, that's what Dorian kept telling himself. Why did one need a special day to honor one's father? Wasn't it enough that the son or daughter make his or her father proud, and have that be their tribute? Or what about the father's birthday? Wasn't that enough of a tribute?

        Well, there it was anyway, staring him in the face as he sat at the coffee shop -- the sign that read 'Treat Your Dad On Father's Day!' Dorian sat his coffee down and made a disgusted noise.

        "...Ugh."

        He didn't like feeling guilty. And that damn sign brought it to the fore. He hadn't even written his father since he'd left the Imperium, had he? Oh, he'd kept an eye on things through Felix. But he had never made an attempt to actually contact his father, not in all this time. He was fairly certain Magister Halward Pavus had better things to deal with than his wayward son. And Dorian didn't want to give his father any hope that he was ever going to come back, or any clues to come and find him.

        ...But still, it wouldn't hurt to at least let the man know he was still alive, would it?

        Dorian heaved a sigh, and then stood, finishing his coffee. "...Kaffas," he muttered, as he dropped the disposable cup in the trash can on his way out.

*                        *                        *

        About an hour later, Dorian was settled in a chair, in front of a desk. A sheaf of parchment paper and an inkwell were placed on the desk. It was a pretty sharp contrast to the rest of the room, those ancient writing implements in a modern-style room. But Dorian wanted to keep the risk of modern contamination in his world as low as possible.

        Dorian wrote a few words, then immediately thought against it, balled the paper up, and pushed it aside. Once, twice, three times, even more. Countless attempts to say what he wanted to say. And plenty of cursing. Why was this so hard?

        After what seemed like forever, he sighed, and put the quill back in the inkwell. Before him lay a fully written letter, signed. "...About bloody time..." he grumbled. He'd need to wait for the ink to dry. But in the meantime, he tuned his radio to a specific frequency, one he knew by heart.

        "Felix? Are you there? I have a favor to ask of you..."