I. OPEN.

[liberalum]

WHO: Dorian Pavus and other less dashing people.
WHAT: Training in a courtyard; other pre-planned threads.
WHEN: Firstfall in general.
WHERE: Skyhold, an open courtyard.
NOTES: Below are some open prompts for those who wish for a run in during Mage Fight Club aka How To Train Your Wizard aka How We Do In Tevinter. Catch him during, before, after. Note that there isn't magic being flung around (yet), it's fairly ordinary. This will also be a general dumping ground for individual pre-planned threads that need a home.

[ There is a courtyard within Skyhold, as dilapidated as the rest, that is one day going to be a garden. For now, it's a good enough retreat for the rebel mages that lies aside from the training grounds often dominated by the less magical. The ground is mud and weeds, and the sky is open above them, and a tree with orange leaves frames the shapes of mountains beyond.

Sometimes, Dorian trains on his own. There is a dance-like grace to the movements of staff and the man wielding it, feet light on the ground and tracking circles in the mud, following the heavy swing of seven feet of solid oak. He follows practiced motions, sans the presence of actual magic. A twirl of his staff over head, the thick sounding thud of the blunt end slamming into the dense earth, and sharper, quicker movements for what would likely be sharper, quicker spellwork. Sometimes he is observed. Sometimes he is not. Regardless as to status of audience, he definitely likes to show off.

Sparring, equally. The clak-clak-thud of wooden staves meeting, locking, scraping together as he and another willing mage practice their more ordinary skills. Sometimes he loses, and often he wins, graceful in victory and defeat.

Unless he is knocked off his feet, or earns himself a bruise, then he might curse their mother.

And there are other times, later times, when he shifts into a role of teacher. Not all mages are trained in combat, after all, and some may like to learn -- even from a Tevinter. (Maybe especially from a Tevinter, but who would admit that out loud?) He demonstrates, slowly, staff work, guides those willing to listen and imitate with a certain educated patience, the occasional funny remark about turning their feet out. Sometimes, these sessions are simply standing about, and he explains with big words and big hand gestures the way one might finesse certain spells in combat situations.

He takes breaks, in between and after, perched atop crumbled stone with one leg across the other -- watching and thinking. ]

Comments

[slipshot]

[He'd heard about Dorian. Well - actually, he'd even seen him, as the man was rather hard to miss. But before, in Haven, the camp had been full of rumours and whispers about them, most not particularly nice. The blacksmith, in particular, had been a fountain of rather rude words the only time Dorian had come up in a conversation with him.

It was the Tevinter thing.

It was hard to really feel anything about people from Tevinter at all. He'd met only a few, and the rest may as well have been fairy stories of long ago. They had about as much impact on him as other fairy tales did. He'd never had to fight them, and his Clan hadn't had much contact with them at all. So it was more curiosity, than fear, that he felt. Plus, he'd gotten to know Krem, who was also from Tevinter, and Krem was great - so surely the mage couldn't be that bad?

(The Blacksmith's words rang in his ears but they just made him grin.)

He'd kept his distance since then in the same way he kept his distance from the majority of the Inquisition's inner circle. A sort of respect, mingled with guilt.

Today, though, he'd been planning to come out and bother Krem while he was training and found the mages at it instead, and so sat down on the edge of the fence, pulling out the cloth he had shoved into his pockets, carefully unwrapping it. Cookies, a little cheese, and a plum - his afternoon spoils from his raid of the kitchen. He watched with both curiosity and rapt attention, eating quietly until they finished up. He'd been about to disappear back where he had come from, when he noticed Dorian peeling off, and decided (without really thinking about it) to offer him a snack.]

Staves looks like hungry work. Cookie? Plum? I ate the cheese already, I'm afraid, I couldn't help it.

[liberalum]

[ Things Dorian is excited about: putting his entire body in a hot spring and then heading into the library to fall asleep reading Hard in Hightown (thus saving him from unnecessary brain death) until dinner rolled around.

But not so much that he can't stop when approached, placing the end of his staff into the dirt as he looks down those important few inches at the elf. Faint face markings that he hadn't noticed before when he'd noticed the rest of him, staring from the sidelines, but by now, it's no cause for immediate comment. Not when there's food on offer. ]

Good thing, really. These people put cheese on everything.

[ He takes the plum, looking it over for. Spots? Dirt? Surreptitious nibbles? All of the above. ]

Enjoyed the show, did you?

[slipshot]

[The plum is, thankfully, unscathed. Though if he'd been given even two minutes more, it wouldn't have been.]

It's an acquired taste, but I think I've acquired it. [He offers a grin that makes it unclear whether he means the cheese, or the show.]

I kept expecting things to suddenly burst into flame or shatter into ice crystals, but I'm not sure if I'm glad, or disappointed.

[liberalum]

[ Fantastic. Dorian leans the staff against the nearest convenient surface and takes out a small, clean knife from his belt, carving out a bite-sized piece. ]

Once the rest of the rest of the Inquisition has accepted that mages have some skill in clouting others with large, heavy sticks, perhaps we can then move on to open acknowledgement that we've any magical skill. Then there'll be a show.

I can't say it's not awfully tempting to allow an early preview.

[ He takes a bite of fruit, then gestures at Gavin's general face area with the little blade. ]

But you're of that clan, aren't you? Do you see much in the way of sudden bursts of flame and ice crystals? Your kind appear rather pragmatic about these things.

[slipshot]

[Gavin gives a bemused look at both 'that clan' and the knife being waved vaguely at his face, but the dismissiveness is hardly new. Now 'pragmatic' - that is certainly not a word people use for him often. Not unless they're being sarcastic. He finds he doesn't mind at all.]

Clan Ashara, I assume you mean. I am, yes. But no, they don't tend to throw around magic unless they're doing something with it - between Pel and the Keeper I don't think you could find a more 'pragmatic' pair this side of the Frostbacks.

[He takes a bite of a cookie thoughtfully, before waving the remaining half of it around in the same way Dorian had waved his knife. Teasing him? Probably.]

I did see the Keeper freeze a bandit from head to toe, once, and then light him on fire, if that counts. But I wish I hadn't - she noticed I witnessed it and stopped threatening to turn me into a frog and started threatening to turn me into an icicle, and one I believe much more than the other.

[He bit the cookie again, and through a mouth full of crumbs and no small sarcasm, said:]

But you're the Tevinter, aren't you? I'd think you'd be more accustomed to sudden bursts of flame and ice crystals than me.

[liberalum]

[ The cookie waving gets a glance and a slight drawing up of his posture, and Dorian is quick enough to get the meaning behind it -- which garners more amusement than apology, but it's something. Fair enough. He continues to cut slivers off the plum and eat, neat and precise between words, attempting manners despite the inherent lack of decorum and juices dirtying his fingers. ]

Yes, well. Tevinters, such as we are, find any excuse for a bit of flame bursting and ice crystal throwing. From mortal combat to showing off.

Frogs are very unlikely, [ he adds. ] Now, if she'd threatened toads, then you'd have cause for concern.

[slipshot]

[Gavin, on the other hand, is whatever the opposite is of 'decorum', his tongue darting out to catch the crumb on his chin before he wipes the moisture away with the back of his hand. Super suave.]

Please don't give her any ideas. Toads or flaming tornadoes or otherwise.

[He glanced at Dorian's plum, unable to help being amused at the efficient and careful way it was cut, versus the fact that he was quickly getting juice all over his hands. Cute wasn't quite the word that came to mind, but it was close.]

You've gone and made me curious now. Just how often is one expected to engage in mortal combat, in Tevinter, and does it always require the use of one or more magister? I keep meaning to go, but I've unfortunately never had the opportunity.

[The last time he'd tried to make his way to Minrathous, a storm had waylaid him, and then he'd ended up somehow spending a week with an odd cult that worshipped a shoe that had supposedly been Andraste's. It had been fascinating, distracting, and then ultimately incredibly worrying and had involved him running for his life. Ahem. Anyway.]

[liberalum]

Have you?

[ Just as polite as the carving of his fruit-slices, there is something sharp and particular about that query. Elves don't generally express a desire to take a tour of Tevinter. Perhaps that's a part of charming Dalish obliviousness for you. ]

The likelihood of mortal combat drastically decreases the more you can make a good show of convincing anyone that attempting it with you would turn out badly for them. We aren't entirely a nation of barbarians, [ sounds light and jovial enough, as if the news that some might hold this view is still relatively new and entertaining to Dorian. ]

But even posturing requires any amount of practical skill.

[slipshot]

If only for the architecture. The slavery part doesn't appeal, but travelling always comes with risk.

[It's hard to tell if he's serious or not, but Gavin never did develop a keen sense of self preservation.]

Well, it's easy to see that you, at least, posture very well. [He's teasing. Or flirting. Or both? Probably both.] I've been told that I'm about as imposing as a drunk nug, at best, so perhaps Tevinter is a terrible idea after all.

[liberalum]

Well, I can hardly fault you for your taste, at any rate. The architecture of the south seems largely interested in haphazardly stacking grey rocks atop one another in incredibly inconvenient places.

[ He's found a lean against fencing, disinclined to swan off after all. At least, not until he's done eating. ]

You could be the fiercest nug in all the realm, but your ears would give you away. Elves of even the freest dispositions aren't likely to be treated with much courtesy.

But, fortune favours the bold, and all that.

[slipshot]

How much courtesy do you think we generally get otherwise? [He raises a brow with the question.] Though it's true that I've never been threatened with slavery before. Mostly just death, or being locked in an alienage.

And you know, hoods exist for a reason. [His hand raised to subconsciously rub at the faded vallaslin on his forehead.] Maybe I'll just find out the next time the Qun are invading, and hitch a ride. Harder to notice the ears when everyone else has horns.

[He's definitely not being serious now, at least. Tevinter he thinks he could probably visit without dying, if only for a little while. The Qun? Definitely dead.]

I can't imagine that coming down to Ferelden wasn't without its risks for you. [He pointed out.] I'm pretty sure the blacksmith is out for your head, at least.