The staff swoops overhead, a blur of black stone and wood and crackling light, coming down to swing on a pivot to throw raw magic aimed directly for the dummy and-- nothing happens. The familiar tug and pull of power hurtling through the staff is absent, unbalancing Dorian just enough that he staggers backwards, one arm flung out to stop himself from further indignity.

Disoriented, he turns to look once over the wrong shoulder, then back around the right one until Alistair comes into view. It feels a little like he hit the bottom of his well of mana earlier than anticipated, and for a moment, his eyes flash angry and indignant, and tension knots at his spine, drawing up his posture. Almost as if he expected a confrontation, and is good and ready for one. The hold he has on his staff isn't relaxed.

But then he sort of registers who it is. Not a Templar come to reprimand him, just Alistair.

He stamps the blunt of his staff into the ground to lean on, other hand planting on his hip. He glances back at the dummy -- variously scorched, still smouldering in some places -- and by the time eye contact is regained, a little humour has eked back in, on a delay. "You're far too late. He's done for."