faderift | I'm back where I belong

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I'm back where I belong

WHO: Iron Bull and YOU
WHAT: Bull returns to Skyhold. Where did he go? Maybe you should find out.
WHEN: 22nd of Haring
WHERE: Tavern, then training yard.
NOTES: Will update as needed.

Skyhold was certainly a welcome sight to return to. More so his corner in the tavern, still left unoccupied and ready to be settled into. Oh, Orlais had its perks. He'd brought back a few things from the capital after his stay there on 'business', in fact. But this place suited him in a way the gilded halls of the masked empire never could.

Bull could be found in the Herald's Rest through most of the day, eased back into the biggest chair the place had to offer, helping himself to enough drinks to down a small regiment of soldiers, occasionally flirting with the serving girl as she comes around for drinks, because why not? There was time enough to take it easy, to gover things with the Chargers to see what had happened in his absence, trading tales with barks of laughter that bounced against the wooden rafters of the tavern with ease.

The drinks definitely helped, where unwinding was concerned. So too did heading out to the ring to knock the boys around some, reminding them that break time was over. Krem still needed to work on blocking that shield bash, after all. And if anyone else wanted a swing at the Bull?

Hey. He wouldn't say no.

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The answer is ordinarily a yes phrased in such a way that implies he might be slumming it ever so, or gifting his company upon the Qunari warrior, usually with just enough sarcasm for texture. Or sometimes a scoff, a dismissal that he's far too busy and important. (And if they've been busy killing demons falling from a fade rift or bandits on the roads or rebels and renegades, and he can still feel his blood singing, the offer would be met with I thought you'd never ask.)

This time, Dorian considers for a moment.

"Perhaps I would be," he says, finally pushing himself out of his lean and headed down the stairs, stepping onto the dry packed earth of the training grounds. Rather than set a path for the tavern or divert away, he heads for the weapons racks, selecting a staff to match the one in Bull's hand. "If I weren't feel so particularly underestimated."

Thick wood makes the air whistle as he spins it once, locking it against the crook of his elbow. He hasn't actually sparred against Iron Bull before. "What say we make a wager. If you win, I'll permit you to buy me a drink. If I win, you can buy me a drink."

That probably won't fly.

Edited 2015-12-27 08:32 (UTC)

Oho. Now this is a different flavor than he's used to. Just when he thinks he has Dorian pegged. What's pushed him this time, he wonders?

Still. There's still no hiding the pleased smirk on his face as Dorian steps into the ring, one eyebrow cocked higher. "Didn't think you'd want to get your skirts dirty," he counters breezily, before rolling his shoulders, stretching from the last bout. Much as people like to give Dorian guff about his pampered upbringing, himself included, pride isn't going to let the mage give anything less than his best.

So this ought to get real interesting.

The axe gets traded out for the staff he'd been training with, settling easily into his calloused palms before he gives a decisive nod. "Alright. Let's see what you've got."

It feels good to surprise Iron Bull, who Dorian has only begun to sense is, you know, smarter than he appears, or at least so unshakeable that it makes these little moments worthwhile. It will also feel good to engage in a sparring match with someone he can't easily knock on their arse, even upon demonstrating his best.

Something's pushed him, but he intends to remain sporting. Another swoop of his staff, limbering up in his own way, negotiating the balance and weight of this weapon where it slots against the old calluses on his own palms. He huffs.

"You'll find I have plenty," he says, "and I'm not wearing any skirts."

That a strike is about to happen is foretold in the settling of his balance in both feet, a split second of good defensive posture before he's on the move. It's an obvious move, arcing high over his head as if to crack down across Iron Bull's horns -- it's one he expects to be deflected, bouncing off defense and slickly bringing up the other end in an attempt to sneak past it, quick as a serpent's strike.

Which is, of course, how he fights -- very fast and a little underhanded, and all with impeccable form. (And also skirts.)

It'd be a mistake not to take him seriously. He imagines a few have already made that mistake in the past, but Dorian wouldn't have half that swagger if he couldn't back it up. And that posture, the coil of tension in his frame before he moves, says he's serious.

So it's serious.

The first move is transparent enough, an easy block. Stepping back to avoid the strike that follows would be the easy move, but Bull's fighting is never about backing down. Instead he swings the staff down in another counter, the weight of the swing deflecting the blow harmlessly to one side. There's still an approving glint in his eye as he moves.

Lasts about as long as it takes for him to take the offensive in turn, three swift strikes aimed in succession: collarbone, shin, and then up towards that handsome chin of his.

Iron Bull should be taken seriously as well, and it stands to reason that if you're going to come at someone like him with a promised everything you have, then he won't, in turn, accept it passively. Not that Dorian would wish him too.

All the same, he feels it all the way to his shoulders as he blocks the first strike; manages to slickly defend against the next in a redirection of momentum rather than a hard guarding; jerks back a little gracelessly at the incoming blow to the face while his staff slams down against Iron Bull's. That, predictably, has his eyes flash, but slides on out of the way, staff steering Iron Bull's against taps on the way out of range.

"You'll mind the face, or you'll live to regret it," he asserts, primly, one unnecessary staff twirl later.

"Worried I'll ruffle the plumage?"

Bull chuckles. That spark in the mage's eyes is promising. Dorian is a sight to see when he's all wound-up, and he's more than a little curious how that'd translate in a fight. Usually he's too busy taking out his fair share of bad guys to stop and watch, but it's written all over him now.

How can he help but want to stoke those fires a little? Especially when Dorian's so easy to provoke.

Shoulders squaring off, he settles into a holding stance. One hand lifts, crooking and beckoning. "Let's try that again."

"More like damage the goods."

Having the whole of Bull's focus is its own entertainment, and given circumstance, a touch exhilarating. By now, they've attracted the scattered attention of those around them -- watching a Qunari warrior and a highborn Tevinter going at it can only be entertaining, if perhaps not as bloody as most might expect.

His staff swoops again, back into fighting stance, before once again going on the attack. He probably doesn't need half the spins and flourishes that decorate his fighting style, but he obviously judges it a worthy expenditure of energy.

In the midst of flurrying blows and parries, he darts one quick clip towards Iron Bull's fingers on his own weapon before putting his back into -- harder than he might usually against a more ordinary opponent -- a blow aimed up towards Iron Bull's exposed side. Exposed as far as his choice in armor goes, anyway, but it's also the side on which he can't see.

Clever. It takes a quick shift of his grip to avoid the rap, like a scolding Tamassran, but the way he steels himself for the harder swing is enough of a give for Bull to guess where he's headed with it. The staff swigs back, catching him just before he manages to strike at his exposed ribs. Very clever. He lets him savor the moment for a few seconds before shoving back, forcing distance between them again with a pleased huff.

"Nah. Disheveled'd be a good look for you."

None of the people outside the ring matter right now. Dorian's not wrong. He's got almost all of Bull's attention, only the peripheral he generally keeps out of habit straying from the mage as he steps in with a strong sweeping blow. The momentum continues in a spin, up, over his shoulder and down the other side as he turns, hard enough to send up dust when it smacks the ground near Dorian's feet. A warning, or perhaps a tease. Hard to tell with that smirk he's wearing, courting Dorian to come in closer and try actually hitting him.

"So's 'out of breath', I'm guessing."

Dorian manages to move with the shove so that it isn't quite the stagger it could be, foregoing the usual push back that might have applied with someone his own size.

The first swing comes, and Dorian ducks it, conserving energy for the moment, but twitches a step aside as Bull's staff comes down with hard enough impact to kick up fine dust. He doesn't mind when it settles in the hem of his robes, or appears not to; as is standard, he'll reserve objections for later. Right now, his focus is where it ought to be.

Well. Mostly. Dorian huffs a scoff at Bull's remark.

He connects his staff to Bull's, the vibration of impact felt cleanly, kept at an angle meant to anticipate and control movement as he steps around. "That's true. I can make anything work," he adds, scraping out some reply plastering over whatever amount of derailment comments like that from Bull tends to create. He doesn't need courting; a precise turn on his heel throws him back into the duel.

Intellectually, he knows he isn't going to topple Bull, although sharp jabs and swipes at knees and ankles continue hopeful. He might not be able to even wrest the staff from his hands. And while winning remains the top priority, there is obvious relish to be taken in the fight itself, and putting on a good show.

For him, it's all about the fight itself. Dorian's style is flashier than it needs to be, but no less dangerous for it. He doesn't hold himself in reserve, uncertain. Confidence puts some serious heft into those strikes, and his focus is--

Well. When Bull tosses those remarks his way, it isn't all empty distraction. Not that the Vint'll ever take him up on it, but it's more than just fun to fluster him.

One of those blows earns a feign back, another exposure of his blindside for a split second, as though he's winding up for another sharp sweep to trip him up off his feet.

It's a split second, but these sorts of fights are based on split seconds, with split seconds standing as the difference between bruises and the ground leaping up to slap you in the face. Tutors have told Dorian all his life that one of his weaknesses is only being almost as good as he thinks he is, and most certainly that his assumptions that he's the smartest person in a given room.

So he takes the opening as presented with a sudden twist of movement, staff sliding out of a defensive motion to bring one end down alongside Bull's knee, attempting this time to disguise his own tells by sacrificing brute force for speed and momentum.

Edited 2016-01-03 09:13 (UTC)

Got him.

Instead of standing his ground for the blow, Bull's weight shifts abruptly, and that opening is gone. As is he. Stepping back and pivoting on his good leg, that swing brought around in a circle and instead of sweeping low it instead taps Dorian smartly on the rear. Not enough to injure anything besides his pride, no.

But he's also not lying in the dirt, either. Which, true to Dorian's earlier observations, he might have done about two moves before.

For a walking mountain with dragon antlers, Iron Bull does certainly move quickly when he wants to. Dorian overcorrects as his staff swings and hits only the air, which doesn't help in avoiding the unavoidable.

Making a sound that is too indignant to settle in even the same neighbourhood as coherency, Dorian pivots, delivering a sharp clack of staff to staff as if swatting Bull's away, a smooth transition from fluid battlemage precision to prissy.

"I know it's a tempting target, but-- sticks to yourself."

The blunt end of his staff settles in the training ground dirt as he catches his breath.

"Think you're missing the point of sparring, big guy."

Bull chuckles but allows him the respite, the corner of his eye crinkling with his smile as Dorian pants quietly. He's good, absolutely, but he's also far too easy to ruffle. It's impossible to not, to encroach on that space just as far as Dorian's willing to let him.

It's what he is, at his core. More than the fighting or drinking or fucking. He wants to solve puzzles, and Dorian is coming together a piece at a time, strangely compelling. Not that he needs to hear it. The man already has a ego that Skyhold barely contains.

Not off-putting, though. Not really.

Finally he grunts, lifting a hand and beckoning. "Let's try that again."

"A glutton for punishment, are you? Very well," Dorian responds, with sarcastic tildes warm in his tone. The respite has purpose, two-fold; to catch his breath, and smooth down his own ruffled feathers.

He steps back, making room and holding it down the length of the staff brought back up into both hands. By now, training ground dust is murky on his shoes, and these practice staves are rough on a man's hands over practiced use, and he is practiced. If he ever complains about this sort of wear and tear, it's only ever after the fact, when it comes to a fight.

Dorian keeps a defensive hold, stare watchful; of Iron Bull's face, and of his hands. "I wouldn't wait for gilded invitation."

Holding his ground, where he knows the landscape. Cautious, but determined. None of the flourish from before.

Now things are going to get interesting.

Hoisting the staff into his grip, Bull makes his advance. There's no reserve in the swings that follow, weight following behind a swift three strikes before pulling back, sweeping low for the knees and expecting a block, rather than a dodge.

But Dorian could surprise him still. Too much experience tallies up in fights past to let ego get in the way.

Dorian would like to think better men than he (an obvious hypothetical -- maybe 'taller' men) might wilt a little at the sight of a creature of Iron Bull's shape and stature coming at them like that with that sort of weapon. His eyes widen, ever so, but it's an instinctual effort to ensure he sees everything coming at him, adrenaline once again a warm thrum in his blood stream.

He blocks the blows smartly, although on the third, the breath is expelled from him under the finger-numbing vibration of Bull's staff connecting with his.

Bull withdraws, Bull swings.

Dorian does block, not rogueish enough to let his feet off the ground, too stubborn to give up territory, and too used to staying rooted when summoning the forces of the Fade. His staff slams down into place, but immediately shifts into attack, the end angled upwards making a quick jab for Iron Bull's chin. That it mirrors the way they began round one is not all the way deliberate, but it does make him smile.

Regardless as to outcome, he steps back, and in again, maybe a minor flourish as he switches gears back into attack, focused on swatting Iron Bull's defense out of the way to make an opening of his own design.

It's a miss, but only just. He feels the air whistle past his nose as he tips his head back to avoid the blow, but even he can appreciate the irony. Dorian's grin turns out to be infectious, and a smirk crosses his lips.

But Dorian's on the offensive now, and Bull allows him to strike out, admiring the finesse with which he moves. If magic wasn't his suit, he could see the man as a duelist, quick and precise, distracting, seizing the moments that he's left open, and that jab at his open defenses finally scores a hit along Bull's side, a heavy 'thump' against the leather of his belt.

But that opening lets him swing upwards, the staff smacking him against Dorian's shoulder in turn. It's too close to be a satisfactory win for either of them, so he draws back, head lowered, and gathers for another series of high blows for Dorian to try and fend off.

The strike to his shoulder garners a huffed sound, slows him a moment long enough for Bull to claim back the upperhand, and put him on the backfoot. Concentration is bright in his eyes, intent to avoid and dodge and block each one, satisfied that for all he might not match the other man in strength, he can give him a run for his sovereigns in speed.

"You know," he says, somehow conversational in the midst of defense, but there's nothing else about him that implies the fight should slow for a chat, "we keep this up," he pushes his reaction time to meet the next blow in the middle, pushing in hard to fend it back rather than let it glance aside, "we might trigger an international incident."

A hitch in breathing gives away a different application of strength as he attempts to twist and lock Bull's weapon with his. In men with smaller hands, it could knock the staff right out of them.

It's a banter he's used to having with his men during training. Fights on the field often come with their own distractions, with orders coming from any direction, difficult terrain, or more than one opponent. There's an ease in the back-and-forth they manage that he can appreciate.

"That so?"

He intends to keep Dorian on the defensive this time until he works for it, gets the ground back under his feet and really pushes back. He doesn't have long to wait. That little twist is felt even in the iron grip he has on the staff, twisting away and down but not out of his hands just yet.

It does temporarily put them at eye-level, shoulder muscles taut and holding, and Bull's smirk broadens as he holds position. Locked together like this, Dorian can't pull away easily, either.

"Well we've got the audience. I could think of a couple of better ways to cause some scandal."

"Vishante kaffas, Bull--"

This is becoming a pattern; not just today, but also in the microcosm of this interaction, and Dorian can't help but fluster every time. So used to being the one who's inappropriate and then there's the Iron Bull, all of a sudden. The jury is out about whether he should feel mocked or flattered.

Neither of those are feelings one should have when duelling with staves, and his teeth flash as he pits his strength against Iron Bull's, but locked down like this, he hasn't a chance. Withdrawing cleanly isn't an option, either, and so his mouth twists, and grey eyes flash with renewed mischief.

This had gone badly when he'd done it to Krem, but Krem is young, and Iron Bull is seasoned. The shock of electricity is only enough to startle and sting as it dances sudden across the qunari's closed fingers, and Dorian acts quickly after that, once again putting his back into disarming Bull -- it leaves Dorian vulnerable to getting knocked back, off-balance completely, so it's down to a matter of moments.

That little jolt smarts, because of course it does. Part of him's a little surprised Dorian hasn't resorted to magic before now, though that could largely be attributed to some sense of pride, if he was guessing. Regardless, the shock does take him by surprise, and he grunts as the staff is nearly yanked out of his fingers.

Except he isn't going to let him win by cheating. So if that's how he wants to play, all bets are off.

Grip regained, he shoves in the direction Dorian had been pulling, far too much force for him to compensate for quickly. He follows behind, one hand loosening its grip and the other driving the staff upwards to smack against his chest.

Someone needs a little more dirt on their robes.

So close, and yet--

The thump of staff to chest is too high to drive all the air from his lungs, but there is a hollow sounding huff in lieu of cursing as it tips the balance, sending Dorian backwards. He doesn't trip so much as land squarely on his behind, spine curled to absorb his own fall. One hand loosened off his staff, the other stubbornly holds on, held up at a hover even as he lets his head fall back against the packed earth beneath him in an affect of defeat. As much as for the fact he definitely has dirt in his robes now, as the duel itself.

He raises a hand in a loose, wandery gesture. "I suppose I see what all the fuss is about. How good to know your muscles aren't only there for aesthetic." Like he didn't already know better, firsthand.

One large hand extends, lowering to help pull him up to his feet should he so require it. "They're there for that too, if it makes you feel any better."

This might have been the perfect opportunity to hover over him and rub it in, taunt him a little, but there was hardly a point to that. He wanted a chance to kick his ass again, after all. Fair and square. And an ego could only be bruised so often before he'd find reasons not to come around anymore.

And this fight had been his idea. Bull hadn't forgotten that.

Dorian certainly isn't too proud for a hand up -- or he might be, in another circumstance, but this isn't that. His hand claps into Iron Bull's offered one, using it and his staff to get to his feet and not get the fine surface dust of the training yard ground all over his hands. All the better to clap it out of his robes in a negligent swipe.

There are twinges and bruises he will feel tomorrow, but overall, Dorian is rather satisfied with his performance, even if the perfectionist in him is already thinking over better means of getting past Iron Bull's defenses. You know, for when they do this again.

"The constant lack of shirts suggested as much," he adds, wryly. "And armor, for that matter. Is that your strategy? Become too big of a strikeable target and confuse your opponent?"

This, added over a shoulder, as he slots the staff back into the weapons rack.

I'm back where I belong

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