The training grounds seem more the territory of recruits, both ordinary folk and the Templars alike, a place of sword and shield and whatever manner of blunt instruments men and women alike use to kill one another. Dorian doesn't expect there to be an awful lot of magic work conducted down there, and nor does he expect there to be a designated ground for mages to show what they could do.
And yet, here he is, at an hour designed for solitude, but the sound of scuffing feet and panting breath doesn't stop him from approaching. He is dressed in his customary light leathers, unarmed, for all intents and purposes. As much as a mage can be unarmed.
He recognises Krem right away, despite being more familiar with his captain than he is with the lieutenant.
Dorian roams towards the weapons racks, continuing to watch fellow countryman out the corner of his eye. Swords of basic value are on display, already dented and rough; shields resting against wall, most of them as yet uncracked; and of course, staves, of the non-magical variety. Dorian unhooks one of decent weight and heft, balancing it against a mostly-bare shoulder. The cold has steam lifting subtle off his skin, thicker off his breath and between his words when he speaks.
"Crack a lot of heads open with that thing, I'd imagine," he says, once Krem seems to have slowed. "Fighting at your side must be as dangerous as facing you front on."
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The training grounds seem more the territory of recruits, both ordinary folk and the Templars alike, a place of sword and shield and whatever manner of blunt instruments men and women alike use to kill one another. Dorian doesn't expect there to be an awful lot of magic work conducted down there, and nor does he expect there to be a designated ground for mages to show what they could do.
And yet, here he is, at an hour designed for solitude, but the sound of scuffing feet and panting breath doesn't stop him from approaching. He is dressed in his customary light leathers, unarmed, for all intents and purposes. As much as a mage can be unarmed.
He recognises Krem right away, despite being more familiar with his captain than he is with the lieutenant.
Dorian roams towards the weapons racks, continuing to watch fellow countryman out the corner of his eye. Swords of basic value are on display, already dented and rough; shields resting against wall, most of them as yet uncracked; and of course, staves, of the non-magical variety. Dorian unhooks one of decent weight and heft, balancing it against a mostly-bare shoulder. The cold has steam lifting subtle off his skin, thicker off his breath and between his words when he speaks.
"Crack a lot of heads open with that thing, I'd imagine," he says, once Krem seems to have slowed. "Fighting at your side must be as dangerous as facing you front on."