Dorian's hand claps into Krem's, unabashed in using the offer up to get out of the dirt. For an academic, his palm and fingers are as coarse as they need to be to twirl staves in combat situations, and grip strong in a demanding sort of way. Once his hand is released, he pats down the back of his thighs, dislodging the worst of the loose dirt.

"To help wash down my reclaimed dignity, yes? You're too kind."

He steps back, without actually ceding territory. Round two close at hand, he takes a moment to get his breath back, pacing a circle around the training ground. "And vice versa, of course. The southern swill they serve at the tavern makes a fitting accompaniment to bitter defeat either way." He hefts staff, twirling it once, keeping his hands warm. "Did the Bull teach you how to get 'round a mage's staff, or did you learn that on your own?"