faderift | (no subject)

WHO: Krem and anyone that happens along.
WHAT: Krem is growing fidgety between missions and helping the repair effort, while Bull is out and about doing Important Inquisition Things
WHEN: Any time after the training ring is set up
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Nothing in particular except it's a Krem and he's making a little bit of a spectacle of himself.

If there was one thing Krem was good at, it was winding himself up. While he and the Chargers had their missions, more often than not, he was around Skyhold, and he could almost feel himself atrophying.

The training ring had been set up almost immediately by Commander Cullen's forces, but for the moment, it was empty. Off on assignment, or else occupied elsewhere, this meant that there wasn't much by way of distraction when the bored, slightly agitated Charger when he rounded the posts marking the border of it. He had stripped off his armor except for his leathers, mail, and chestplate, leaving his arms exposed to the air He had his maul in hands wrapped with soft leather, and he seemed to be doing warmup maneuvers with it.

Over time though, it got more complex. Strikes turned into flowing stances, booted feet ground into the dusty dirt and kicked it up when he turned in place. It was clear why Bull valued him as a fighter, with a weapon heavier than the average human could easily wield turned into a blur around him. This was why he was a front-line fighter, how he'd kept himself alive through skirmishes, and how he kept his skills sharp on and off the battlefield.

He was faintly shining with sweat when he came to a halt, slinging his weapon over his back, heading for a bucket filled with cool water and dipping a tin cup into it that was resting on the nearby stones. Part of it was splashed on his face and rubbed through his hair as he caught his breath.

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"Of course," Krem laughs, giving Dorian that toothy smirk again and dusting his hands off when the other lets go. He moves as Dorian does, watching him and copying his stance, though his hands were free.

The question makes him shrug. "A little of both. Started learning while I was still in Tevinter, Bull saw during a fight and offered to help make it faster, more fluid. Good at that, taking a basic move and turning it into something better." To say he was proud to be working with the Iron Bull was an understatement; there was definite admiration in the way he spoke about his work with the commander of the Chargers, no matter how he talked to the massive qunari himself.

Dorian is better at smiling with his eyes than with his mouth, which tends to be smart and sarcastic at the best of times; here, lines deepen a touch around the corners of his eyes, recognising warmth with warmth in return, though he doesn't comment on it. He hasn't decided what to make of Bull and his Chargers.

His gaze drops down to where Krem's feet are lining up, his empty hands at a hover, and Dorian tips his head. His circling pace edging close. "You aren't going at this empty handed, are you? It won't stop me putting you in the dirt in return, you know."

"Maybe I've decided to give you a handicap," Krem teases in return, his stance subtly widening. He would damn well grapple with Dorian, if the mage didn't outright object to it. That warmth Dorian had shown was odd, coming from anyone in a position above him that wasn't Bull. Krem won't admit that he's just a little bit rattled by it.

It feels ridiculous to him, but he's actually coming to like Dorian, or at the very least tolerate him and the sway he holds over the Chief. The fact that he's still there in the ring, facing him with his head up out of more than just the arrogance of every mage above the laetan is certainly doing him some favors. It doesn't stop Krem making a move, twisting in place and moving to Dorian's side to hook his leg around the other man's, arm coming up and across his neck to break his balance and put him in a hold.

Hahaha-- oh shit.

Let it never be said that Dorian's never grappled with another man before in context of sporting horseplay, both larger and smaller than he, but it's definitely been some time. He's considering his dignity only after Krem is suddenly there, disrupting balance, arm coming down across the back of his neck. He makes a grab for the Charger's leg.

It doesn't take a long time for him to give in, or maybe he's been timing this all along, but after a crucial minute of stubborn refusal to go down easily (landing on his arse was one thing, but getting dirt on his face is entirely another matter), Dorian-- well, probably here in the South, it's cheating, but the mild if still sharp zap of electrical magic feels a little like the sting of a horse whip where solitary finger of lightning springs from Dorian's hand to Krem's ankle.

The shock at Krem's ankle rattles him to the core, and suddenly, this isn't a friendly spar anymore. He arm clamps down on Dorian's neck hard, putting him in a true headlock as Krem's weight is thrown back. Not only does Dorian's face hit the dirt, it does so in such a way that it's ground in, and Krem twists to put his hand on the back of the Mage's head. His knee ends up in the small of Dorian's back, pinning one of his hands there while the other boot comes and pins his free hand to the ground. Even if Dorian were to kick out, he would likely find it difficult to find enough purchase to do more than wiggle ineffectually under the Charger's pin.

A moment of thunderous pulsing in his ears, then the world comes back to him, and Krem freezes. This isn't Tevinter. He's not being chased. He might have legitimately injured one of the few mages from his homeland that didn't want to take him to some prison in Minrathous for desertion.

"Kaffas..." He hisses and pulls his weight away, sitting in the dirt and rubbing a slightly shaky hand across his brow. "Penitet. Stolidus quod."

Edited 2015-10-27 08:17 (UTC)

Dorian would be a bad mage indeed if there was any particular concern that Krem's sudden shift in gears would inspire an instinctive, more aggressive use of magic. Bad in the Southern sense, and bad in the Tevinter sense -- control is key to greatness, and so, the finger is well off the trigger before Dorian even has time to think about the young man's daring, more occupied in making an undignified, pained nyargh sound as his face mashes into dirt. This is the opposite of what he wanted.

But his muscles all coil, taut as pulled bowstring beneath the various points that Krem has him on the ground, teeth flashing and a thrash kicking down a leg. His own heart is pumping, adrenaline fiery, and he springs to roll away as soon as he's let up.

He lands on his knees, poised, until he realises that Krem is sitting, and apologising, and Dorian settles on his own haunches as the tension drains out of him, hands coming up to gingerly touch his face. The worst of the dirt is knuckled away, fresh grazes pushing pin-pricks of blood to surface. Faces bleed easily, and his is flush. A curl of mustache is split out of shape.

"Are you certain that isn't my line," he says, even if fluster still colours his voice. "Mind you, if I knew I had that coming, I'd have made it a bigger bolt."

Krem's hands pat around his person briefly, before coming up with a slightly dingy but mostly clean handkerchief. He offers it to Dorian with a grimace.

"Can't say I actually knew you had that coming," he sighed, his elbow coming to prop on his knee, forehead in his hand. If Dorian HAD made it a bigger bolt, there was no guarantee that the man would be walking away with all of his teeth.

_{"Bull's gonna kill me for this..."}

Dorian reaches out a hand to take the handkerchief on instinct, and on second thoughts, retracts it with a little 'no, but thank you' wiggle of his fingers.

"I'll manfully wash myself down in one of those barrels I see the recruits favour," he says, working now on getting to his feet. The last of 'rattled' is still working out of his system, and craving some distance motivates him all the way upright. Still, he doesn't take off so conspicuously without offering Krem a hand up.

He huffs a laugh. "You're still his favourite Vint, I'm certain. There's no accounting for taste."

Krem looks at the offered hand, as if expecting fire to erupt from it as soon as he took it, but he did so anyway, getting up mostly under his own power. He folds and tucks away the handkerchief with a sour expression.

"Give it time, you'll end up taking up as much of his free time as either of you'll be able to stand," he snorts, heading back to the bucket to fetch more water, crouching beside it then simply lingering there, ears burning. He'd been so certain he was past all of that miserable shit, too...

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I'm making it up as I go just a little bit where Tevene is concerned, basing it in latin.

a good call

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