To say that Dorian is completely welcome amongst the rebel mages would be an overstatement. To say that Dorian is welcome amongst the rebel mages when compared to how it would be should he struck up casual fraternisations with the Templars is about accurate, and so, here he is.
Usually found up in the library, or hovering about Felix, Dorian is instead seeking variety in the crisp morning air when Cassandra comes searching for him. This corner of the castle is going to be a garden, or so goes the latest frankly optimistic rumour, last he knew. Right now, it's mud and weeds and ancient broken cobblestone, and a scattering of mages gather in twos and threes in conversation, or practice their staff-work -- no magic is being flung around, mind, only dead wood striking together, cutting the air. Dorian is on his own, seated on crumbled stone with a leg kicked over a knee, and his own staff balanced against his thigh as he sees to its reparation.
This is mainly in the form of binding split wood with leather strips in careful, neat loops. Normally, he'd probably throw it on a fireplace and purchase a new one, but supplies are lean and his fortunes are abstract, to say the least, and there was this whole disaster and mass displacement into the mountains, you see.
So he binds his staff with wolf hide so that it'll see him through until circumstance improves.
Out here, in the shadow of the castle, you can almost pretend the weather is nice. What grows is green, and the sky is clear. Look up, and you can see the white shapes of the Frostback Mountain range, reminding you of where you are.
no subject
Usually found up in the library, or hovering about Felix, Dorian is instead seeking variety in the crisp morning air when Cassandra comes searching for him. This corner of the castle is going to be a garden, or so goes the latest frankly optimistic rumour, last he knew. Right now, it's mud and weeds and ancient broken cobblestone, and a scattering of mages gather in twos and threes in conversation, or practice their staff-work -- no magic is being flung around, mind, only dead wood striking together, cutting the air. Dorian is on his own, seated on crumbled stone with a leg kicked over a knee, and his own staff balanced against his thigh as he sees to its reparation.
This is mainly in the form of binding split wood with leather strips in careful, neat loops. Normally, he'd probably throw it on a fireplace and purchase a new one, but supplies are lean and his fortunes are abstract, to say the least, and there was this whole disaster and mass displacement into the mountains, you see.
So he binds his staff with wolf hide so that it'll see him through until circumstance improves.
Out here, in the shadow of the castle, you can almost pretend the weather is nice. What grows is green, and the sky is clear. Look up, and you can see the white shapes of the Frostback Mountain range, reminding you of where you are.