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He will not face Ysalwen in templar plate.

Cullen isn't entirely sure about this whole 'sword instruction for arcane warriors' enterprise, but that's the one thing he is entirely positive about: he will not face one of his former charges like this in the uniform of the Order.

What this means is that after much dithering and fretting -- too much, he tells himself sternly; it's a simple problem, with a simple solution -- he produces simple black leather armor, a purely functional cuirass, and plain pauldrons, vambraces, and greaves.

The goal is to only be the regular, average kind of threatening.

Whatever his goals, Cullen is standing out back looking at the lake in the company of two practice swords, a wooden shield, a slim book with a plain cover, and a jug of switchel at his feet. He is frowning, as though the lake has offended him.

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Ysalwen comes out clad in similar leathers, though hers are in blue with silver accents.

Everyone wants to make it very clear that former associations are no longer in place, it seems.

That, and Bar was feeling helpful.

"I can't say I like wearing this, it feels a little false, I'll admit. But since I can, it seemed sensible? Given we're going to be whacking at each other with sticks at some point. Or something like sticks."

Liranan, meanwhile, has trotted over to investigate Cullen and his inanimate company. Just in case there are treats! Or that is what he would say, if he could speak human languages.

Edited 2015-10-24 23:23 (UTC)

Cullen glances down at Liranan.

"If she doesn't get cookies," he tells the mabari, "neither do you." A corner of his mouth turns up. "Of course, neither do I."

And glances at Ysalwen. "Heavy sticks." Dry. "Heavy sticks that leave bruises when you swing them at someone. If you'd come out here in robes we'd go inside to find you something like what you've got. I will not have you black and blue before you're ready."

"It's a little late for that, honestly. I doubt your arm is that much stronger than an Archdemon's tail."

Her smile is small, and a little crooked.

"But given that this is practice -- I'm glad I did think this get-up was a good idea."

For everyone's peace of mind. Including Liranan's.

Though --

"You're not thinking I should use a greatsword, are you?"

Please say no, Cullen. For the Maker's sake, please say no.

For a very brief moment Cullen looks amused --

And then he recovers himself. Clears his throat. "No." Grave. "I'd assume that when you put these skills to use, you'll still have a staff in your hand. It would not be wise to train with a two-handed weapon. You'll start with a longsword until you've got the rudiments -- "

To my satisfaction, he doesn't say.

" -- and then we'll expand from there."

"That tends to be what I do in the field? It made sense at the time. The first time, I mean. Then I kept with it."

Anyway.

A little more cautiously --

"What do you call the rudiments -- for the longsword, I mean, and not -- "

The kind of rudiments a mage is more familiar with.

Edited 2015-10-25 00:30 (UTC)

"...practice?"

Cullen rubs the back of his neck.

"That's all. Practice. I promise you -- anyone learning, there's some variant on a stick and a blunt object to hit and making the same movements over and over. And then... learning to put them together. And learning how to read an opponent. I -- thought to teach you what I do most of the time, which is sword and shield. But you'll be starting two-handed at first, until you're comfortable enough to add another element."

Pause, then lower, not quite looking at her: "You don't know what you'll face. If you can learn the rudiments without magic, that will help you against templars. Or, or those with our abilities."

"I think the thing I worry most about is being taken alone."

Liranan whines, just a little.

"No ally can be everywhere, and it is a weakness that leaves me defenseless if, Maker forbid, they manage to critically wound Liranan. Or whoever else might be in my company."

Like Zevran.

" I appreciate you agreeing to help me. And I take your point about consistent, magicless practice. It is -- not particularly enjoyable to struggle through the aftermath of Templar abilities. I presume those of Seekers are much the same? Anyway. Muscle and not magic memory is going to be they key, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Cullen's been trying not to think too hard about the fact that he will be teaching a mage how to fight after a templar or Seeker disables her other abilities. But it's kind of like someone telling you not to think about cake. Soon cake becomes all you can think about. Or rather, the reasons you're not supposed to be thinking about cake become all you can think about.

"And I should -- "

Handing over the book will give him a minute to get less uncomfortable. Or to try.

Cullen picks up the plain book, holds it out. "You should know this. Inside and out."

(The title page: A Meditation upon the Use of Blades, by Massache de Jean-mien.)

"It will help you practice between lessons. And more importantly -- " Cullen doesn't seem to realize he's shifted into a more pedantic mode. "It will tell you something about tactics. This is a text that all Orlesian chevaliers are required to know. Thinking like one will help you learn -- but it will also help you defend against them, or anyone else with a blade."

"Thank you," she says, taking the book and moving to place it on a nearby rock, wrapped in her cloak.

"I'll read it, I promise. And more than just the once, besides. I like to think I'm a good student. It -- will be a shift in perspective, certainly. I hope I prove up to it."

It's hard to think like the people that might one day try to kill you. But since everyone of her acquaintance has been just such a person, except maybe Liranan and Morrigan -- well.

Here she is.

I hope I prove up to it --

Cullen blinks, in process of picking up both swords and the shield.

"Why wouldn't you? I mean -- I know -- you were smart. Capable. I saw enough of your lessons to know that."

She laughs, pressing the knuckles of her hand against her mouth as she does so.

"I like to hope I still am. I've certainly managed to figure out something of science and atoms while I've been here. But it -- I sparred with Stacker Pentecost, once. With my staff and his. And it -- I leave holes, where a spell would go. I know it, he knew it, and even when I use the sword, there are still times I cast with it in hand. That's -- it's a difficult instinct to lose. Even just the hesitation where it would open up space for aiming --"

She shakes her head.

"That's mostly all I meant. I think."

Cullen's expression has cleared; he's nodding. "That's habit." Simply. "Habits can be corrected. Or amended. There's a reason knights and chevaliers train for years before they can do anything."

He tucks one of the swords under his arm, holds the other out to her, adjusts his grip on the shield. "Hard work and discipline can save you where cleverness fails."

There's something sad in his brief smile.

"I've always relied on stubbornness, myself."

She reaches out to take the sword, holding it straight out from herself and twisting her wrist a little, getting the feel of it -- especially the weight part.

"Huh. It's heavier than Spellweaver, which I wouldn't have thought."

This is going to be great. Greatly painful, maybe. Ah well. So it goes.

"Is it?" Curiously. "We'll have to make a few changes, then. Once you're comfortable."

Shield up. Blade ready. Cullen shifts his weight forward.

With a small smile:

"Attack at will, Warden-Commander."

"Elves are delicate creatures, Knight-Captain."

She smiles faintly, to take away the sting.

"Everyone says so."

And then she whirls toward him, a slash that she almost anticipates rebounding, looking for that momentum to fuel her continued movement, though if it doesn't come, she'll cope. Or her memories will.

Cullen blocks with the shield -- and it's not as though he was expecting delicacy; he knows better -- it's the smoothness with which she moves that takes him aback.

Still: he's not going to go on the offensive until he's got a better idea of what she might do.

(When Cullen can't sleep, or doesn't wish to go back to sleep, and more prayer and more letter-writing and more responsibility weigh heavy, he reads everything he can get his hands on about swordplay, tactics, siege engines, fortresses, and ways to accomplish concrete goals involving the tools of war.

If he's to be a leader, he must be ready; he must be patient; he must be able to teach.)

She seems to be testing him, too, no feints, but maybe seeing how quickly he moves his shield -- how quickly can he move it, is there a chance those two speeds are the same?

What does the angle have to be for him to parry with his blade and not use the shield?

How close can she get before retreat becomes not-an-option because she cannot move backward faster than he can advance?

How long does it take for her dominant arm to start getting tired?

How long does it take before she starts thinking about what one spell could buy her, and how long after that does the thought of a Smite or Cleanse, and the sense-memory of just such a set of effects, strike her and make her grit her teeth and keep going?

"It's actually harder to deal with an opponent that isn't a mindlessly hungering darkspawn. Those I almost know how to anticipate, by this point."

"If you're talking -- "

For a change, instead of blocking with the shield, he parries with the blade.

(That angle, apparently.)

" -- you're not working."

And again.

"Holding back on me. Don't."

If I'm talking, she thinks, I'm remembering that we're not really trying to kill each other.

But okay. Fine.

"Liranan," she snaps, quick and sharp. "Stay."

And then she's moving, keeping herself set toward his blade-hand, because there's a chance for going over a sword, or under, or deflecting it away to give an opening, but with a shield and their height and mass difference --

No chance. She's quick, at least, even if she is not particularly strong. And there is some degree of staying power. It helps that she's done this before, both at great need and because a surprise was required. And because a battlemage is usually in the very thick of things.

Shockingly.

She is quick. She might even be better off consulting a particularly enterprising rogue, like Hawke's friend the pirate (who kept leering at him). He makes a mental note to tell her that, once they're done.

In the meantime, however --

Ysalwen is trying to go for his hand. It's a stupid move for him to make, but he'll bet it's not one she's expecting: Cullen waits for a brief pause, no more than a heartbeat's span -- and when he watches her change her footing he turns, quickly, withdrawing his sword and putting his shoulder behind the shield to push back against her attack.

She goes down, and not lightly.

Someone, it seems, has not learned how to effectively fall.

(Someone tries really damn hard not to do it, because on the battlefield, against darkspawn, it's an almost certain death sentence.)

"Liranan. Stay," she repeats it even as she drops, because the last thing they need is an overprotective mabari deciding enough is enough.

"Oof."

At least she didn't drop the blade.

"Any advice for what to do when that happens? Usually people just go in for the kill, so I -- haven't had to deal with shieldwork that much."

Neither did the elf whose memories she is riding. Borrowing. Whichever.

She's rolling to her feet even as she talks, checking her ankles to make sure she didn't roll them on her way down.

Edited 2015-10-25 05:37 (UTC)

Cullen had already tucked his blade under his arm to give her a hand up -- but it appears that won't be necessary.

Wry: "That move is frequently immediately before the kill, so it would be good to defend against it, yes. Though that's a little advanced for where you are."

Instead, Cullen picks up the jug of switchel and pours some down his throat.

"Still, since you asked -- the point's to overbalance the top half." He holds out the jug, both offering a drink and needing to demonstrate. "So what you'd do is try very hard to either get your feet back under you, which is a little easier at my size, or do some kind of acrobatic thing for which I am deeply unsuited."

She takes the offered jug, drinking a bit herself, then stepping back a pace or two to study him, in turn.

"Maybe I'll ask Zevran when I see him next. Even if he has no idea, he might have contacts that do. None of my Wardens are -- um. Precisely built for that, either. Though now the image of Nathaniel doing flips is permanently stuck in my head, so thank you for that."

Liranan barks once, cheerfully. He is acrobatic! And he could take a knight down from behind if they were too busy using their shield in front to slam Ysalwne down!

Cullen glances at Liranan. "Are you offering to teach her to do flips, then?"

Ysalwen presses her knuckles to her mouth again.

Liranan, meanwhile, is wagging his tail as fast as ever he can. That is not exactly what he means, but he is very maneuverable! And tricky!

"I don't say that it's impossible," she manages, after a long few moments. "But I do think it highly unlikely."