howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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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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"All right."

Animation has leached out of her voice, but she goes to the book, opens it, finds the exercises, reads them and looks at the diagrams silently, props the open book up on a slightly larger rock, hoping to make it visible to herself as she practices, and stands.

"All right."

Stroke one, wrist just so, grip flexible but strong, not too tight, movement through the center of the body and down through the legs, steady and stable as the earth.

Okay.

And again.

He's listening. Counting.

Somewhere around fifteen, Cullen's eyes open.

Somewhere around twenty, he sits up and says, "Watch your front leg -- too much weight."

She bites her lip and concentrates, but can't seem to tell the difference, or what the right difference is.

So she asks.

"More weight on the back, or less weight on each?"

"Neither -- it's about proper alignment."

Cullen rolls to his feet. "When you're lunging forward, you're bringing your shoulders and hips out of alignment, and that puts the bulk of your balance on the front."

He's demonstrating. "Which makes it a simple matter for someone to knock you down, or get around your guard, because should you need to step back, your shoulders have further to go -- "

And another demonstration, in which he stands on one leg and pulls his shoulders back too far, losing his balance. "So you're top-heavy. And that moment you have to take to catch yourself is a moment you can't afford. You'll want to do it like this -- "

The right way, this time. He goes through the motions.

She studies him carefully, and more than that she studies where his feet are pushing against the ground.

Then, slowly and very deliberately she shifts her own position to match his, frowning very slightly as she does so.

And then she remembers his injunction not to talk, so she says nothing, just repeats the movement again. Nope, too much weight, still.

Hmm.

And again.

Oh. There, that feels less -- maybe that's closer.

" -- yes," Cullen says, with approval. "Just like that. Good. Keep going."

Once, twice, and then it feels wrong again. Wrist and feet this time. Her frown deepens, and she shifts her position and -- there, again she feels the difference between having it and not.

One, two, three, four, five -- another adjustment, sweat beading up on her brow, her upper lip, and the back of her neck under her hair.

And again.

After the second time she self-corrects, he nods, and goes to lean against the rock, watching her.

He'd hoped she'd be able to self-correct. It'll make the rest of it much easier.

If Ysalwen were exactly what she appears to be, doubtless his silent observation would make her feel sulky, or judged, or apt to seek out a response of some kind. Any kind.

But she is not just a teenaged mage learning the rudiments of an entirely new discipline that is far, far different from what she's learned before.

She is a battle-tested Warden who has learned to shove her temper deep within, to pay attention to what's around her and to learn what she can, as she can, because the world is not about to slow down to let her catch up.

And she believes deeply that everyone deserves freedom and at least a little bit of kindness. And this -- this is a time to be kind. And to appreciate a gift.

And to loosen her blasted, bloody wrist so that one good hit isn't going to knock this blade out of her hand. Ah, there it is.

One more time, then the next, and the next . . .

Liranan, meanwhile, decides that now is the perfect time for a nap. Thanks, Liranan.

It's a pleasure to teach, he finds. To pass on what he'd learned, so long ago, from the templars at the chantry at Honnleath who didn't have to give a scrappy, stubborn eight-year-old the time of day.

It's also a pleasure to have something on which he himself can focus, so he won't think about what those same templars might say about him passing their lessons on to a mage.

When she's done, Cullen says, simply, "Well done," and holds out the jug of switchel.

"Oh, now that's just unfair."

Jelly-arms, Cullen. Jelly arms.

But she drops the point of the blade down, keeping it in her jelly-arm, then reaches out with her non-dominant hand to take the jug. She may be smiling a little, covered in sweat though she is.

"At least you've made it lighter for me. Thank you for that."

Cullen gives her an amused look. "My pleasure. ...especially considering you've a hundred more yet to do."

He sounds entirely too cheerful about this.

"Though next time I shall try to remember to bring a cup."

Her mouth twitches, regardless, and she takes another swallow from the jug before passing it back.

"All right, then. Here we go."

And by 'we' she means herself and her poor mistreated arm.

Ow. She can definitely feel it as she starts moving through the second exercise. It's harder to keep her movement the same, because muscles are protesting like whiny babies.

Hmm.

She bites her lip hard as a quick distraction, and with that different pain to concentrate on, pushing the mere aches away is much, much easier. Well. Easier. Ish.

One. Tw -- ow, no, you need to hold that movement, leg. And elbow. And wrist.

One. Two. Thr -- dammit.

Calm, Cullen says:

"You're getting it. Keep going."

He leans back on his hands on the rock.

(As uncomfortable as most of this has been... the scenery's been quite nice, at least.)

She exhales a sharp huff of breath that Liranan echoes, because sometimes his elf-person is ridiculous.

But it's good to know she's doing it right, or mostly right, or right enough to satisfy Cullen, who probably couldn't be undemanding if someone paid him. In lyrium.

Ysalwen keeps her silence, however, because it is expected, and because it really is easier to pay attention to every motion of her body when she's not distracting herself with chatter. It is less easy to keep her hindbrain from dragging up things it's better not to think about, but one can't have everything.

She is not, for instance, imagining ever having to fight Cullen. Or stand against him. Or having Alistair come after her because she's done something horrible. Or --

Right. Wrist extended, movement flowing down from the shoulder to the elbow to the very tip of the blade, legs just so, abdomen just so, balance held this way for utmost flexibility in response --

And again.

(Hindbrains are like that. And that's the challenge: to quiet the whole mind. Cullen struggles with it; it's not going to get better. But time in a practice yard, time spent in prayer -- they help him.)

Quiet, when she's done:

"You're doing quite well, Ysalwen. Good work."

"I'm trying," she says honestly.

"It's -- hard to tell, from the inside."

That's not just about training, or sword work, or spellcasting, or --

Anyway.

Edited 2015-10-26 15:21 (UTC)

"I know."

Light.

"It's why I tell you."

"I figured."

One corner of her mouth quirks upward, very faintly.

"It's much better than silent miming, too."

Or interpretive dance?

"...not least because I'm not very good at it." Cullen rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm not very good at interpreting it, either."

She can do it with mabari! People are harder.

"So we're both better off."

Cullen nods, a little, and glances back out at the lake.

"I suppose... that's all I had in mind. For today."

"My arm tells me this has been more than enough."

One corner of her mouth is still faintly curved.

"You can stay out here for awhile if you like. I'll leave Liranan here. He could use some time outside, and I could use a soak in some very hot water."

Plus if Cullen does stay outside, Liranan can watch his back.

A second of hesitation.

"If you don't mind."

Cullen blinks, surprised.

"If you need someone to watch him -- of course -- "

But a mabari is an independent sort of beast. She's not -- this isn't -- for him, is it?

"Less watch than keep company. Mabari aren't solitary creatures," she says quietly, reaching out to nudge at Liranan's belly, just because. "And sometimes I am."