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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" -- 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."

"If... it will help." He still looks a little bemused, but he's not inclined to press. "We'll be here."

She stands up, ruffling Liranan's ears before she turns away to head back for the bar.

"I'll know where to find you. Be good."

That last is probably to Liranan.

(Seriously. The longest soak with fragrant bath salts and really soft towels is going to happen as soon as she is inside. Count on it.)

Mabari are always good.

...on the other hand, that means she's saying it to Cullen.

"We'll try," Cullen says, dry, looking down at Liralan. "We'll endeavor."

"You'll succeed," Ysalwen retorts, something bright in her voice as she moves across the grass toward the bar.

"That's why there's two of you."

And if one of them ends up being a pillow later, there is not a damn thing wrong with naptime. Mabari are excellent for sleeping on.

It's true. But Cullen would insist to his grave that his knowledge is strictly theoretical.

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