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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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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."

"Always underestimating him," Cullen sighs. "As you'd like, then."

He lets the shield drop to his feet. "Your sword is light -- fine. You will not have a shield in your hand. I can tell you now -- you'll be better served in the future by spending time with someone accustomed to moving far more quickly in combat than I do. A duelist, perhaps. But regardless -- we can work on form, strength, and endurance."

A beady look. "And no talking while you face another. That's just asking for another trick like I pulled. No distracting yourself."

"It seems cruel to overestimate, though surely we've both done that from time to time."

Liranan yips again, moving to butt his head against Ysalwen's midsection.

"You do always forget I'm not actually made of iron muscles, don't you."

She ruffles his ears anyway, with her free hand, then nudges him away again. He chooses that time to run to Cullen, because Fereldans are suckers and it is beautiful.

"All right. I won't. I'm just -- it's another bad habit, I suppose. Silence makes people uncomfortable, a lot of the time, and I don't -- like to do that. Unless I have to."

Also, Cullen is made from iron muscles, thank you very much!

(Maybe it's just the cuirass.)

He kneels so he can safely pet Liranan with both hands. Looks up at her.

Almost says something --

But doesn't. He's spent untold hours standing in plate watching mages, saying nothing. This isn't something he should contradict.

"Anyway. Practice every day, find a duelist or someone else with a lot of speed in combat, and possibly acrobatics, stop talking when I fight -- "

She may be making mental notes, even as Liranan and Cullen get all cuddly and involved in petting.

It's -- cute. Or maybe sweet.

Anyway.

"Anything I've missed so far? Oh, and reading the book you gave me."

Cullen glances up again. "I'll give you two exercises with the blade. One hundred of them a day."

A crooked smile. "At which point you'll begin cursing my name."

If I haven't done it yet -- Ysalwen does not say.

"Are trees an adequate target, or is this just against air, or -- I'll certainly have access to pells and the like at Weisshaupt. Though I'm not sure I should let them see what I'm studying, necessarily."

Unfortunately.

(That thought did cross Cullen's mind.)

"Trees are fine. So is the air. The importance -- "

One last ruffle of Liranan's ears, and Cullen sits back, resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at her.

(It's more relaxing than he'd thought, interacting in this way, in a practice yard. Almost restful.)

"The point is the movement. It should be second nature. And no, I wouldn't recommend asking for anything from that source until you've determined whether or not they're to be trusted."

Ysalwen crouches down at that point, too, leaning her weight into Liranan's side.

It's comforting.

"Mmph. Second nature I can do. Eventually. Is there anything in particular I should be thinking about as I practice? Just arm position and the feel when I get it right? Or -- "

There are ways to think when you're working magic, Ysalwen knows that well enough. There are ways most definitely not to think when you're doing the same.

Is sword work that different?

He's nodding.

"Your form. Arm position, your balance, posture, every way it feels when you move, from start to finish. The challenge will be to stay focused throughout." Crooked smile. "When it begins to hurt, and when it starts to become boring -- usually around your fortieth repetition -- that's when it's most important to renew your focus."

"Breathing, too?"

She's got the half-abstracted expression of someone making mental notes that they seriously intend to remember.

Her eyes clear, suddenly, and one corner of her mouth curves in a slight smile.

"Focus, hmm? That's -- I've learned a lot about that in the last little while. I'll let you know if you're more or less worried about my capability in that than you should be. Once I know myself, I mean."