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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 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."

Up go Cullen's eyebrows.

"I'd thought to judge by the standards to which I was held in my own training, but as you like"

She smiles very faintly.

"Training is very different from actual combat, and -- I mean. We've both been in that. It's -- there's a focus you need when you've got an arrow in your side, burns on your arm and leg, and no respite in sight. I -- have slight doubts that the ache in my arms is going to make me lose it, not when I know how important learning what you're teaching is."

A pause.

"That's all I'm saying."

Ah.

His mouth tightens.

Cullen pulls his knees a little closer to his chest, looks out at the lake.

Says:

"That's called endurance."

"Not when you're casting through it."

She's very quiet when she says that.

"Anyway."

She says it's important -- but she won't listen to him when this is something he knows. That endurance isn't just about standing there and taking it; it's being able to do something, anything, to keep them off you, for as long as you can.

It's the one thing he could cling to, after Kinloch: he endured. It might have been luck. Probably a large part of it was. But it took work. It took focus.

Why is he bothering with this if she won't trust his knowledge? With all her talk of how friendship can mend things, and that's what she wants --

Cullen closes his eyes suddenly. Makes himself breathe in with one line --

Though all before me is Shadow --

-- hold with another --

Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

-- and release, with the last.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

He opens his eyes. The lake hasn't changed. The feeling of something pressing hard against his chest, trying to get out of his skin -- that's a little better.

Edited 2015-10-25 23:55 (UTC)

Friends are allowed to have different opinions. Friends are allowed to disagree.

And blind trust and belief doesn't seem to be in either of their natures, not anymore.

So it goes.

"Anyway. I promise to practice. And if I can't think through it, or even if I can, I'll tell you and ask -- questions about where I'm failing? Unless -- do you want to watch me hit at the air a hundred times in a row? Is that how this begins? Now that you know what I know. Sort of."

Distant, as he works off his left vambrace and glove:

"Either would work. Whatever you'd like."

There's grass here. There's not grass in Kirkwall. Not like this.

Cullen runs his bare palm over it. It's... nice.

"Okay," she says, a little warily.

Maybe more than a little.

And if she shifts back, to add some distance between them, at least she stretches her legs out afterward, so the actual space between them remains the same.

Just -- her core is a little farther away.

"Sure."

She moves. He notices.

It doesn't matter, he figures, until the mabari starts growling.

They don't have to do this again. He won't assume they will, unless she asks. She's in charge.

It's not as though Cullen did much, but he's suddenly very tired. Without warning he flops down on his back, looking up at the clouds, running fingers through the grass as though it were a woman's hair.

They used to do that in the practice yard before he took his vows. He used to do it as a child. The soil here smells wrong, but it's comforting nonetheless.

(He feels the need to hit something. But he can save it for his return to the Gallows.)

Oh, they are definitely doing this again.

Something is very, very wrong with him. She knew it -- how could you be there and not know it, but --

She flops back down as well, tilting herself sideways away from Liranan, and he takes that cue to go flop down beside Cullen, huffing as he does so.

Bipeds are difficult.

Honestly.

They are lucky he likes them!