"What, do you think I cast using a twig?" He sounds more amused than affronted, at least. "'Dorian, be a dear and immolate this Venatori encampment with your little toothpick of a wand, would you?'"

He huffs out a laugh, pushing himself to his feet with only a small amount of swaying. He frees his staff from the holster at his back with an almost instinctive flourish, the base of it landing on the floor beside his boot. The staff itself is made of metal, though light enough for Dorian to carry. The grip is slightly out of shape, and the impact of the fall has bent the top half slightly askew. The focus – two twisting dragon's heads, joined by the single crystal in each of its mouths – itself is still intact, if slightly crooked

"If you do happen to break it, somehow, we'll blame it on the fall. Or you can tell people that I snapped it in half over a darkpawn's head. That's believable enough, yes?"