Dorian rolls his eyes at the Bull's all too obvious attempts at levity, but a small part of him appreciates it – that call to something approaching normal while they're hip-deep in shit. He only offers a curt nod at the Bull's direction, but he doesn't keep a hand on the staff. Instead, he continues to hover around the other man, using the Bull's suggestion as a guise for his hovering.
The Bull, of course, notices before Dorian does – and only when the Bull seems to tense, when his expression tightens, does Dorian hear the inhuman sounds of the darkspawn's mockery of language. The Bull tries to shove the staff back into Dorian's hands, but Dorian only spares the man a glare shoves it right back. In this case, Dorian is absolutely certain the Bull needs the implement more than Dorian does, and no mage as powerful as Dorian has ever needed a staff to be dangerous.
He grits out, "Go," and guards the Bull's back as the man hurries ahead.
A small, selfish voice reminds him that he is the one with knowledge of a treatment for Blight-sickness, that he is the one best able to defend himself, that he has talent and genius and so much potential. If anyone should survive, shouldn't it be Dorian? If Dorian simply hurried on ahead, certainly no one would blame him.
Be practical about this, Dorian, that voice says, and it reminds him so much of his parents that Dorian nearly wants to be sick.
The stench of decay, cloyingly bitter and sweet and wrong, hits him full force as the first few darkspawn comes into view, clambering over the rubble of some once ancient building. Dorian mutters under his breath, hands moving in a blur to trace an intricate pattern in the air. He throws both arms out to his sides, and a glyph appears before his chest, sending out a salvo of fireballs. The flames catch and set the creatures alight; they screech in agony, twisting and falling.
He immediately senses it, the transition from life to death, and once that awareness snaps, he curls one hand into the air, drawing spirits from the Fade and pressing them into the darkspawn corpses. They stand, wreathed in the purple light of Dorian's magic and the fire still burning their dying flesh, and turn on their brethren.
Five against some innumerable horde are hardly good odds, but it's better than what they had before.
After that, Dorian sinks into muscle memory, casting out basic spells to keep the darkspawn from closing in. Casting without a staff is demanding – it requires far more focus to aim his skills correctly, to temper them so he doesn't end up burning or freezing his hands with every spell he casts. He's balancing a difficult line, trying to conserve his energy while also trying to dispatch the monsters as quickly as possible. If he can keep the darkspawn at a distance, if he can prevent the two of them from being overrun, they stand a much greater chance.
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The Bull, of course, notices before Dorian does – and only when the Bull seems to tense, when his expression tightens, does Dorian hear the inhuman sounds of the darkspawn's mockery of language. The Bull tries to shove the staff back into Dorian's hands, but Dorian only spares the man a glare shoves it right back. In this case, Dorian is absolutely certain the Bull needs the implement more than Dorian does, and no mage as powerful as Dorian has ever needed a staff to be dangerous.
He grits out, "Go," and guards the Bull's back as the man hurries ahead.
A small, selfish voice reminds him that he is the one with knowledge of a treatment for Blight-sickness, that he is the one best able to defend himself, that he has talent and genius and so much potential. If anyone should survive, shouldn't it be Dorian? If Dorian simply hurried on ahead, certainly no one would blame him.
Be practical about this, Dorian, that voice says, and it reminds him so much of his parents that Dorian nearly wants to be sick.
The stench of decay, cloyingly bitter and sweet and wrong, hits him full force as the first few darkspawn comes into view, clambering over the rubble of some once ancient building. Dorian mutters under his breath, hands moving in a blur to trace an intricate pattern in the air. He throws both arms out to his sides, and a glyph appears before his chest, sending out a salvo of fireballs. The flames catch and set the creatures alight; they screech in agony, twisting and falling.
He immediately senses it, the transition from life to death, and once that awareness snaps, he curls one hand into the air, drawing spirits from the Fade and pressing them into the darkspawn corpses. They stand, wreathed in the purple light of Dorian's magic and the fire still burning their dying flesh, and turn on their brethren.
Five against some innumerable horde are hardly good odds, but it's better than what they had before.
After that, Dorian sinks into muscle memory, casting out basic spells to keep the darkspawn from closing in. Casting without a staff is demanding – it requires far more focus to aim his skills correctly, to temper them so he doesn't end up burning or freezing his hands with every spell he casts. He's balancing a difficult line, trying to conserve his energy while also trying to dispatch the monsters as quickly as possible. If he can keep the darkspawn at a distance, if he can prevent the two of them from being overrun, they stand a much greater chance.