For a moment, Dorian can only spare a wordless noise of acknowledgment, a curt nod – one that he isn't entirely certain would be visible in the gloom. Still, he wastes no time in determining whether the Bull understands, and trusts, instead, that the Bull knows that Dorian's intention is to follow.
He immediately returns to casting, feeling the weight of the Fade as he reaches across the Veil, again and again. He sticks to the basics, to the rudimentary spells they teach young initiates learning to control their abilities, in a bid to conserve what's left of his pool of mana. His earlier efforts had been draining, and while he hasn't fully depleted his energy, he fears he's getting dangerously close.
The Bull is no small man, and when he falls, Dorian whirls around.
"Bull!"
He takes an aborted step toward the other man before his good sense catches up with him, reminds him that granting the darkspawn even that breath will cost them both dearly. A small, impractical part of him wants to rush to the Bull and help him onto whatever lift the other man might have found; the reasonable part of him, the tactician his parents trained him to be, says that if Dorian falls back now, they're both doomed.
Gritting his teeth, he turns, continuing to cast, trying to keep them at a distance. His more demanding spells are used only when a darkspawn gets too close for comfort – healthy applications of fire to cauterize any wounds and minimize the risk of contamination. He draws the spirits of the fallen toward him, only occasionally using them to replenish his mana, preferring instead to use them to reanimate the dead. He remembers, once, during one of their rare civil conversations, that Solas had suggested he use a less "flashy" style to conserve energy. And at the moment, very few of Dorian's usual flourishes are on display, favoring efficiency above all else.
The screeching and grinding of long neglected gears catches his attention, but Dorian doesn't turn – not immediately. Instead, he continues to back up, sending out bursts of flame to distract the creatures. Once he considers himself close enough, he uses the last bit of his mana, murmuring under his breath as he weaves his hands through a half-familiar mnemonic. Without his staff, he instead channels the spell by stomping on the stone path, and a glyph blossoms out from the impact, the glow of it nearly blinding in the darkness of the caverns. Once it flashes, Dorian spins around, running toward the lift. Any darkspawn foolish enough to attempt crossing the glyph are blown back, as if struck away by an invisible force.
When he makes it to the lift, Dorian is flushed and sweating, gasping for breath.
"That won't last long," he pants out, and true to his word, the edges of the glyph have already started to flicker and dim. While he's visibly drained, Dorian is still tense, ready to spring back into the fight. He offers the Bull a wan smile. "Starting to feel a mite exhausted."
It's a joke, an admission, and an apology, all in one.
no subject
He immediately returns to casting, feeling the weight of the Fade as he reaches across the Veil, again and again. He sticks to the basics, to the rudimentary spells they teach young initiates learning to control their abilities, in a bid to conserve what's left of his pool of mana. His earlier efforts had been draining, and while he hasn't fully depleted his energy, he fears he's getting dangerously close.
The Bull is no small man, and when he falls, Dorian whirls around.
"Bull!"
He takes an aborted step toward the other man before his good sense catches up with him, reminds him that granting the darkspawn even that breath will cost them both dearly. A small, impractical part of him wants to rush to the Bull and help him onto whatever lift the other man might have found; the reasonable part of him, the tactician his parents trained him to be, says that if Dorian falls back now, they're both doomed.
Gritting his teeth, he turns, continuing to cast, trying to keep them at a distance. His more demanding spells are used only when a darkspawn gets too close for comfort – healthy applications of fire to cauterize any wounds and minimize the risk of contamination. He draws the spirits of the fallen toward him, only occasionally using them to replenish his mana, preferring instead to use them to reanimate the dead. He remembers, once, during one of their rare civil conversations, that Solas had suggested he use a less "flashy" style to conserve energy. And at the moment, very few of Dorian's usual flourishes are on display, favoring efficiency above all else.
The screeching and grinding of long neglected gears catches his attention, but Dorian doesn't turn – not immediately. Instead, he continues to back up, sending out bursts of flame to distract the creatures. Once he considers himself close enough, he uses the last bit of his mana, murmuring under his breath as he weaves his hands through a half-familiar mnemonic. Without his staff, he instead channels the spell by stomping on the stone path, and a glyph blossoms out from the impact, the glow of it nearly blinding in the darkness of the caverns. Once it flashes, Dorian spins around, running toward the lift. Any darkspawn foolish enough to attempt crossing the glyph are blown back, as if struck away by an invisible force.
When he makes it to the lift, Dorian is flushed and sweating, gasping for breath.
"That won't last long," he pants out, and true to his word, the edges of the glyph have already started to flicker and dim. While he's visibly drained, Dorian is still tense, ready to spring back into the fight. He offers the Bull a wan smile. "Starting to feel a mite exhausted."
It's a joke, an admission, and an apology, all in one.