Anders and Martin are both home, as it happens: home's the best place for the work they're doing now. No bystanders to be alarmed if some miscast spell results in a light show. Each has been trying to teach the other some useful applications of magic unique to Thedas or to Tamriel, and today, Anders has been laboring to master a deceptively simple spell called Open. Alteration magic doesn't exist or else has been forgotten in the Circles of Magi; a apostate in Thedas is reliant on rogues to pick locks.
They've procured a great huge padlock, the sort that belongs on the hasp of a shed's or a root cellar's door, and they're in the kitchen because if any sparks fly, it's best they fall on linoleum rather than carpet. At the sound of the front door slamming and Nathaniel's call, Anders comes rushing out the kitchen's swinging door, followed immediately by Martin.
"Maker, what happened?" Shock drowns out any other reaction, for Anders. It ought to take a horde of darkspawn to batter Nathaniel this badly, and Nathaniel's an exceptionally accomplished rogue, such that he would generally be able to keep safely concealed if he deemed the opposition too numerous to take on.
Battlefield healing is an imprecise affair, shooting waves of creation magic in an ally's general direction, and Anders does this first, instinctively. Only then does he actually approach, and slide his arm under the rogue's shoulders. "Martin, if you'd be willing ...?" While he's unhappy to have such an occasion for it, Anders would like to see what kind of healing magic the Restoration school of Tamriel affords.
It's then that Anders feels the roughness, the tear in the cloth of Nathaniel's coat, the dampness suggesting blood. His first thought: "Andraste's bleeding tits, did someone stab you in the back?"
no subject
They've procured a great huge padlock, the sort that belongs on the hasp of a shed's or a root cellar's door, and they're in the kitchen because if any sparks fly, it's best they fall on linoleum rather than carpet. At the sound of the front door slamming and Nathaniel's call, Anders comes rushing out the kitchen's swinging door, followed immediately by Martin.
"Maker, what happened?" Shock drowns out any other reaction, for Anders. It ought to take a horde of darkspawn to batter Nathaniel this badly, and Nathaniel's an exceptionally accomplished rogue, such that he would generally be able to keep safely concealed if he deemed the opposition too numerous to take on.
Battlefield healing is an imprecise affair, shooting waves of creation magic in an ally's general direction, and Anders does this first, instinctively. Only then does he actually approach, and slide his arm under the rogue's shoulders. "Martin, if you'd be willing ...?" While he's unhappy to have such an occasion for it, Anders would like to see what kind of healing magic the Restoration school of Tamriel affords.
It's then that Anders feels the roughness, the tear in the cloth of Nathaniel's coat, the dampness suggesting blood. His first thought: "Andraste's bleeding tits, did someone stab you in the back?"