Smiting is, Anders imagines, like drinking something Garbolg had brewed back when it was acceptable to put tar in beverages. Every time is like your first time and makes you wonder what's wrong with you that you'd ever do it more than once. Scowling at a blood-soaked Cullen gives him something to focus on.

"Yes, hello it's me, the mage who was innocently minding his own business before you dropped in flecking ichor on everything--"

This makes twice this month he's had his magic suppressed as swiftly and unexpectedly as a punch to the back of the head. He can't say he's a fan, but the templar's full armor and battle-readiness has him thinking he ought to be glad Cullen had apparently only clipped him in his quest to... attack an empty entrance hall.

With all the dignity his battered pride will allow at this point, Anders groans and pushes to his feet without accepting the help. Cullen might as well just stab him now if he has to take his ambusher's hand to get himself upright.

"What just happened? By the way, thank you for reminding me why I don't miss you people."

Ow.