Bears, they shout. What did they expect, Dorian doesn't quite mumble into his bedroll. It's tempting to just lie there and hope that everyone else sorts it out, but a panicked cry rakes across his nerves and with a heavy sigh, he drags himself up and off the ground, feeling around the dark interior of his tent, just as it collapses in around him.

Not to worry! He struggles out into the bracing pre-dawn air, dressed only in the smallclothes he went to sleep in and gripping, most importantly, his staff of serpentstone, which crackles with his ire in the form of cold-white lightning. But the bear that collapses his tent was on its way to dying, so he turns his attention outward.

A stray fork of magic zaps and dances its way up Samson's standard-issue sword.

But the next bear, one that's ambling with truly impressive speed up onto the former General, gets a face full of magic, the smell of storm and burning fur rising as it gives a pained growl and a heavy shake of its head. Despite that Dorian is not quite awake, he falls naturally into the fluid motions of spellcasting, more flare and flash than your average Circle southerner, and perhaps a little sharp on the edges of someone who doesn't appreciate this imposition on his beauty sleep.