Dorian wasn't very domestic. It wasn't that he had no interest in learning, or that he was completely inept (but by no means was he any good), it was simply that he never had to really worry about it much more, within those hallowed borders of Tevinter, craggy cliffs and stormy skies - there were many things he never had to worry about, just didn't think about, because unless it fit in the specific social engineering niche that 'manufactured' perfect mages then it was insignificant in the scheme of things.
Hunting, roasting fowl? Trying to make vegetable stew and not have it taste like a foot? That was outside of those lines etched in very deeply. But lifestyles changed, he knew that well. Here, he would try.
He would set up a space to work in that healing facility and focus on Spirit magic - and if no one needed him (although in a place where death and maiming seemed all too commonplace, it wouldn't make sense otherwise) then he would work on carving a chess set. Already, he had a bag of smooth rocks he'd collected so he'd whittle the pieces and a board eventually. Why not keep the hands busy?
Arriving back at the library-house which now smelled like books and musty pages and sharp pine as opposed to mold and rat turds, he made note of the smashed mug on the ground and immediately looked for the Duchess. She abandoned her char-grilled meat and ran down, circling his legs in what was probably an attempt to kill him, if he happened to trip on her small furry body by a pit of lava which was what she was no doubt hoping for, and then ran around like a spaz in true asshole cat fashion before jumping up on a bookshelf to lick her own backside. Sigh.
It was a bit chilly in here - he waved a hand in the direction of the fireplace; flames began to crackle and pop, tinder igniting, then he headed up the stairs, trying to be quiet in case Lavellan was still asleep.