nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Rites, sacrifices, ascension. Iorveth, who'd watched Astarion hold his brother to the mid-afternoon light by the neck even before this confrontation, had wondered about it all― the learned helplessness and delusions of those red-eyed spawns, and Astarion's similarly-mistaken assumption about what it means to earn his freedom.

Which is why he doesn't protest when Astarion drags him out into moonlight, and why he doesn't turn around and leave when Astarion delivers the request to him. Iorveth has been thinking about all of this, and what it means for Astarion to be confronted with the very real, very imminent nature of his fate.

("Master Cazador has known where Astarion was this entire time," the blank-eyed tiefling had said. Sickening.)

So. Bow in hand, with his head angled: ] Do you wish me to try, or to actually do it?

[ Because, as Astarion should know by now, Iorveth rarely does anything by halves. ]

[ An irritating response, as always. He expects nothing less than Iorveth, at this point. The most offensive part is that Iorveth seems to think that, as long as he really wanted to, he could kill Astarion. Perhaps he could; Astarion might be a vampire in name, but he lacks all of their more useful talents. All he really has going for himself, it seems, is the ability to skulk around in the dark and go for the throat. If that's true, then how is he ever going to fight Cazador? ]

I— well, obviously I'd prefer it if you didn't actually, but—

[ He throws his hands up and scoffs, frustrated. At himself, at the situation. At Iorveth, a little bit, for not just blindly doing as he says without asking questions.

A moment later, he deflates, shoulders sagging. ]

Cazador isn't going to hold back. You shouldn't either.

[ Funny, how "I'd prefer it if you didn't actually" makes Iorveth relax. Not a death wish, then― good. Those don't suit Astarion, he thinks.

He slings his bow across his back, freeing his hands so that his arms can fold across his chest. The usual contemplative stance that Iorveth assumes when he wants to consider something in greater detail. ]

I don't expect you'll be fighting Cazador alone. The others will hardly let you.

[ The party can grouse all they want about Astarion's so-called behavioral issues, but they love him more than they'll say; there's not a chance in the Nine Hells that they'll let Astarion walk into the Szarr Mansion without any support. ]

So― if this is an invitation to spar, I can oblige. If it's an attempt at self-harm, look elsewhere.

[ It's difficult, still, not to picture himself facing down Cazador alone. Even if their ragtag crew does come along, what's to say Cazador won't strike them down? Or worse, take them for spawn? No, Astarion needs to be strong enough to take him down himself, if need be. ]

If I wanted to harm myself, I'd just walk into the palace and announce my presence.

[ Sarcastic but true. Cazador is undoubtedly furious with him for all the trouble his absence has caused. He's sure he'd get his fair share of punishment before the ritual. ]

Go on, then. Spar with me. Just keep your blade from my neck, and I'll keep my teeth from yours.

[ A soft hm, as Iorveth continues to consider this. The thought occurs to him that it would've been better to ask Wyll or Gale to spar, as he doubts Cazador will come at Astarion with bows and blades, but then again―

―it's stupid, that in his heart of hearts, he feels a little pleased that Astarion asked him. Trust received for trust given? It's likely not even that deep, but Iorveth can believe that of Astarion regardless. ]

If I really wanted to kill you, I'd do it from the trees. With arrows.

[ A blunt sentiment, from the world's rudest elf. ]

But, fine. I accept, on one condition.

[ Astarion gives an annoyed huff, blowing an errant curl out of his face. If you really wanted to kill me, I'd have already stabbed you, he wants to say, but he restrains himself from any metaphorical dick-measuring. Besides, the one thing Cazador won't have is the benefit of being hidden away in some tree. They'll be fighting face-to-face. The thought makes his throat go dry, and he swallows before shaking the image out of his head. ]

I'm the one making demands here, [ he reminds Iorveth. True, he has no real authority here, but he does like to play at being in charge. At least until there's, ugh, responsibility to contend with.

His hands find their place on his hips again, and he regards Iorveth with a raised eyebrow. ]

What is it you want? Coin? A lovely new bandana, perhaps?

[ Autonomy, control, choice. Iorveth knows the quicksand dread of seeing options slip between his fingers― at the end of the day, he, too, is a cornered animal.

He keeps his arms folded, and shifts his balance on untrimmed grass. ]

My condition is that you don't question my intentions.

[ Iorveth rarely needs anyone to like him, or, for that matter, even really understand him, but this seems like a sticking point when it comes to Astarion. He doesn't want to proceed with this without dislodging this fishbone from the back of his throat.

So. He rephrases, in the form of a question. ] Do you trust me?

I brought you out here, didn't I?

[ In the dark, with no one around, where both of their bodies could go undiscovered until morning if one of them really wanted to hurt the other. Isn't that trust enough? Why should he have to say it?

Astarion hems and haws for a moment, scoffing at being put in a position to lay himself bare. The prospect of trust and vulnerability still provokes a visceral, physical reaction in him, his stomach dropping in preparation for the punishment that he knows by now isn't going to come yet still feels imminent. ]

You trusted me.

[ It almost comes out like a childish accusation, I know you are but what am I. Confirmation to himself that he, at least, isn't alone in the embarrassment of giving trust. What Iorveth did was worse, really. Monumentally stupid. No one should ever trust Astarion.

Finally: ] Yes, all right? Don't go getting a big head about it.

[ Iorveth waits patiently for a verdict, his posture shifting from a silent "uh-huh?" to "uh-huh" to "ah-hah". He's more than aware that it's cruel of him to ask someone who's been void of hope for two hundred years to admit to some shred of trust in something outside of themselves, but they all have to start somewhere.

At least, he thinks he did. Then again, he's not sure if Astarion is aware of the extent to which he lowered his metaphorical collar and showed Astarion his neck. Vulnerability taken for vulnerability given.

At any rate, he's satisfied by the answer. Squared shoulders relax, expectation unfurling into acceptance. ]

Shouldn't I? [ Get a big head about it, Iorveth means. He snorts, which is a ghost of a laugh. ] Mm.

Condition met, then. Now I can trust you with my knife against your neck.

[ A skeptical raised brow. Isn't it that Astarion needs to be able to trust Iorveth with his knife against his neck, rather than the other way around? The one pointing the blade holds all the power. ]

Don't tell me you haven't fantasized about your knife against my lovely, lovely neck.

[ He runs the back of his hand against his throat, narcissistic. Iorveth has no doubt longed to hold that blade to his neck and make him shut up for good. He's unlikely to be the only one. ]

But you'll have to beat me first.

[ Astarion, admittedly, prefers to fight from the shadows, while his enemies are preoccupied with someone else. A one-on-one clash, no distractions, no hiding— it might be more difficult than he'd like to keep Iorveth's knife from his neck, but he tips his chin up anyway, confidence verging on cockiness. As he backs up, creating distance between them, he unsheathes his dagger. ]

[ His hands around that lovely, lovely neck, maybe. Iorveth has thought about shutting Astarion up many times, but in all the times he's thought about defenestrating Astarion, the imagined violence never got bloody.

Funny. He takes a few steps back, himself, and draws his curved sword from his hip instead of pulling the bow out of its harness again. His preferred method of hunting is from a distance, with his target on the knife's-edge tip of an arrow, but he'd be a very bad freedom fighter if he didn't know his way around a melee weapon.

Time to weigh his chances. Astarion is deft, quick, clever; Iorveth knows better than to underestimate a survivor in a fight, so he keeps his first attack relatively conservative. Testing the waters with a forward lunge and a quick upwards flick of his wrist, an attempt to knock the weapon out of Astarion's hand right out of the gate. Iorveth doesn't expect it to work, but it's what he would do if he were actually fighting a rogue in close quarters. ]

[ A sword offers plenty of benefits: it's a more powerful weapon with greater range. Swords are also heavier than daggers, though, and slower, too; he backsteps by pure instinct, quick enough to dodge the flick of Iorveth's sword. He clicks his tongue, disappointed at the moderation. ]

Cazador wouldn't be so precious.

[ He wouldn't use a sword to begin with, but even still. He'd fight like a predator, aiming to wound rather than disarm.

A dagger's advantage lies in close-quarters combat, so he steps forward, light-footed, to close the gap between them. It neutralizes the sword's range advantage, at least, although it also opens him up to a counterattack, putting him at risk in a way he's not used to. His blade thrusts out in a quick jab, as if to aim for Iorveth's gut— except, not quite. He aims for the air an inch in front of it instead, careful not to really disembowel him. ]

[ Cazador wouldn't. Something hot flares in the back of Iorveth's skull at that distinction, a wildfire offense that he hadn't anticipated. ("Don't compare me to him.") It makes him bare his teeth a little, perfect rows of flat teeth, no sharp canines in sight― the swipe to his gut makes him snarl, too close, and pivot back with the pommel of his blade aiming for Astarion's elbow. ]

Do I look like Cazador to you?

[ He can hazard a guess as to the sorts of things Cazador has done, though: dislocate, dismember, disembowel. If that's what Astarion'd meant by "try to kill me", well.

Iorveth scowls again, and does something that he hopes is very un-Cazador. He ducks another incoming blow, and steps, hard, on Astarion's foot; he follows that with a forward lunge, trying to knock him off-balance and backwards if he's lucky. ]

Ow! [ when the pommel of his sword collides with Astarion's pointy elbow, and, ] Ow! [ when his heel slams down on Astarion's toes. He'd asked to spar, but that doesn't mean he has to tolerate the pain stoically. Complaining is as deeply a part of him as his red eyes or fangs.

The lunge sends him toppling backwards, off-kilter, nearly losing his footing entirely. He catches himself before he ends up on the ground, though, planting his feet back flat on the grass even as the one Iorveth had stepped on aches. Despite the tremors of pain running up his leg and arm, his mouth quirks up just enough to flash a pointed tooth. He sort of likes Iorveth feisty. ]

You can do better than that, [ he quips, like he wasn't just whining about how badly it hurt a second ago, and lifts a leg to drive his heel into Iorveth's knee, hoping it'll buckle. How quickly this has devolved from a spar into a slapfight. ]

[ There is something inherently funny about someone yelling ow after asking to spar, but there's really no time to laugh about it when there's a foot trying to bend your knee in a direction it's not supposed to. ]

Fuck, [ he hisses, as he stumbles back and only barely manages not to fall on his ass. The coveted Iorveth "Fuck" Count: 1. ] You are insufferable.

[ Perfect wood elf balance broken, swaying as he tries to regain advantage. He refuses to find the flash of Astarion's canines cute, thank you very much, though the thought crosses his mind; he tosses his sword aside entirely for his next surge forward, reaching for the wrist holding the dagger, trying to wrench it up and force the weapon out of Astarion's grip.

Elf slapfights are so undignified, and yet. Here they are. ]

[ His tiny, crooked smile widens into a full on shit-eating grin at the glorious sound of Iorveth's mouth forming the word 'fuck'. Like music to his pointy ears! Wouldn't he like to hear that again. His joy is short-lived, though, and only a moment later he's scowling as Iorveth's hand closes around his wrist, wincing at the feeling but, insufferable as he is, grasping the damn thing tighter. He isn't strong, but he's certainly stubborn. ]

Let go, you—

[ He's seemingly under too much pressure to come up with a good insult. Cutting himself off with a huff, he brings the palm of his free hand to Iorveth's face, the heel of it striking his chin with force; as tall as Iorveth is, he's the perfect height for it. It leaves him undefended, both hands preoccupied, but it's worth it to aggravate Iorveth.

When that became the point of this, he's not entirely sure. This was supposed to be preparation for something, he thinks, something important. ]

[ There is no way on any earthly realm that this is how Cazador would fight Astarion in their grand showdown, but it matters very little now; Iorveth almost bites his tongue when his teeth snap down, and he can taste his own blood on his mouth as he obliges Astarion by letting go, trying to knee him away with a grunt.

"Fuck", part two, except he says it in his head this time. He blinks stars out of his single eye, and spits blood onto the grass. ]

Oh, I should punch your pretty face for that.

[ Iorveth can feel the migraine settling in from where Astarion's strike rattled his brain. Brows furrowed and his lip split, he readjusts his stance and lashes out with one long leg, swiping at Astarion's feet with vicious intent. If Astarion doesn't trip, he'll try to swat the dagger out of his hand again; if he does trip, he'll crowd him on the grass and try to pin him. A risky move, since he threw his own weapon away― there is every chance that Astarion will stab him in retribution, but.

Well. He guesses he can get yelled at by Shadowheart again if that happens. She's probably so sick of his bullshit by now. ]

[ Those legs are stupidly, irritatingly long, difficult to get away from. Astarion finds himself landing on the ground with an unceremonious thud, cursing that Iorveth wasn't born a dwarf or perhaps a gnome. Throughout his humiliating tumble, he doesn't once let go of his blade, knuckles white—well, more white than usual—as they grasp the handle. Fisticuffs aren't exactly his strong suit, after all. These delicate hands were built for holding wine glasses, not hitting people.

Iorveth doesn't seem to feel the same way, having rid himself of his weapon already (another truly un-Cazadorlike quality; he would never give up any advantage). As Iorveth draws closer, Astarion brings his dagger between them, pressing the point of it against Iorveth's sternum. Lightly, barely enough pressure to draw blood. He doesn't really want to hurt him — that much. It is, maybe, a little fun to hurt him a little. Nothing serious. Like two feral dogs playfighting a bit too roughly, that's all.

His shit-eating grin returns, clearly thinking himself to have the upper hand regardless of ending up in the grass. He's still the one holding the knife. ] Go on, punch my pretty face if you want to so badly.

[ Astarion is the one still holding the knife, and said knife is digging into Iorveth's sternum over his tunic. The pinprick pain is uncomfortable, but it's nothing compared to the muscle memory of Astarion's teeth in his neck.

In a real fight, this is where Iorveth gets gutted like a fish. It's only the grace of trust and the knowledge that they're only sparring that he doesn't die here, and he knows it.

It sucks. Iorveth doesn't like losing, even if winning doesn't mean much when they're not playing for keeps. He scowls again, trying to wrench the dagger from Astarion one more time, not caring much at all if the sharp metal tears his shirt and leaves scratches over his skin. (As long as it doesn't ruin his tattoos too much, mind.) He's sitting on Astarion's thighs, bracing himself as he ungracefully wrestles for control over the knife. ]

The only reason I won't, [ he growls, regarding punching Astarion in the face, hissing in exertion, ] is because I'd have to endure you whining about it all day.

[ And, in a frankly terrible impression of Astarion: ] "My face, my beautiful face!"

[ That's— exactly what he'd say. Fucking Iorveth.

Annoyance springs up inside him, because he clearly won and Iorveth just won't give up, but it's quickly quashed by the enjoyment of still scrapping with him. Astarion has a lot of pent-up rage to let out. This is mentally ill elf enrichment.

He fights hard to keep his dagger, yanking his hand back every time Iorveth wrenches it away, the blade of it ripping an unsightly hole right in the center of Iorveth's shirt. Just another thing they'll have to find some way to explain. It seems they always have to explain themselves after they've been out together. ]

Oh? I think it's because you like my beautiful face too much. [ Narcissistic and trash-talking until the very end. Then: ] Shit.

[ As stubborn and persistent as he is, he's weak. Iorveth successfully wrenches the dagger from his hand, and he suddenly regrets talking trash. ]

[ Pretty soon, someone will make the executive decision not to let the mentally unstable elves go out together without supervision, but until then: this. Iorveth successfully wrenches the dagger out of Astarion's grip, which means that he can now deftly spin it in his own hand and drive the sharp end of it down into the ground, an inch or two away from Astarion's neck.

Stupid. At this point, they're just blowing off steam. ]

Now we're both dead. [ Two very exceptional elves, metaphorically dead in a park. Iorveth sniffs, staving off indignance as he removes his hand from the hilt of the knife now embedded in dirt, and

pinches Astarion's beautiful face, and pulls. A step down from punching, but still somewhat satisfying despite the fact that Astarion does remain annoyingly pretty despite having his cheek tugged to the side. ]

[ Oh, this is so immature. And, possibly, a worse fate than what awaits him if he loses to Cazador. Sure, he'll probably be tortured and his soul will be sacrificed to the Hells for all eternity, but at least he won't be bullied like a child on the playground. ]

My face, [ he whines, ignoring that he sounds exactly like Iorveth's awful impression of him as he swats at Iorveth's hand like he's a particularly annoying gnat. ]

You were dead first. [ A childish grumble. This is not a draw. ] Or, well— [ Technically, Astarion was already dead a long time ago. Still. ] Ugh, you know.

[ Iorveth fancies that he's giving the exact level of maturity that he's receiving, but then again, he's also the one who tacitly agreed to slapfighting. That's on him.

He lets go of Astarion's face, but only to reach up and make a further mess of perfectly-coiffed silver hair. Guerilla warfare tactics 101: hit them where it hurts. ]

I'm no good at sparring. [ A low drawl, as he rearranges curls in inopportune places. Iorveth is more of a "kill first, and if my enemy is valuable enough not to kill, incapacitate them thoroughly" person. A bad person to choose to impersonate Cazador, as, in Iorveth's heart of hearts, he doesn't enjoy hurting people at all. ] But I suppose congratulations are in order anyway.

[ Says the guy who's haughtily trying to make Astarion look bad. Very mature. ]

No, you aren't. [ Good at sparring. Who throws away their weapon that quickly? Someone who wants to slapfight, in Astarion's opinion.

He smacks Iorveth's wrists as he sits up, shaking his hair out with annoyance. If Iorveth knew and appreciated how long it takes to get his hair to lie perfectly without a mirror, perhaps he wouldn't be so lackadaisical about ruining it! Cognizant of the fact that he did, in fact, hurt Iorveth, Astarion gives him a light shove, pointedly ignoring that he can smell the little dribble of blood dripping from the puncture wound he made. ]

You need to act more like him. Or should I recruit Gale instead?

[ He'd be no doubt thrilled to show off his arcane talents. Astarion might end up with singed eyebrows if he's not careful. ]

Edited 2024-07-01 01:44 (UTC)

You'd get a demonstration with Gale, not a fight.

[ Lifting himself up off of Astarion's knees when shoved, surveying the state of his shirt. Hard to call the tear in the front of it a fashion statement, but whatever. He'll slap ointment on the tiny wound on his chest and call it a day.

He turns towards Astarion when they're both up on their feet, with his hands patting grass off his knees. It's still evident that he doesn't love the demand to emulate Cazador, the frown on his face speaking that sentiment into existence. ]

I've played the role of torturer before, if you're so keen to see it. But neither you nor I would enjoy it, even if you trusted me not to overstep.

[ He could wear Astarion down, methodically and systematically. He could disappear into the trees for hours and days at a time, track Astarion, hunt him like he would a wild animal. If that's what Astarion wants, he could do it, but he doubts it would help. ]

But, hm. If you want my cruelty so badly, I owe it to you to give it.

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