nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ It isn't about enjoyment. Astarion had fun in the scrimmage with Iorveth just now, and that's half the problem. He'll be afraid when he's face-to-face with Cazador; hells, he's afraid now just thinking about it, throat dry and palms clammy from the mere image of Cazador's face in his mind.

He leans over, picking his dagger out of the grass and wiping the dirt off of it and onto his pants. ]

Yes, you're very scary.

[ His tone is pure sarcasm. Difficult to be intimidated by the man who was just pinching his cheek and mussing up his hair. ]

I only want you to fight like you've any actual intention of hurting me. I can provoke your ire, if you'd like.

[ Well. It's hard to have intent and not follow through with it, which is likely a problem that only an unhinged freedom-fighting elf would have, but here they are. After a thoughtful pause, Iorveth unslings his bow from its holster and holds it steady against his side, while his other free hand reaches behind himself for an arrow. ]

Oh?

[ Taking a few steps back, looking for a better vantage point. He tips his head. ]

Charitable of you. I can't say that I'm not curious about what you'd say to make me angry.

[ Something true and biting about the fate of his clan, he presumes. An easy opening, but it'd work: Iorveth has a very low threshold when it comes to "fuck around and find out". This is very intentional, incidentally. ]

[ It seems nearly everything Astarion says makes him angry, but that isn't worth pointing out. He twirls the dagger in his hand idly, watching it as he thinks. For once in his life, he doesn't have a cutting comment on standby. The truth is that he doesn't really want to upset one of the few people who cares if he lives or dies, but— ]

I suppose I'd tell you that this crusade of yours is entirely pointless.

[ What else would anger Iorveth except belittling the only thing he seems to truly give a damn about? ]

It hardly matters what you do. The strong will always step on the weak. And, well.

[ A shrug. They aren't the strong. ]

[ Astarion hardly needs to aim: the target is right there, bright and obvious. The only reason people don't try to hit it as often as they could is because Iorveth usually kills them before they can hit it more than twice.

Iorveth is used to the insult. But like Astarion and his two hundred years of acclimating to torture, being able to compartmentalize it doesn't stop it from hurting. It's how Iorveth tries to level with Astarion, at any rate, when he isn't being goaded into trying to bury pointy objects into vitals.

Oh well. He takes the bait. Taps into that learned aggression and puts arrow to bowstring after putting even more distance between them, pulls his arm back in one fluid, whipcrack motion, and fires a warning shot by Astarion's foot. He's much more precise with his weapon of choice, and much faster: the second arrow follows shortly after the first, whistling by Astarion's ear to embed itself in a tree several yards behind him. ]

And? [ Because he can't not goad back: ] Are you weak?

[ Astarion's head whips back to watch the arrow fly past him before he snaps back to attention, eyes on Iorveth's face. Now that's more like Cazador — although he wouldn't bother to ask, only to assert Astarion's weakness like an incontrovertible fact. He bristles, shoulders tensing in irritation as his fingers curl around the handle of his dagger. Although he'd come out on top—figuratively speaking—in their little scrum, Iorveth is a far more skilled archer than he is. His own skill is all untrained talent, perhaps the muscle memory of long-forgotten days spent shooting arrows at clay pigeons. ]

Not anymore. [ He's different now. Better. He'll be even stronger once he performs that infernal ritual for himself. Pettily: ] Perhaps your clansmen can take notes.

[ Lifting his hand, he throws the dagger in one sharp pitch, aiming for the hand that holds Iorveth's bow. ]

[ Good aim, better instinct. Iorveth will appreciate Astarion's efficiency later, when he's not on the other end of it; now, he has to sidestep to dodge the incoming dagger, tongue clicking at the feeling of it grazing his cheek instead of his hand. The sting feels like fire, and blood drips down his jaw onto grass. ]

The Aen Seidhe are free, [ he tosses back, fighting words for fighting words, ] unlike you. Still bound to Cazador in fear.

[ Three more steps back, and another arrow loosened. Shots meant to miss their mark or be easily deflected, of course― Iorveth, too, doesn't actually want to harm Astarion― but the threat is still there, loaded on the tip of an arrowhead, whistling by Astarion's shoulder.

He won't be able to keep up the long-distance attack for long. He's only got three more arrows left, and his sword is still sitting on the grass, much closer to Astarion than it is to him. A miscalculation on his part, but one he'll have to work with. ]

[ Astarion can dish it out, but he can't take it. He glowers, the words more hurtful than any arrow. Arrows that are still whizzing right past him, he notes. He'd asked for Iorveth's cruelty, but the only kind of cruelty he's getting is the kind he didn't want. His shoulder flinches as the arrow hisses by him, and he forces out a haughty, high-pitched laugh. The sort of laugh that says look how much I don't care, and counterintuitively projects the image of caring an awful lot. ]

You don't know anything, [ he shoots back ineloquently, giving the impression of a toddler stomping his feet. It's no matter — his eyes fall on Iorveth's discarded sword and he makes a beeline for it, swiping it off the ground. It's heavier than he'd like, the weight of a sword in his hand off-putting compared to the lightness of a dagger, but it'll do in a pinch.

He stalks toward Iorveth, sword in hand. There's something offensive about the fact that, still, he keeps shooting warning shots. Like he doesn't think Astarion is strong enough to take him on properly. He throws his arms out, exasperated. ]

Shoot me, damn you, or I'll give you a reason to.

[ Doesn't Iorveth know? The pushback offends Iorveth just enough that he frowns despite himself, forced to acknowledge that light crescendo of "you know that I know"; a reaction as kneejerk-honest as Astarion's laugh.

At the end of the day, though, these are Astarion's wounds that he's reopening. The snapback is expected, as well as the frustration. None of it will help, but sometimes a person needs self-destruction in the face of anxiety, just as a treat.

Iorveth knows. But it's not about that, so: ] Look alive, then.

[ Ha ha. Trotting backwards, making space where Astarion tries to close it. When he has enough momentum, Iorveth releases the next shot, this one aimed right between Astarion's eyes. A killshot, even if it loses most of its effectiveness due to the nature of the setup: rangers, like rogues, hunt best when they're not seen, and therefore can't be anticipated.

(Somewhere, Withers looks up and sighs, probably. Kids.) ]

[ He has half a mind to let the damn arrow lodge itself in his brain so that Iorveth has to drag his corpse back to the others and explain himself. (Un?)fortunately, he cares more about self-preservation than he does about getting one over on Iorveth. It's not so much a cool, practiced deflection as it is holding the sword in front of his face and wincing as the arrow bounces off of the metal; the arrow falls down beside his feet, rolling in the grass.

Both of them are outside of their combat comfort zones, that's obvious, but Iorveth's years as a freedom fighter have honed his skills more than Astarion's. His technical skills, anyway. Astarion has a few skills that he's honed over the years, too.

His sword-holding hand drops down to his side, hanging limply as he takes another few steps forward. ]

Wait. I've changed my mind. Please don't hurt me.

[ He's pulling another arrow onto his strings (having expected the deflection, with or without grace) when he hears wait, which is about as unexpected as everything else about this night's been.

Iorveth squints. Suspicious, squinting his one eye at the sword held loosely by Astarion's hip. He didn't survive a century of persecution obliging every person's appeal for mercy (the opposite, actually), but he does stop creating space between them to let Astarion approach in slow increments. ]

You can't possibly be so contrite so quickly.

[ "What do you mean" is implied. Bow lowered an inch, brow hiked a centimeter. ]

Do you wish me to try, or not?

—Not contrite, [ Astarion can't stop himself from saying, even now. Gods forbid anyone think he's ever been sorry for something in his life. He stands by what he said; it might not be today, maybe not even soon, but victims are victims. Those woodland elves he's so committed to are just going to get persecuted again, and Iorveth is going to get hurt. He might as well cut his losses.

He edges closer, taking small, careful steps as he talks like he's approaching a wild animal that's liable to pounce. ]

It's only that, well, I know when I'm outmatched. [ A melodramatic sigh. His shoulders droop. ] I could hardly take you on in a fair fight.

[ So he won't. As soon as he's within range, he lunges with Iorveth's sword, slashing at whatever he can reach. ]

[ Oh, he should've seen this coming. Stupid that he didn't prepare better for it, especially considering Astarion's reluctance to drop the weapon before approaching－ that should've been the first warning.

Iorveth should block with his bow, but the weapon is semi-sacred: a direct connection to his roots. He rules that out. Which means the only other option left is to dodge, which he only manages narrowly and without finesse, clipping a curse in Elvish between his teeth as he feels the whistle of the blade near his torso. ]

You－

[ Placeholder spiritual insult; Iorveth doesn't have time to fill in that blank. Astarion's second swipe cuts at his shoulder, making him bleed from another fresh (but shallow) wound that sends new tendrils of pain along his arm.

Irritation spikes to anger. Sidestepping the next incoming slash, Iorveth takes one of his remaining arrows from his quiver and tries to stab Astarion in the side with it. Mom, the elves are fighting!!!!!! ]

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