nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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!!!!!! ]

[ Malicious glee spreads across his face as he slices through the fabric of Iorveth's shirt and into his shoulder, warm red blood trickling from the wound. When he'd thrown his dagger and clipped Iorveth's cheek, he'd been far away enough that the meager amount of blood oozing from the laceration hadn't been enough to entice him. Up this close, though, he takes a moment to reminisce about how that blood had tasted coating his tongue. His first real delicacy in centuries, after putrid rats and disgusting goblins and unappetizing bandits— ]

Gods!

[ While his mind is elsewhere, Iorveth's arrow embeds itself forcefully in his side, white hot pain shooting up his torso and down his leg. As he stumbles backward, he presses a hand against his flank, fingers curling around the arrow still rooted in his flesh. ]

You wretch, that hurts!

[ Any smart person would know they've been bested by this point. Astarion has never been smart. Still holding his injured side, he shambles forward, waving the sword one-handed, sloppy. With a haphazard thrust, he aims for Iorveth's side, tit for tat. ]

The point of a stabbing, [ Iorveth grunts, ] is that it hurts.

[ To the tune of "you absolute fucking doofus". Derision that's short-lived, however, considering that Astarion is still in possession of a lethal weapon that is, in fact, aimed at his side, now.

Iorveth "fuck" count: 3. This one is spoken, snapped between his teeth as he sways on his feet and tries to sidestep the incoming lunge. It's also the correct sentiment to verbalize, given that he miscalculates the range and trajectory of the attack: he both overestimates and underestimates Astarion's finesse, and winds up managing to dodge, but not dodge enough.

In short, the blow lands. The sword doesn't embed itself in Iorveth's side, but it does cut a good centimeter into his waist, leaving a horizontal line that starts to bleed very profusely onto his shirt, down his pant leg, onto his boot. ]

Fuck.

[ The "fuck" counter is climbing. Iorveth takes a staggering step backwards, slapping one palm over the wound with his molars grit tight; thank the Gods he has incredibly high pain tolerance. ]

[ Astarion reels at the fresh blood soaking Iorveth's shirt, for a brief moment swaying forward as if to follow him back before he stumbles away, too, tossing aside the sword so he can properly clutch his own wound. It's for the best. Any more slashing and hacking, and he'll be salivating like a hungry dog. Or worse, biting like one. He imagines Iorveth wouldn't respond well to nibbling without asking.

He presses his back up against a tree, sliding down it with a wince until he's on the grass. ]

Who won?

[ An important question, when an arrowhead is pressed up against one's spleen. ]

[ "We both lost", Iorveth wants to say, but it would be an anticlimactic end to an already stupid situation, so: ]

The one who drew first blood.

[ Which would be Astarion, despite the arrow sticking out from his side. A wince, and Iorveth follows him towards the tree, kneeling in front of him with some effort. Very un-Cazador of him, Iorveth figures, but he doubts Astarion is keeping track anymore. ]

Congratulations. [ Wryly, as he gestures for Astarion to relinquish his hold on the arrow's wooden shaft. ] You've earned your mending.

[ Iorveth's got at least one or two Cure Wounds in him, and he'll give one to Astarion if he'll sit still and trust him with it. What a nightmare. ]

[ To tend to someone else before himself is incredibly stupid, but Astarion is nothing if not selfish, so he keeps that thought to himself in the interest of dulling this awful pain. He withdraws his hands from the arrow, shaking slightly, not out of nervousness but out of adrenaline. The rush is just about the only thing keeping the pain bearable. He wonders if Iorveth is hurting this much, too, and pettily hopes that he is. ]

All of that grandstanding about cruelty, and you were all too happy to stab me.

[ He asked for it. He's going to complain anyway. ]

[ Iorveth, who prides himself on being able to mute most of his kneejerk responses to people saying stupid things in his presence, can't entirely dull the "hello????? what?????" response that bubbles up from the bottom of his gut.

Curling his fingers around the hilt of the arrow and pulling it out in one viciously efficient tug: ] Because you gleefully announced that you had no intention of playing fair. [ In short, "fuck around and find out". Not a nice thing to say after stabbing a hole in someone's side, but Iorveth is, at least, making quick moves to press his palm against that injury and start murmuring the beginnings of his healing spell. ] Stop whining, you'll give me a headache.

[ He already has one. The pain in his shoulder and his side is yelling for his attention, but his first te curo is, foolishly, for Astarion's benefit. That familiar sunbeam-warmth, like sleeping on a sunlit patch of grass. ]

Hells! [ he shouts as Iorveth rips the arrow from his flesh, gritting his teeth. The wound starts to bleed instantly, wetting through his shirt, although Iorveth's hand somewhat stems the flow. He presses his hand down over Iorveth's, adding pressure.

As the magic infuses into his wound, stitching it up bit by bit, his muscles slowly relax. An arrow in the side is vicious enough that a simple healing spell doesn't mend it entirely, but the bleeding stops, and it leaves behind only a shallow wound, just a fraction of what it used to be. His gaze drops to Iorveth's hand against his side, the tear in his shirt, the red staining the fabric. ]

I liked this shirt.

[ Having someone mend a wound doesn't negate the fact that it was made in the first place, and Iorveth isn't proud of having stuck an arrow in Astarion's side. The hole stitches up, but leaves a still-broken patch of skin that should be looked at later by a proper cleric. Iorveth's frown lingers as he grunts and shifts to tend to his own split-open waist. ]

Next time you invite someone to kill you, wear a shirt you like less.

[ Soft light, slow healing. They both look like they've just been on the wrong end of a fight to the death with a wild animal, when the reality is just that they've been slapfighting each other in the dead of night. ]

Are you satisfied?

[ Iorveth poses the sullen question as he gives up on doing anything more to his cut, which is now mostly closed. This entire thing was to give Astarion... confidence? A win under his belt? A way to blow off steam? One can only hope that something was achieved here, even if that something is as petty as contentment upon making Iorveth bleed. ]

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