nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

Hm.

[ A thoughtful hum. He's not certain he's ever been satisfied in his life. This, like most things, was less gratifying than he'd hoped. It wasn't anywhere close to the same as a fight with Cazador; it was stupid of him to think Iorveth could compare to his greatest tormentor. He might have felt anger during the scrap, but he didn't feel hatred or fear. If he had, he wouldn't have wanted to stop at only wounding him.

He feels just as unprepared as he did before they came out here. It's disappointing. ]

Not particularly, no.

[ A moment passes before he shrugs, quipping insouciantly, ] But I suppose you do look good bleeding.

[ Iorveth sighs, the sound almost like a bloodletting of its own. ]

When it comes time to confront your actual enemy, you'll do better than this.

[ Gesturing to himself and the tattered remains of his red-stained shirt. Not exactly a pep talk, after all that's happened, but a reminder that Astarion has at least taken the initiative to do something about all the pent-up anxiety he's feeling.

He remains knelt on grass for a bit longer, catching his breath after all that pain. His shoulder has to remain unattended, but the dull throb there is an afterthought. It's stopped bleeding by now, anyway.

Offhandedly: ] All this blood, and none between your teeth.

[ He glances at Iorveth, eyes wary. Had he expected Astarion to bite him? It can't be any more harmful than swinging a sword at him, yet it feels far more taboo. He'd been warned off of their campmates' necks enough times, back when his secret first came out. There's still an inclination to present himself as a good vampire, downright domesticated, the type that's content filling up on villains and bunny rabbits.

Just as off-handed: ] I said I'd keep my teeth from your neck.

Mm. So you did.

[ A sidelong glance, looking Astarion up and down with his good eye. Despite the incredibly unsubtle way that Astarion revealed himself to be a vampire, everything he's done with his vampirism since then has been surprisingly well-moderated.

A way to differentiate himself from Cazador? Maybe. That's for Astarion to know, and Iorveth to only speculate. ]

But I expect you'd perform better in battle with a full stomach.

[ Astarion shifts against the tree, the bark of it scratching him through his shirt. Iorveth is right; he does perform better with blood in his stomach. He'd learned that quickly out in the wilds near the Grove, where goblins and woodland animals were plentiful enough to keep his hunger a low, nearly ignorable thrum.

Here in the Gate, even if he wanted to take a bite out of one of the cultists they fight, he couldn't without letting the whole city know they have a vampire among them. The last thing he needs is a group of angry civilians at the door of the Elfsong with torches and pitchforks. ]

Of course I would. That's why you fed me the first time, isn't it?

[ Not an accusation, just a statement of what he considers fact. ]

Are you offering to open your veins, then? [ A raised eyebrow. ] Selfless of you.

This might come as a surprise, especially after I just stabbed you, [ he says airily, with just the slightest tinge of irritation rasping at the ends of his syllables. ] But I would rather you not die.

[ A sentiment that Iorveth thinks he has expressed in passing a few times now, in varying levels of opacity. Maybe Astarion didn't get all of his coded memos, which is actually kind of fine in hindsight, all things considered. It mortifies Iorveth, still, the extent to which he doesn't love the idea of Astarion being subjected to more suffering; Astarion's not even Aen Seidhe, for Gods' sake.

He turns towards Astarion, one knee hiked and the other laid flat against the grass. ]

If we're to expect ambushes from your "family" in the future, you should be prepared to face them. And you should be in top form when facing Cazador, obviously. [ A wave of one hand, lightly dismissive despite the serious nature of his offer. ] We've already spoken about trust. I don't give it or my blood lightly, but you can have both until you finish what you set out to do.

[ It doesn't come as a surprise, which... comes as a surprise. He wouldn't have dragged Iorveth out here in the middle of the night unless he'd thought he felt some level of companionship for him. Maybe even some fondness, when he's not busy being irritated by everything Astarion does. He certainly didn't decide to trust Iorveth because of his sense of duty and responsibility. All that matters to Astarion is whether Iorveth will come through for him.

He notes the time limit placed on both Iorveth's confidence and his generosity. That's— all right, he supposes. What use will he have for things like trust once he's taken Cazador's place as the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate? ]

How very practical. [ Again: selfless of you. ] What will you expect in return?

[ Again: Iorveth would rather Astarion not die, but Gods, does he still want to strangle him every two minutes. He does everything but throw his hands up in the air, his single eye rolling as he huffs through his nose in obvious frustration. ]

What did I say about doubting my intentions.

[ As if he's talking to a child. Swaying forward, Iorveth plants himself in Astarion's space, easily breaching his personal bubble to get up in his face. No room for misunderstandings in this proximity, he hopes. ]

I'll not offer anything to you if you continue to interpret my goodwill as transactional. I can only endure that insult for so long.

[ A jab to Astarion's chest with an index, and Iorveth pulls away with another exhale. "So there." ]

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