You're planted as solidly as you can manage in the sand, which isn't very. Kirkwall's coast isn't exactly the best place for a fight, but beggars can't be choosers. Sweat drips down your temple, mercifully avoiding your eyes. It's irritating, tugging at the fringes of your attention, as insistent as an itch that demands to be scratched. You ignore it. Taking even a split second to wipe it away would result in a mistake that, while not actually fatal, would at least be very, very painful.
After all: Isabela never holds back in these competitions.
Reddened lines are raised all over your body, a testament to that very fact. The blades Isabela wields are deliberately dulled, just as your sword is, but that doesn't mean she doesn't strike with every bit of strength she has. Once the adrenaline wears off, your body will have a hefty list of complaints to offer, bruises and minor cuts and aches that sink all the way down to your bones, but that's for later.
Your eyes are locked on her. She's beautiful, you think. It's a split-second thought, a faint flicker, but it's there. She's beautiful like this, sweat gleaming on her dark skin, her hair all lit up by the twilight sun she's strategically put behind her. She's crouching a little ways away, her body thrumming with taut energy. She's grinning, but there's nothing but hard concentration in her golden eyes. You're both waiting for that split-second in which you might have the advantage, knowing one another well enough to know that a straight strike won't work.
"Sweep him off his feet!" a blond man calls from the sidelines. He leans up against a staff, watching the show with no small amount of amusement. Anders prefers playing healer afterwards, healing bruises and soothing minor injuries, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy the show. They all of them are skilled fighters, but sometimes it's nice to see who rises to the top. "He's on his last legs, finish the job!"
"Don't count him out yet, Blondie," the dwarf next to him chides. Their voices tug at the fringes of your attention, but only just. Whatever happens next will happen soon, and you can't afford to be the least bit distracted. Their audience, who have no such concerns, continue to talk anyway. "He's just getting warmed up. You think that claymore is for show? One solid hit and he'll take it."
She's panting hard from exertion, and it's inappropriate, maybe, but for just one moment your eyes flick down. She wears an incredibly low-cut tunic, her breasts constantly half-out, and you can't help what you're attracted to. You can't help but notice the really interesting way her chest moves as she catches her breath.
It's only a second's inattention.
It's a second too long.
All at once Isabela is a blur of movement, blades flashing and a shout from their friends. You bring up your sword, swinging frantically, but it's far too late: one knife glances off the blade, steel skittering against steel, as her legs come flying. There's the pressure of muscles seizing and you have half a moment to think oh no before the world blurs and suddenly—
Oof!
— you're flat on your back. She's on you a second later, kicking your sword away as she pins you in place. A knife's edge presses to your throat, and you tip your head up instinctively. A blade is a blade, dulled or not.
"Yield," she tells you. It isn't a request, for all that she's grinning at you. "Or I'll have to cut your throat, and that would be such a shame after all this, sweetling."
And it's not the right time at all, but still you can't help but smile. She really is beautiful, though it isn't her body you're looking at right now. Rather: you stare at the whole of her, the entirety. Brilliant and bright and deadly, and you have never once met anyone who embodied freedom like she does. She answers to no one; she chains herself to nothing. She looks at a mutilated slave and does not pity you, but rather gleefully takes advantage of your distraction, because she looks at you as an equal. Not better, not worse. Not a pitiable creature or a threat, but just a man.
You love her. Not romantically, but the way you love all your companions. You love them even when they annoy you; even when you find them idiotic and foolish, high off their own fumes, eagerly plunging themselves into the wrong choices. You love her and you love them, because they are yours, and you in turn are theirs. No matter what happens, no matter what insanity this city throws at you all, you have become a family.
"Yield," you say, and you do not mind the friendly laughter as she helps you to your feet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
IV, Isabela
After all: Isabela never holds back in these competitions.
Reddened lines are raised all over your body, a testament to that very fact. The blades Isabela wields are deliberately dulled, just as your sword is, but that doesn't mean she doesn't strike with every bit of strength she has. Once the adrenaline wears off, your body will have a hefty list of complaints to offer, bruises and minor cuts and aches that sink all the way down to your bones, but that's for later.
Your eyes are locked on her. She's beautiful, you think. It's a split-second thought, a faint flicker, but it's there. She's beautiful like this, sweat gleaming on her dark skin, her hair all lit up by the twilight sun she's strategically put behind her. She's crouching a little ways away, her body thrumming with taut energy. She's grinning, but there's nothing but hard concentration in her golden eyes. You're both waiting for that split-second in which you might have the advantage, knowing one another well enough to know that a straight strike won't work.
"Sweep him off his feet!" a blond man calls from the sidelines. He leans up against a staff, watching the show with no small amount of amusement. Anders prefers playing healer afterwards, healing bruises and soothing minor injuries, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy the show. They all of them are skilled fighters, but sometimes it's nice to see who rises to the top. "He's on his last legs, finish the job!"
"Don't count him out yet, Blondie," the dwarf next to him chides. Their voices tug at the fringes of your attention, but only just. Whatever happens next will happen soon, and you can't afford to be the least bit distracted. Their audience, who have no such concerns, continue to talk anyway. "He's just getting warmed up. You think that claymore is for show? One solid hit and he'll take it."
She's panting hard from exertion, and it's inappropriate, maybe, but for just one moment your eyes flick down. She wears an incredibly low-cut tunic, her breasts constantly half-out, and you can't help what you're attracted to. You can't help but notice the really interesting way her chest moves as she catches her breath.
It's only a second's inattention.
It's a second too long.
All at once Isabela is a blur of movement, blades flashing and a shout from their friends. You bring up your sword, swinging frantically, but it's far too late: one knife glances off the blade, steel skittering against steel, as her legs come flying. There's the pressure of muscles seizing and you have half a moment to think oh no before the world blurs and suddenly—
Oof!
— you're flat on your back. She's on you a second later, kicking your sword away as she pins you in place. A knife's edge presses to your throat, and you tip your head up instinctively. A blade is a blade, dulled or not.
"Yield," she tells you. It isn't a request, for all that she's grinning at you. "Or I'll have to cut your throat, and that would be such a shame after all this, sweetling."
And it's not the right time at all, but still you can't help but smile. She really is beautiful, though it isn't her body you're looking at right now. Rather: you stare at the whole of her, the entirety. Brilliant and bright and deadly, and you have never once met anyone who embodied freedom like she does. She answers to no one; she chains herself to nothing. She looks at a mutilated slave and does not pity you, but rather gleefully takes advantage of your distraction, because she looks at you as an equal. Not better, not worse. Not a pitiable creature or a threat, but just a man.
You love her. Not romantically, but the way you love all your companions. You love them even when they annoy you; even when you find them idiotic and foolish, high off their own fumes, eagerly plunging themselves into the wrong choices. You love her and you love them, because they are yours, and you in turn are theirs. No matter what happens, no matter what insanity this city throws at you all, you have become a family.
"Yield," you say, and you do not mind the friendly laughter as she helps you to your feet.