[So, objectively: this is a stupid idea. Sparring while tipsy is one thing; sparring while tipsy and dizzingly dazed off a drug he's never before tried is just courting disaster. Even with blunted blades, there's so many ways sparring can go wrong. Broken limbs or dull metal catching at the wrong angle, and it's not that Fenris can't afford a healer, but still, it's not a good idea to court danger. After all, he's only just gotten back to Kirkwall.
But maybe that's why the idea grips him. Because he has just gotten back to Kirkwall (and it is Kirkwall, not home, not anymore, and who knows if it will ever be home again?). Because he doesn't know anyone here anymore, and he is so, so aware of that right now. Everywhere he looks, he sees only ghosts, the echoes of people long since fled and nothing but bitter longing for a time he will never get back aching in his heart. He knows these streets, but then again he doesn't; he knows this city, except in all the ways he doesn't.
He does not want to think, not tonight. He does not want this card game to end and to watch as Astarion made polite motions to end their night and shoo Fenris away. He doesn't want to make that journey back up to Hightown, letting himself into an abandoned mansion, picking his way through the dark so he can crawl beneath cold sheets and drink himself into a miserable stupor, til at last he passes out and shivers his way through a lonely set of nightmares.]
Show me your blades.
[He sets his cards down, flashing a sharp grin, and reaches for the cigarette. One last hit, and oh, he's getting rather good at ignoring that burn.]
Do you have dulled ones, or are we to truly risk ourselves tonight?
no subject
But maybe that's why the idea grips him. Because he has just gotten back to Kirkwall (and it is Kirkwall, not home, not anymore, and who knows if it will ever be home again?). Because he doesn't know anyone here anymore, and he is so, so aware of that right now. Everywhere he looks, he sees only ghosts, the echoes of people long since fled and nothing but bitter longing for a time he will never get back aching in his heart. He knows these streets, but then again he doesn't; he knows this city, except in all the ways he doesn't.
He does not want to think, not tonight. He does not want this card game to end and to watch as Astarion made polite motions to end their night and shoo Fenris away. He doesn't want to make that journey back up to Hightown, letting himself into an abandoned mansion, picking his way through the dark so he can crawl beneath cold sheets and drink himself into a miserable stupor, til at last he passes out and shivers his way through a lonely set of nightmares.]
Show me your blades.
[He sets his cards down, flashing a sharp grin, and reaches for the cigarette. One last hit, and oh, he's getting rather good at ignoring that burn.]
Do you have dulled ones, or are we to truly risk ourselves tonight?