[They're beautiful blades. Not because of the gemstones, although he's prepared to admit those please the eye. But there's something soul-sighingly-satisfying about a blade that's well cared for, and so it's that which he notices first: the sheen of oil along the metal, glistening in the candlelight. The proper sharpness of the edge, pricking warningly against the flat of his thumb as he cautiously tests it. There are daggers that are made purely for show, blades that sheen in rainbow hues that couldn't cut through paper, much less flesh, but this . . . oh, no. This is function and form all in one.

A warning, he thinks, setting the dagger back down, for the man opposite him.]

Says the cat to the wolf . . . no, I shall take my chances with your claws.

[Not just because he's reasonably certain he can dodge and weave to his heart's content, but because he doesn't want to delay this little spar. Besides: he doubts he'll end up stabbed. Cut, maybe, but what's a nick or two?

His sword, however . . . ah, that's a blade that means business. No better or worse than daggers when it comes to taking a life, but decidedly faster about it. One misjudged movement and Astarion might have a solid chunk ripped out of him, and that would be a rotten end to the night. Hm.

He glances up at him.]

But allow me use one of them as we spar. Knife to knife . . . and if I beat you anyway, Astarion, with a weapon that is not my primary choice, you shan't have room to brag to me for at least a month.

[Safety first, that's their motto tonight. And ah . . . he means that as a taunt, nothing else. A tease. Certainly nothing that should make his throat stick unexpectedly. He's not a child, it's not that he's losing his composure. It might well be due to the way his throat is burned from that cigarette. But it happens, and Fenris notices, a brief flash of awareness that he shoves away in the next instant.

(He just misses his friends, that's all).]