[The thing about Astarion is: he’s old. Well. Comparatively, anyway, considering the lifespan of creatures in Thedas— barring either Corypheus or Elder Gods or whatnot. And while his life in Faerûn had been uniquely isolating, when the whole of your world is comprised of endless mockery and crushing cruelty, one tends to build up the thickest of skin, immune entirely to—
Immune—
Oh Astarion.
Circling exactly as he’s boxed in (though it’s a nimble feat outside of the occasional step where he leans too heavily on the edges of his heels), fangs flashing in a vicious smirk at that goading remark, hunger lit like a flame behind his eyes. Eager to prove his own proficiency— his senses alight with the faint scent of blood in the air, like a shark smelling prey; he doesn’t think when he lunges, only moves, blade outstretched in a darting plunge that’d surely, actually stab his own beloved compatriot if not for the sudden flash of fading blue that gives way to nothing.
And then he feels something rip.
Whirling on his heel in the very next beat, Astarion hisses through his daggered fangs, expression painted in indignance:] That’s cheating!
Oh you filthy thing. [A cut now settled high across his arm, just along the curve of his own shoulder, dark fabric having given way to flash a rich line of welling red.
It stings, of course, but that’s all part of the thrill.]
I should’ve guessed you’d be too nervous to fight me without all that lyrium spurring you along. [Another lunge, harsher this time. Wilder swipes and less defensive movements, all quick— laced with snarling, rough-cut laughter.
And he loses track after a point: who’s struck whom, how many times or just how deep some of those nagging little cuts run, but it’s freeing— so impossibly freeing— to just let loose on undriven instinct alone.
But he doesn’t want to tire, he wants to win. It means that somewhere along the way, he makes a move for Fenris’ throat with his blade. Not to cut, only to threaten. A checkmate, of sorts.]
no subject
Immune—
Oh Astarion.
Circling exactly as he’s boxed in (though it’s a nimble feat outside of the occasional step where he leans too heavily on the edges of his heels), fangs flashing in a vicious smirk at that goading remark, hunger lit like a flame behind his eyes. Eager to prove his own proficiency— his senses alight with the faint scent of blood in the air, like a shark smelling prey; he doesn’t think when he lunges, only moves, blade outstretched in a darting plunge that’d surely, actually stab his own beloved compatriot if not for the sudden flash of fading blue that gives way to nothing.
And then he feels something rip.
Whirling on his heel in the very next beat, Astarion hisses through his daggered fangs, expression painted in indignance:] That’s cheating!
Oh you filthy thing. [A cut now settled high across his arm, just along the curve of his own shoulder, dark fabric having given way to flash a rich line of welling red.
It stings, of course, but that’s all part of the thrill.]
I should’ve guessed you’d be too nervous to fight me without all that lyrium spurring you along. [Another lunge, harsher this time. Wilder swipes and less defensive movements, all quick— laced with snarling, rough-cut laughter.
And he loses track after a point: who’s struck whom, how many times or just how deep some of those nagging little cuts run, but it’s freeing— so impossibly freeing— to just let loose on undriven instinct alone.
But he doesn’t want to tire, he wants to win. It means that somewhere along the way, he makes a move for Fenris’ throat with his blade. Not to cut, only to threaten. A checkmate, of sorts.]