[He has the audacity to laugh as he dances out of the way of those wild slashes— skilled, surely, and they'd slice him right open if there was any of him available to swipe. Fenris leans in, still invisible, murmuring too closely near the back of his neck:]
Does this have rules, Astarion? You ought to have said.
[Away, away, and he reappears, grinning outright. Another slash, and Astarion gets him twice more: once a nick against his side, the tip of the blade snagging into skin and tearing, a bloody wound that looks worse than it is; a slice to his arm, blade sinking through skin, muscle, blood making his shirt stick to his body, and he doesn't actually notice that one, too intent on their fight. Blades flash through the air, glinting in moonlight, and he laughs at one point, adrenaline coursing through his veins and all of him on fire.
This is bliss. This right here, fighting without a single thought in his head, the danger so terribly real and yet safe all at once . . . he loves it. He could do this all night, and the best part is they will. Hunting down slaver scum or some idiotic gang, oh, he is such a violent thing, when all is said and done. Bred into his bones, tangled into his soul, and he cannot help what brings him joy.
They move, dancing in such intricate patterns, til Fenris finds himself suddenly with his back to the wall, shoulderblades digging into crumbling clay and a blade kissing his throat. It doesn't slice, but oh, it comes close. Close enough he daren't swallow, for fear of nicking himself.]
Clever thing.
[But it's good Astarion kept his space. It's very good, for there's the sudden soft prick of a blade's tip against his stomach.]
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Does this have rules, Astarion? You ought to have said.
[Away, away, and he reappears, grinning outright. Another slash, and Astarion gets him twice more: once a nick against his side, the tip of the blade snagging into skin and tearing, a bloody wound that looks worse than it is; a slice to his arm, blade sinking through skin, muscle, blood making his shirt stick to his body, and he doesn't actually notice that one, too intent on their fight. Blades flash through the air, glinting in moonlight, and he laughs at one point, adrenaline coursing through his veins and all of him on fire.
This is bliss. This right here, fighting without a single thought in his head, the danger so terribly real and yet safe all at once . . . he loves it. He could do this all night, and the best part is they will. Hunting down slaver scum or some idiotic gang, oh, he is such a violent thing, when all is said and done. Bred into his bones, tangled into his soul, and he cannot help what brings him joy.
They move, dancing in such intricate patterns, til Fenris finds himself suddenly with his back to the wall, shoulderblades digging into crumbling clay and a blade kissing his throat. It doesn't slice, but oh, it comes close. Close enough he daren't swallow, for fear of nicking himself.]
Clever thing.
[But it's good Astarion kept his space. It's very good, for there's the sudden soft prick of a blade's tip against his stomach.]
And now what, hm?