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“If I’m not being too presumptuous.”
Ellis called him to assist in the construction of a chicken coop and hadn’t squeezed his head off his shoulders when he’d informed him of his betrayal of Masters Stark and Poppell-de Foncé. His confidence in the shape and nature of his classification in whatever rolodex of non-Wardens is absolute.
Because he can be merciful, particularly after having held Ellis’ feet to a very small but also very persistent fire, he adds (as he pours) a more concrete: “Yes.”
Ellis called him to assist in the construction of a chicken coop and hadn’t squeezed his head off his shoulders when he’d informed him of his betrayal of Masters Stark and Poppell-de Foncé. His confidence in the shape and nature of his classification in whatever rolodex of non-Wardens is absolute.
Because he can be merciful, particularly after having held Ellis’ feet to a very small but also very persistent fire, he adds (as he pours) a more concrete: “Yes.”
Ellis' hand draws down the knobby arch of Thot's spine as her toes flex against his chin.
"Alright."
In some ways, this was already a foregone conclusion. Ellis considered Richard a friend. If he hadn't, Ellis might have granted his request already. It's still a hard thing to consign someone to, but Ellis knows it comes easier with near strangers.
You never answered my question goes unspoken. Maybe Richard stalling at consider rather than yes, of course I would cut your throat is it's own kind of answer. Or drawing that conclusion is a presumption.
"Thank you."
In recognition of having been given this piece of information apropos of nothing. A measure of unearned trust.
"Alright."
In some ways, this was already a foregone conclusion. Ellis considered Richard a friend. If he hadn't, Ellis might have granted his request already. It's still a hard thing to consign someone to, but Ellis knows it comes easier with near strangers.
You never answered my question goes unspoken. Maybe Richard stalling at consider rather than yes, of course I would cut your throat is it's own kind of answer. Or drawing that conclusion is a presumption.
"Thank you."
In recognition of having been given this piece of information apropos of nothing. A measure of unearned trust.
Extremely optimistic.
But that suits Astarion just fine. Same as that affectionate little tap to his elbow that leaves his own toothy smirk a little wider. A little more slanted.
He chases it with an adoring chuckle— and then steps backwards onto the lift, almost disappearing entirely in the shadows cast by its surrounding shaft.
Apparently he intends to get started early on the whole ‘Ellis' invisible shadow’ role.
"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."
But that suits Astarion just fine. Same as that affectionate little tap to his elbow that leaves his own toothy smirk a little wider. A little more slanted.
He chases it with an adoring chuckle— and then steps backwards onto the lift, almost disappearing entirely in the shadows cast by its surrounding shaft.
Apparently he intends to get started early on the whole ‘Ellis' invisible shadow’ role.
"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."
Having caught the intention, Ellis' response is limited to, "Aye," as the lift rattles to life and plunges them downward.
And there's only one minor backwards glance when the lift clatters to a stop, a slight grin flashed to Astarion before he squares his shoulders and sets out at a brisk walk.
He has some idea of where he's going. There are still things to obtain in Darktown, even if it's only a gathering of Deathroot to be turned over to the appropriate parties to be converted into poison. The secondary benefit is for Astarion. Nothing shifts immediately, but the narrowing of attention on Ellis becomes a palpable thing. Ellis is visibly unarmed. Brawny and tall, certainly, but the odds of one man on his own without armor or weapon against armed men lacking morals are not promising.
It's theoretically Astarion's decision: wait until trouble arrives, or pick off the circling vultures as they line themselves into formations.
And there's only one minor backwards glance when the lift clatters to a stop, a slight grin flashed to Astarion before he squares his shoulders and sets out at a brisk walk.
He has some idea of where he's going. There are still things to obtain in Darktown, even if it's only a gathering of Deathroot to be turned over to the appropriate parties to be converted into poison. The secondary benefit is for Astarion. Nothing shifts immediately, but the narrowing of attention on Ellis becomes a palpable thing. Ellis is visibly unarmed. Brawny and tall, certainly, but the odds of one man on his own without armor or weapon against armed men lacking morals are not promising.
It's theoretically Astarion's decision: wait until trouble arrives, or pick off the circling vultures as they line themselves into formations.
Silas certainly seems to believe the issue resolved, past the catch of friction to a pause before he lifts the cup to drink from it -- as if he’s sensed he’s missed something, but isn’t sure what. It hasn’t occurred to him that there might be another reason for him to punch a knife through Ellis’ jugular, beyond his previous expression of disappointment over his ongoing existence.
An exchange he was asked to forget about.
He must feel very strongly to have brought it up again on his own.
“Mm,” he says, instead of you’re welcome. And at least in clear part due to the wine being better than he expected. “I’d have mentioned it before, but it's never seemed important.”
An exchange he was asked to forget about.
He must feel very strongly to have brought it up again on his own.
“Mm,” he says, instead of you’re welcome. And at least in clear part due to the wine being better than he expected. “I’d have mentioned it before, but it's never seemed important.”
Edited 2021-08-29 03:35 (UTC)
The bigger the score, the more fun the ensuing chaos. Astarion waits, biding his time, watching skulking shadows gather as they discreetly coast along in Ellis' wake. He's no shivering grandmother, nor sickly child clutching a purseful of coins, but even the strong on their own are someone's prey: rats will swarm to sink their teeth into a larger meal.
It's only when the street hooks in a twisting curve that the gathered flock shows their hand in blocking Ellis' exit: a sturdy trio altogether, only one of the pack is leaner and longer, hunched forward to hide the fact that he doesn't quite match up in silhouette to the others. Not that it matters, they can preen and posture all they like, but the moment they tip their hand by growling out the fact that Ellis has stepped onto their turf, that's the moment Astarion lunges like a cat from shadow— claws outstretched in twin daggers, both plunging into the meat of the nearest thug's side, and eliciting a howl of agony.
The scrawnier vermin, startled by it, seems more inclined to leap back than help his own kin. The third, however, a flat-faced grunt only owing to the fact that he looks as though his nose has been broken more than a few times with almost startling effectiveness, takes his outrage to Ellis instead, bull-rushing forward with only his fists as a weapon.
Might be a good time to stall for time, Ellis. However you can.
It's only when the street hooks in a twisting curve that the gathered flock shows their hand in blocking Ellis' exit: a sturdy trio altogether, only one of the pack is leaner and longer, hunched forward to hide the fact that he doesn't quite match up in silhouette to the others. Not that it matters, they can preen and posture all they like, but the moment they tip their hand by growling out the fact that Ellis has stepped onto their turf, that's the moment Astarion lunges like a cat from shadow— claws outstretched in twin daggers, both plunging into the meat of the nearest thug's side, and eliciting a howl of agony.
The scrawnier vermin, startled by it, seems more inclined to leap back than help his own kin. The third, however, a flat-faced grunt only owing to the fact that he looks as though his nose has been broken more than a few times with almost startling effectiveness, takes his outrage to Ellis instead, bull-rushing forward with only his fists as a weapon.
Might be a good time to stall for time, Ellis. However you can.
"But it's important now?"
Not that Ellis needs or even wants to know. It's not his business. He hadn't pressed Tony, and he doesn't care to press Richard. Silas.
He'll have his reasons. Ellis has known him long enough to know that he doesn't do things ildy. Silas will have a reason. Even when Ellis disagrees with them, he appreciates that quality in him.
Not that Ellis needs or even wants to know. It's not his business. He hadn't pressed Tony, and he doesn't care to press Richard. Silas.
He'll have his reasons. Ellis has known him long enough to know that he doesn't do things ildy. Silas will have a reason. Even when Ellis disagrees with them, he appreciates that quality in him.
“If you die alone in Weisshaupt, I’d like you to know who you have to blame.”
Silas says so very reasonably, as he also has a way of doing. There’s an affectionate resignation to the otherwise chilly grip of his reproach in a look.
Silas says so very reasonably, as he also has a way of doing. There’s an affectionate resignation to the otherwise chilly grip of his reproach in a look.
A half-smile, his hand curling at the nape of Thot's neck.
"I'm not going to die alone in Weisshaupt."
There will most certainly be a great number of other Wardens in attendance, if such a fate came to pass.
But before Silas can argue the point, a discussion Ellis is very uninterested in pursuing, he continues, "My family name was Ginsberg."
"I'm not going to die alone in Weisshaupt."
There will most certainly be a great number of other Wardens in attendance, if such a fate came to pass.
But before Silas can argue the point, a discussion Ellis is very uninterested in pursuing, he continues, "My family name was Ginsberg."
Instinct momentarily overrides the specifics of this exercise. Ellis meets his attacker with a fist to the jaw before he recalls that he's meant to be bait.
It does buy him some time regardless, sending his assailant staggering a few steps backwards. Any other denizens of Darktown have fled. Even the hollow-faced third party to their attackers is wavering a few farther steps away. If Ellis has judged him correctly, he's waiting to see which way the fight tips.
There's a splattering of blood across pavement, a mark of Astarion's handiwork, but the unfortunate, now-leaking individual is still upright.
"Mind your right," he calls to Astarion, weaving backwards in anticipation of a second attempt by the third, burly attacker. His jaw is swelling, and Ellis is unarmed, unarmored, and the responsible party. Unlikely he shifts his attention to a more challenging target.
It does buy him some time regardless, sending his assailant staggering a few steps backwards. Any other denizens of Darktown have fled. Even the hollow-faced third party to their attackers is wavering a few farther steps away. If Ellis has judged him correctly, he's waiting to see which way the fight tips.
There's a splattering of blood across pavement, a mark of Astarion's handiwork, but the unfortunate, now-leaking individual is still upright.
"Mind your right," he calls to Astarion, weaving backwards in anticipation of a second attempt by the third, burly attacker. His jaw is swelling, and Ellis is unarmed, unarmored, and the responsible party. Unlikely he shifts his attention to a more challenging target.
That claps some of the shade off him -- mid-swallow, even, a small sip turned into a longer pull, his brow furrowed in the vacuum of whatever technicality he’d intended to disarm. Had he assumed Ellis didn’t have a family name?
It seemed as likely as any other explanation.
“Atheris,” he replies, compelled, for whatever reason, to keep things even.
Thot closes her eyes, piano wire muscle abuzz with her purr under the velvet of her hide.
It seemed as likely as any other explanation.
“Atheris,” he replies, compelled, for whatever reason, to keep things even.
Thot closes her eyes, piano wire muscle abuzz with her purr under the velvet of her hide.
There is, as ever, the urge to draw a line after the admission. This can go no further. But he thinks Silas understands that. Ellis has not spent nearly three years in this place without disclosing the information for it to be circulated.
Of all people Ellis has met here, Silas is one for an appreciation of holding information close to the chest.
"Silas Atheris," Ellis repeats back, familiarizing himself. "Alright."
Alright ringing to the tune of thank you.
Of all people Ellis has met here, Silas is one for an appreciation of holding information close to the chest.
"Silas Atheris," Ellis repeats back, familiarizing himself. "Alright."
Alright ringing to the tune of thank you.
“Alright,” Silas agrees.
He has other questions, but none that need asking in immediacy. There’s a more thoughtful weight to his quiet in contemplation all the same -- curiosity folded up and filed away for later.
“When should I be prepared to travel?”
He has other questions, but none that need asking in immediacy. There’s a more thoughtful weight to his quiet in contemplation all the same -- curiosity folded up and filed away for later.
“When should I be prepared to travel?”
"Three days," Ellis says, and, by way of explanation, "My armor should be repaired by then."
And it's enough time to see to any number of minor chores, make arrangements for his chickens, be sure the Hightown house is not in position to be consumed by an ambitious science experiment in his absence.
His hand smooths down Thot's arched spine, before he lifts her onto the table.
"I should go."
As he has run out of distractions for the day, and they shouldn't tempt fate.
And it's enough time to see to any number of minor chores, make arrangements for his chickens, be sure the Hightown house is not in position to be consumed by an ambitious science experiment in his absence.
His hand smooths down Thot's arched spine, before he lifts her onto the table.
"I should go."
As he has run out of distractions for the day, and they shouldn't tempt fate.
Thot’s legs hang useless as she’s lifted, and languish loose in their joints where he tries to place her, so that Ellis must lay her down on her side like a broken doll. Silas looks on, briefly distant in his disapproval, wine in hand. He does not prompt her to behave.
“Of course,” he says. The door is open.
Not technically, technically it’s closed. They’ve been over this already. Reluctant instinct sees him up on his feet, wine and all, to cross for the door first.
“I’ll bring mine as well.”
“Of course,” he says. The door is open.
Not technically, technically it’s closed. They’ve been over this already. Reluctant instinct sees him up on his feet, wine and all, to cross for the door first.
“I’ll bring mine as well.”
"That's wise."
Maybe Ellis is thinking again of the shrike in the dream. Maybe not. The roads are dangerous regardless, and armor won't go amiss.
As he stands, he gives Thot a last pet, a light chuck beneath her chin. Sprawling across the table in such a fashion cannot be so comfortable, but Ellis leaves her to it as he follows Silas towards the door.
"Thank you for the hospitality," is a little like a joke, some dredged up bit of manners from when Ellis was a functioning person who acknowledged such things regularly.
Maybe Ellis is thinking again of the shrike in the dream. Maybe not. The roads are dangerous regardless, and armor won't go amiss.
As he stands, he gives Thot a last pet, a light chuck beneath her chin. Sprawling across the table in such a fashion cannot be so comfortable, but Ellis leaves her to it as he follows Silas towards the door.
"Thank you for the hospitality," is a little like a joke, some dredged up bit of manners from when Ellis was a functioning person who acknowledged such things regularly.
“I brought you here under duress.”
...Is an easy reminder, joke or no, coupled with a dry glance as Silas opens the door and steps aside. He’s glad they could come to an understanding.
“I’ll be ready in three days.”
He waits for Ellis to step out to say so, eyes keen until they’re closed away behind the crack. Somehow this alone imparts the impression that he might be scarce to find for the purpose of renegotiation over the next 72 hours.
...Is an easy reminder, joke or no, coupled with a dry glance as Silas opens the door and steps aside. He’s glad they could come to an understanding.
“I’ll be ready in three days.”
He waits for Ellis to step out to say so, eyes keen until they’re closed away behind the crack. Somehow this alone imparts the impression that he might be scarce to find for the purpose of renegotiation over the next 72 hours.
He has to yank his blades loose to avoid the elbow that rushes back, nearly taking out his own pristine profile. A fresh spattering of Dragon-Age style blood floods the earth from the momentum of it, Astarion twisting like a snake to leap in again, daggers boring into either shoulder like anchors.
He’s elated. Thriving on the heady blood rush that comes with the scent of iron. The shudder of muscle and sinew when he pounces. Fearsome. Powerful.
Or at least in his mind, he is.
Maybe to the man he picks apart now, too. As for the one that squares off with Ellis, however, he’s had enough: reeling and furious and swollen with pain, he yanks a knife from the lining of his shirt, and closes the distance with it as surely as he’s able to.
He’s elated. Thriving on the heady blood rush that comes with the scent of iron. The shudder of muscle and sinew when he pounces. Fearsome. Powerful.
Or at least in his mind, he is.
Maybe to the man he picks apart now, too. As for the one that squares off with Ellis, however, he’s had enough: reeling and furious and swollen with pain, he yanks a knife from the lining of his shirt, and closes the distance with it as surely as he’s able to.
The challenge: keeping Astarion in his sight while simultaneously avoiding an incoming knife.
It's almost successful. The knife catches him along the left side as Ellis dodges back, that movement the only reason he ends up with a shallow slice rather than a deep gash. Fighting bare-handed is not one of Ellis' primary skills, but it is a skill. And it's sufficient to avoid felling this man while still doling out some retribution.
Ducking beneath the second strike, he lands three heavy blows to the ribs. It's only partly meant to maneuver him in such a way so as Ellis can have both him and Astarion directly in his sight.
If it means this man's back is now to the greater threat in this altercation, well. Unfortunate for him.
It's almost successful. The knife catches him along the left side as Ellis dodges back, that movement the only reason he ends up with a shallow slice rather than a deep gash. Fighting bare-handed is not one of Ellis' primary skills, but it is a skill. And it's sufficient to avoid felling this man while still doling out some retribution.
Ducking beneath the second strike, he lands three heavy blows to the ribs. It's only partly meant to maneuver him in such a way so as Ellis can have both him and Astarion directly in his sight.
If it means this man's back is now to the greater threat in this altercation, well. Unfortunate for him.
Damn. Damn the bad luck of it.
These sorts of things will happen, of course, part of the unseemly nature of a fight: someone— anyone— could get unlucky well before anything could possibly be done to stop it. Astarion's sharp eyes can only see the damage for what it is at its simplest form: a hit, cutting along Ellis' left side. It could be pure adrenaline that keeps him standing, keeps him pummeling his adversary with keen vigor.
Until this is all over, Astarion can't be sure.
And it'd be a terrible nuisance to have to explain why a Grey Warden thought to strip himself of all his battlements in favor of taking a stroll in Darktown.
So he doubles his efforts. His ferocity. Whatever he can spare, which— well, is just about what he's already given. He's no Fenris, no Ellis. There's no raw power in him, only opportunity and speed, and the muscle-memory of what it was like when vampiric grace coursed through him like blood.
He abandons his current catch to assist, blades raised in either hand when they pull free of muscle, aimed for the span of that bared back. Broad. Easily struck. Within reach. His footing rocks forward, he can practically feel the strike already—
Only that's when their weaselly, previously unaccounted for adversary finally works up the nerve to step in: he's snared a single elven arm in both of his own, effectively killing the momentum where Astarion's nearly yanked back off his feet, heels skidding across dusty stone. The noise it pulls from him, half-choked, half-furious, might hopefully fly under the radar of the brawler Ellis is squaring off with.
Then again, it's always down to luck, isn't it.
These sorts of things will happen, of course, part of the unseemly nature of a fight: someone— anyone— could get unlucky well before anything could possibly be done to stop it. Astarion's sharp eyes can only see the damage for what it is at its simplest form: a hit, cutting along Ellis' left side. It could be pure adrenaline that keeps him standing, keeps him pummeling his adversary with keen vigor.
Until this is all over, Astarion can't be sure.
And it'd be a terrible nuisance to have to explain why a Grey Warden thought to strip himself of all his battlements in favor of taking a stroll in Darktown.
So he doubles his efforts. His ferocity. Whatever he can spare, which— well, is just about what he's already given. He's no Fenris, no Ellis. There's no raw power in him, only opportunity and speed, and the muscle-memory of what it was like when vampiric grace coursed through him like blood.
He abandons his current catch to assist, blades raised in either hand when they pull free of muscle, aimed for the span of that bared back. Broad. Easily struck. Within reach. His footing rocks forward, he can practically feel the strike already—
Only that's when their weaselly, previously unaccounted for adversary finally works up the nerve to step in: he's snared a single elven arm in both of his own, effectively killing the momentum where Astarion's nearly yanked back off his feet, heels skidding across dusty stone. The noise it pulls from him, half-choked, half-furious, might hopefully fly under the radar of the brawler Ellis is squaring off with.
Then again, it's always down to luck, isn't it.
It doesn't, but that turns out to be a boon for Ellis.
The man's head turns, seeking to assess threat or clock promising developments, and Ellis grabs a rotting wooden crate from atop a barrel and slaps him across the face with it.
A spray of splintered wood explodes through the air, possibly all over Astarion as much as the burly assailant in question staggers sideways. Ellis kicks one of his knees out, and spins to try and grab hold of Astarion and yank him free.
Tug of war, always a great development.
The man's head turns, seeking to assess threat or clock promising developments, and Ellis grabs a rotting wooden crate from atop a barrel and slaps him across the face with it.
A spray of splintered wood explodes through the air, possibly all over Astarion as much as the burly assailant in question staggers sideways. Ellis kicks one of his knees out, and spins to try and grab hold of Astarion and yank him free.
Tug of war, always a great development.
Oh, it's lovely. Exactly the way Astarion had hoped to spend his evening, in fact: pinned between a sturdy, handsome fighter and a lithe, dangerous-looking rogue— only without the minor detail of nearly being pulled apart by them.
There are splinters in his perfect curls, his footing nothing but show at this point, and what was supposed to be a graceful, glorious dance of death has now devolved into a rather stupid looking brawl in a dead end that reeks of fungus and filth. So. For the record, not one of his best nights.
Still, even as Astarion snarls and curses (insults intended for Ellis just as much as their enemies, apparently), Ellis is infinitely better suited for this than the narrow-bodied man clinging to Astarion's other arm: after a few moments of chaos, the thief lets go.
And if Ellis isn't quick enough on his feet, that means that he and Astarion both are going to— much like any rapidly ended game of tug-of-war— wind up veering backwards in a heap of limbs and lost balance.
There are splinters in his perfect curls, his footing nothing but show at this point, and what was supposed to be a graceful, glorious dance of death has now devolved into a rather stupid looking brawl in a dead end that reeks of fungus and filth. So. For the record, not one of his best nights.
Still, even as Astarion snarls and curses (insults intended for Ellis just as much as their enemies, apparently), Ellis is infinitely better suited for this than the narrow-bodied man clinging to Astarion's other arm: after a few moments of chaos, the thief lets go.
And if Ellis isn't quick enough on his feet, that means that he and Astarion both are going to— much like any rapidly ended game of tug-of-war— wind up veering backwards in a heap of limbs and lost balance.
So here's the thing: Ellis was not built for dexterity.
Had this been a matter of solely righting himself, it might have panned out well enough. Even if he hit the ground, he might have rolled onto his feet.
But with Astarion in the mix—
Well.
Yes, they go down. Yes, Astarion's weight lands on top of him. And yes, Ellis takes the bulk of the weight against the knife-slashed side of his body. The blast of pain draws out a groan, Ellis momentarily derailed from the business of getting them both on their feet.
Momentary disadvantage: acquired.
Had this been a matter of solely righting himself, it might have panned out well enough. Even if he hit the ground, he might have rolled onto his feet.
But with Astarion in the mix—
Well.
Yes, they go down. Yes, Astarion's weight lands on top of him. And yes, Ellis takes the bulk of the weight against the knife-slashed side of his body. The blast of pain draws out a groan, Ellis momentarily derailed from the business of getting them both on their feet.
Momentary disadvantage: acquired.
Astarion at least manages better in the grand scheme of things: not just in pain and its measurement, but in the swifter reflexes that have him— while Ellis reels under briefly singing pain— rushing to his feet in some guarded, snapping response, daggers already outstretched.
Splintered wood still clinging to dark clothes.
"I'm a blood mage," he snaps at the trio, a hurried bluff. One of them bleeding so profusely that he'll no doubt slump over dead if he isn't ferried to a healer in short order, the other skinnier one still gone gaunt with dogged wariness. It's the last that looks the most reluctant to turn tail and leave. The strongest, the tallest, the most dangerous of the pack.
"Come any closer, and it'll be a demon you're contending with."
The knifepoint in his hand glints. Astarion tilts it backwards, closer to his own wrist, red eyes glinting in low light.
It takes an excruciatingly long moment before they give up. Before the thinnest whispers something, and the wounded gurgles something, and with a resentful snarl that wicked band departs, slinking back into darkness.
Splintered wood still clinging to dark clothes.
"I'm a blood mage," he snaps at the trio, a hurried bluff. One of them bleeding so profusely that he'll no doubt slump over dead if he isn't ferried to a healer in short order, the other skinnier one still gone gaunt with dogged wariness. It's the last that looks the most reluctant to turn tail and leave. The strongest, the tallest, the most dangerous of the pack.
"Come any closer, and it'll be a demon you're contending with."
The knifepoint in his hand glints. Astarion tilts it backwards, closer to his own wrist, red eyes glinting in low light.
It takes an excruciatingly long moment before they give up. Before the thinnest whispers something, and the wounded gurgles something, and with a resentful snarl that wicked band departs, slinking back into darkness.
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