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.