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.
no subject
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.