I’m being gentle you know. Sweet, even. [Pay attention to him, please.]
And besides, it’s unbearably boring scraping the dust out of rotted floorboards— I swear it’s almost as if Kirkwall generates it as quickly as I displace it.
Presumably, Ellis communicates where he might be found before tucking away his crystal.
And he is patiently sat on a low stone wall, watching the dealings of a small cluster of Marchers muttering together. Ellis has chosen the far side of Lowtown, where the city begins to slope downwards, where the lifts are located and operated. The observation of comings and goings has occupied him well enough while he waits for Astarion to arrive.
Astarion is there soon enough, just as promised, weaving through the dark like a cat prowling along the edge of a railing: one foot after the other, silent as the grave— it's almost a wonder how something paler than a sheet manages to blend into Lowtown so effortlessly.
A smile's flashed when he's near enough, lopsided and unsettling. He's bid farewell to the fine leather that'd adorned him before, trading it for a simple, loose shirt with an open collar, bandages still peeking out from beneath its edge.
"Yes," comes without any hesitation, as Ellis straightens up onto his feet from his slouch against the stone. "Are you whole enough to keep someone from sticking a knife into me?"
"Not to worry, I can do much more than just that."
He follows that eyeline downwards, patting featherlight at the edges of his shirt where it gives way to wrapping, lopsidedly smiling in the most effortless reassurance imaginable.
"Shocking as it is to hear, I'm something of a vain creature. And while you've seen some of my scars, I'd like to avoid adding more to my current repertoire."
In other words, he's simply making sure those last, clinging, now-shallow little marks fade without so much as a single scratch.
But he is reassured all the same. Nothing about Astarion has given Ellis the impression that he's the type to persevere through great injury.
"You're ready? Have what you need?"
A knife, presumably. All Ellis need do is present himself as bait, and has accordingly shed his breastplate. Does it do anything to paint him as an easy mark? Maybe, maybe not.
It's not exactly by-the-book, this routine of theirs. In fact, Astarion's fairly certain it's about as off the books as anything gets: Ellis sans visible defenses, strolling through unfriendly streets in order to draw out the worst the Kirkwall has to offer— and it has so much more than usual, as of late.
For Astarion, it's a gift. For Ellis, however...
"You're certain you won't get in trouble for this? After all, I...doubt it's what anyone had in mind when they sent you out here to play dutiful watchdog."
"It's unorthodox," Ellis concedes. "But if we're drawing attention here, it'll be lessen the chances anyone makes it over to bother the guards at the warehouse."
Perhaps the Commander had never considered that someone might take such a circular approach to their duty. If it all goes wrong, Ellis doubts the loophole will spark any kind of amusement.
"Me? Worried?" Almost gasped, fingertips fanning all the more across his collarbone in a feigned show of surprise— that bleeds neatly into a dark, predatory grin.
"Absolutely."
And then, another switch flipped, his tone suddenly light. Amused.
"Because if an axe happens to come down, I'm going to miss seeing that pretty little head of yours resting neatly on those shoulders when you take all the blame, like a true hero."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I’m being gentle you know. Sweet, even. [Pay attention to him, please.]
And besides, it’s unbearably boring scraping the dust out of rotted floorboards— I swear it’s almost as if Kirkwall generates it as quickly as I displace it.
I’m not meant for this kind of work.
no subject
[ riveting, surely ]
no subject
...that depends. Are there any miscreants about tonight?
Any dastardly villains in need of harsh handling?
no subject
[ Enticing. ]
We could walk through Darktown, if you like. If someone tries to stab me, you can make them regret the idea.
no subject
...and then you go and say the most charming things.
[In other words: yes, Ellis, he'd be delighted to.]
My house is in Lowtown. Give me a few minutes to finish up with these wretched floorboards, and I'll be there quick as you can blink.
backflips to action
And he is patiently sat on a low stone wall, watching the dealings of a small cluster of Marchers muttering together. Ellis has chosen the far side of Lowtown, where the city begins to slope downwards, where the lifts are located and operated. The observation of comings and goings has occupied him well enough while he waits for Astarion to arrive.
powerslides in
A smile's flashed when he's near enough, lopsided and unsettling. He's bid farewell to the fine leather that'd adorned him before, trading it for a simple, loose shirt with an open collar, bandages still peeking out from beneath its edge.
"Is this all you do for fun?"
no subject
The bandages have been noted.
no subject
He follows that eyeline downwards, patting featherlight at the edges of his shirt where it gives way to wrapping, lopsidedly smiling in the most effortless reassurance imaginable.
"Shocking as it is to hear, I'm something of a vain creature. And while you've seen some of my scars, I'd like to avoid adding more to my current repertoire."
In other words, he's simply making sure those last, clinging, now-shallow little marks fade without so much as a single scratch.
no subject
But he is reassured all the same. Nothing about Astarion has given Ellis the impression that he's the type to persevere through great injury.
"You're ready? Have what you need?"
A knife, presumably. All Ellis need do is present himself as bait, and has accordingly shed his breastplate. Does it do anything to paint him as an easy mark? Maybe, maybe not.
no subject
For Astarion, it's a gift. For Ellis, however...
"You're certain you won't get in trouble for this? After all, I...doubt it's what anyone had in mind when they sent you out here to play dutiful watchdog."
no subject
Perhaps the Commander had never considered that someone might take such a circular approach to their duty. If it all goes wrong, Ellis doubts the loophole will spark any kind of amusement.
"You're not worried, are you?"
no subject
"Absolutely."
And then, another switch flipped, his tone suddenly light. Amused.
"Because if an axe happens to come down, I'm going to miss seeing that pretty little head of yours resting neatly on those shoulders when you take all the blame, like a true hero."
no subject
Overly optimistic? Maybe.
His fist knocks lightly at Astarion's elbow as he tips his head towards the lift in silent invitation.
Well?
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
hovers bow over this thread menacingly
ties it for you