"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.
But it does the job, and drives off the threat. Ellis, straightening and slapping a hand onto Astarion's shoulder, steadies himself there are he watches them go. And then exhales hard, a sound close to a chuckle.
"Well done."
Easy praise. A good bluff is never misplaced, especially when the slide of the brawl had been sliding out of their favor.
His grip flexes on Astarion's shoulder involuntarily as he lifts a hand to his stomach, checking the slash there. Without an immediate threat, Ellis is reminded of injury. Shallow, far from serious. Ellis makes a little dismissive noise over it.
It is a lie. Not his best work, of course. A little rough-edged compared to his usual flair and form, but given the make of their opponents, it's hardly the end of the world.
"Thank you." He preens, chin tipping higher for a beat— until he smells the acidic tang of blood, and remembers the damage he'd never truly been able to appraise. His attention twists for it, the rest of him following that same tread, brow furrowing for a tepid beat as he tries to get a good look at it.
"Small price to pay for clearing the streets tonight, I suppose. Not that they won't come washing back in like the tide tomorrow."
"At least one of them will take a few days before he can wander anywhere."
They'd done some damage. There's that. And maybe this isn't the best use of Riftwatch resources, or even a productive use of their own energy, battering against something that will remain unchanged. But Ellis doesn't regret it.
There's a familiarity to it. Even the peeling up of blood-sodden fabric is familiar, the inspection of a wound sliced into his skin. Ellis shakes his head over it.
"It's nothing to worry about," Ellis says, though he has no real illusions about Astarion worrying over him. "A bandage, and some ice if I can find it. It'll hold me over once we get back."
“Brave lad.” Astarion says teasingly— clearly settled by the sight of something so very superficial despite the welling redness washed stark across Ellis' skin.
“But I suppose it won’t do to have you meandering about like that in search of a meager patch-up.” Or slithering back to dig up a medical kit, making the mishap all the more obvious to anyone that might be watching.
“My home isn’t far. Come with me, and we’ll clean you up better than any dishrag or chips of ice could possibly manage.”
It's a diversion from patrolling, true, but a brief intermission won't damage much by Astarion's estimates.
The offer is met with perhaps more consideration that necessary. A beat of hesitation, before Ellis drops the fabric of his tunic and nods.
"That's kind," Ellis tells him, with some amusement in his tone. Kindness, from Astarion. There's a possibility of an unforeseen string attached to it, but that's not enough to keep Ellis from following him back along the streets.
The travel is passed more or less quietly, with Ellis' first real contribution coming after they'd walked through the doorway.
"I hadn't realized you'd left the Gallows," Ellis offers. "It's cozy."
In which cozy stands in for any other number of things that might be said about the decor.
Kind, Ellis says, and it earns a disapproving snort from the otherwise silent companion at his side as they travel. A little mood music before he cracks open the heavy iron door (Kirkwall’s perpetual specialty) and ushers them both inside— already digging through a nearby box of clutter like a rodent in search of the bandaging kept on hand.
“Exactly the way I prefer my business: discreet. A surprise to the last drop.” Astarion agrees coolly, flexing a tepid grin as he pulls a length of clean gauze and a small pot of ointment free.
“But yes, cozier than a borrowed bunk in a high tower. Cozier than anything that doesn’t have my name attached to it— though trust me when I say it’ll get better in time.”
Because between the used objects, trinkets and what (some) might even consider useless trash, there are some clearly valuable odds and ends. Expensive. Maybe even rare.
But then when everything’s dumped in scattered heaps throughout, it doesn’t exactly inspire a sense of wonder.
“Now then, shirt up, darling. You can share a drink with me once it won’t come spilling right back out of that gash in your side.”
Taking advantage of Astarion's diverted attention, Ellis has found a surface to lean his weight against and observe the rummaging search from safe distance. One hand had migrated to set loosely against the cut, where blood has soaked splotchy into the fabric of his tunic. It's not the sort of cut that needs to be carefully handled, but without any impending threat, Ellis might nurse the dull ache a little more than he might have otherwise.
No impending threat beyond Astarion, of course, though Ellis' concerns are more removed from this moment.
"It's not that deep," Ellis repeats, a light protest bypassing the offer of a drink. Not exactly a rejection of the idea, though Ellis feels it catch in the back of his throat. Held there, as his hand falls away from the wound.
But there is still a moment of careful observation, Ellis studying Astarion's face, before he again peels the fabric of his tunic up to bare the injury.
"You might be more worried that there was poison on the blade," is a terrible joke.
“If it was, I’ll only be wasting good supplies.” Astarion puffs in turn as he moves nearer, finding some sort of unique amusement in the reversal of their prior roles: how it’d been Astarion, once before, who’d teased and sighed and promised his injuries were nothing to be mentioned— let alone fussed over.
Well. Good.
Another owed favor squared away, as it were.
He dips the gauze into the salve first, saturating it, before tucking it against the gash with deft care. The cold might make it awful regardless, between the ointment and Astarion’s own fingertips.
“But I’m sure if it comes down to you dropping dead somewhere else, I can just fleece your corpse to recoup my losses.”
A low hiss of pain is the only immediate reaction. Ellis draws in a breath and holds it for a moment, letting the first prickle of discomfort ease. He exhales, slow and measured, remaining still as Astarion's cool hand applies steady pressure.
The cold is not comfortable. But it's of some use. Ellis had no idea if he could manage ice from the Gallows kitchens, but this serves some of the same purpose. The cold helps.
"You'd be disappointed," Ellis cautions, mock-solemn. "I don't have much of interest on my person."
Other than his coin pouch, something Astarion already has a passing familiarity with.
“Yes yes I know, Grey Wardens. Poorest souls to ever exist.”
He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
Or maybe a true observation. Ellis has been hit often about the head and face. Tonight isn't a rare occurrence by any means, but he's kept all his teeth over the years. With all the things Wardens tend to lose along the way, Ellis has had some dubious kind of luck. All in one piece, even now.
For the most part.
"Keep your hand—"
The request breaks, Ellis' brow furrowing. It's a strange thing to ask. But this is a strange place to be, isn't it? He might have refused the offer and they'd both have had an easier night for it.
"The cold will keep the swelling down, while your ointment works."
An explanation, rather than a question. Astarion's chilly hands are not Ellis' business.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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?"
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"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."
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Overly optimistic? Maybe.
His fist knocks lightly at Astarion's elbow as he tips his head towards the lift in silent invitation.
Well?
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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(Perhaps. Who can say, with Astarion?)
But it does the job, and drives off the threat. Ellis, straightening and slapping a hand onto Astarion's shoulder, steadies himself there are he watches them go. And then exhales hard, a sound close to a chuckle.
"Well done."
Easy praise. A good bluff is never misplaced, especially when the slide of the brawl had been sliding out of their favor.
His grip flexes on Astarion's shoulder involuntarily as he lifts a hand to his stomach, checking the slash there. Without an immediate threat, Ellis is reminded of injury. Shallow, far from serious. Ellis makes a little dismissive noise over it.
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"Thank you." He preens, chin tipping higher for a beat— until he smells the acidic tang of blood, and remembers the damage he'd never truly been able to appraise. His attention twists for it, the rest of him following that same tread, brow furrowing for a tepid beat as he tries to get a good look at it.
"Small price to pay for clearing the streets tonight, I suppose. Not that they won't come washing back in like the tide tomorrow."
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They'd done some damage. There's that. And maybe this isn't the best use of Riftwatch resources, or even a productive use of their own energy, battering against something that will remain unchanged. But Ellis doesn't regret it.
There's a familiarity to it. Even the peeling up of blood-sodden fabric is familiar, the inspection of a wound sliced into his skin. Ellis shakes his head over it.
"It's nothing to worry about," Ellis says, though he has no real illusions about Astarion worrying over him. "A bandage, and some ice if I can find it. It'll hold me over once we get back."
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“But I suppose it won’t do to have you meandering about like that in search of a meager patch-up.” Or slithering back to dig up a medical kit, making the mishap all the more obvious to anyone that might be watching.
“My home isn’t far. Come with me, and we’ll clean you up better than any dishrag or chips of ice could possibly manage.”
It's a diversion from patrolling, true, but a brief intermission won't damage much by Astarion's estimates.
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"That's kind," Ellis tells him, with some amusement in his tone. Kindness, from Astarion. There's a possibility of an unforeseen string attached to it, but that's not enough to keep Ellis from following him back along the streets.
The travel is passed more or less quietly, with Ellis' first real contribution coming after they'd walked through the doorway.
"I hadn't realized you'd left the Gallows," Ellis offers. "It's cozy."
In which cozy stands in for any other number of things that might be said about the decor.
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“Exactly the way I prefer my business: discreet. A surprise to the last drop.” Astarion agrees coolly, flexing a tepid grin as he pulls a length of clean gauze and a small pot of ointment free.
“But yes, cozier than a borrowed bunk in a high tower. Cozier than anything that doesn’t have my name attached to it— though trust me when I say it’ll get better in time.”
Because between the used objects, trinkets and what (some) might even consider useless trash, there are some clearly valuable odds and ends. Expensive. Maybe even rare.
But then when everything’s dumped in scattered heaps throughout, it doesn’t exactly inspire a sense of wonder.
“Now then, shirt up, darling. You can share a drink with me once it won’t come spilling right back out of that gash in your side.”
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No impending threat beyond Astarion, of course, though Ellis' concerns are more removed from this moment.
"It's not that deep," Ellis repeats, a light protest bypassing the offer of a drink. Not exactly a rejection of the idea, though Ellis feels it catch in the back of his throat. Held there, as his hand falls away from the wound.
But there is still a moment of careful observation, Ellis studying Astarion's face, before he again peels the fabric of his tunic up to bare the injury.
"You might be more worried that there was poison on the blade," is a terrible joke.
But like, ha ha, right?
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“If it was, I’ll only be wasting good supplies.” Astarion puffs in turn as he moves nearer, finding some sort of unique amusement in the reversal of their prior roles: how it’d been Astarion, once before, who’d teased and sighed and promised his injuries were nothing to be mentioned— let alone fussed over.
Well. Good.
Another owed favor squared away, as it were.
He dips the gauze into the salve first, saturating it, before tucking it against the gash with deft care. The cold might make it awful regardless, between the ointment and Astarion’s own fingertips.
“But I’m sure if it comes down to you dropping dead somewhere else, I can just fleece your corpse to recoup my losses.”
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The cold is not comfortable. But it's of some use. Ellis had no idea if he could manage ice from the Gallows kitchens, but this serves some of the same purpose. The cold helps.
"You'd be disappointed," Ellis cautions, mock-solemn. "I don't have much of interest on my person."
Other than his coin pouch, something Astarion already has a passing familiarity with.
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He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
A pause, his lips pursing.
“Or teeth.”
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A joke?
Or maybe a true observation. Ellis has been hit often about the head and face. Tonight isn't a rare occurrence by any means, but he's kept all his teeth over the years. With all the things Wardens tend to lose along the way, Ellis has had some dubious kind of luck. All in one piece, even now.
For the most part.
"Keep your hand—"
The request breaks, Ellis' brow furrowing. It's a strange thing to ask. But this is a strange place to be, isn't it? He might have refused the offer and they'd both have had an easier night for it.
"The cold will keep the swelling down, while your ointment works."
An explanation, rather than a question. Astarion's chilly hands are not Ellis' business.
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hovers bow over this thread menacingly
ties it for you