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.
“Telling me how to do my job? Bossy.” Astarion scolds, all mock offense and muted tone.
Even so, he waits until he’s finished binding and pinning the last of that wrapping before his hand finds its way back into place against Ellis’ side. He can feel a heartbeat through it. Sharper senses. Simple function.
Or maybe he’s just imagining that fact, like some sort of half-forgotten, predatory instinct.
Either way, knee to the floor and hand to a man’s unclothed torso, it’s more than a little restrictive as far as exchanges go. Much as Astarion likes to tease, insatiability etched into the marrow of his wicked bones, sitting like this isn’t the most thrilling way to burn waning daylight.
“Do me a favor at least. There’s a bottle of wine beside you: uncork it and fill any of the cups just there.” All of them have been used, of course— but there’s no need to tell Ellis that.
And really, who has time to wash anything anyway?
“No point in just sitting here doing nothing to pass the time while we wait.”
Obliging Astarion only requires some minor twist of Ellis' body. First to take hold of the bottle, then to ascertain the cups available. He catches the cork between his teeth to work it free as his opposite hand plucks up a cup more or less at random.
A single cup, chosen and filled and offered, with the bottle set down before Ellis takes the cork from between his teeth.
"You needn't crouch that way."
Or extend this generosity to Ellis at all. He won't deny it is a help. The cold mutes the aching burn of the cut, and it will make all things easier in the morning when he needs to assess whether to venture into the infirmary or adjust bandages and go about his day.
Somewhere, Richard is frowning without a sense of why.
But he hadn't been putting on a show, or exaggerating when he'd said it wasn't the sort of wound worth worrying over. It's a small thing. It'll heal neatly. Maybe it won't even leave a mark behind. Babying this wound is—
Something else, really.
He sets the cork on the table, then flattens his palm against the pocked wood. No cup for him.
“Maybe I like the view from down here— ever think of that?”
His chin fits itself to the slope of Ellis’ thigh without pause for either courtesy or consideration. A cat, sprawling itself in odd shapes to lounge wherever it pleases, no matter how uncomfortable it finds itself for it.
The cup he takes with his spare hand, sipping from it precisely where he rests.
“Hand on a handsome not-stranger, a good vintage to drain while I wait for him to tire, all in all it’s not the worst evening I’ve had.” His lips purse, he’s clearly thinking back on something. “Not by a long shot.”
But that aside:
“Nothing for you, though? Cross my heart, I’m not about to tattle on you for having a sip or two on the job any more than I would for our little stroll through Darktown.”
It's not quite flirtation. Ellis can recognize the shape of something behind that assertion, even with the distraction of Astarion's chin set just so against the muscle of his thigh.
He's quiet for a long moment. Letting the first flush of reaction settle, draw in a deep breath as he considers the question.
"I've lost the taste for it."
Honest, if lacking the fuller context.
"What was the worst evening you've had?"
Unfair. A deflection, preemptive, against what might come after his paltry explanation.
Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
“For the same reason I don’t do well with being bossed around for anyone else’s benefit.” He sighs absently, taking a longer sip this time.
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
(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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
“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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
“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.”
no subject
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?
no subject
“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.”
no subject
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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
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.
no subject
Even so, he waits until he’s finished binding and pinning the last of that wrapping before his hand finds its way back into place against Ellis’ side. He can feel a heartbeat through it. Sharper senses. Simple function.
Or maybe he’s just imagining that fact, like some sort of half-forgotten, predatory instinct.
Either way, knee to the floor and hand to a man’s unclothed torso, it’s more than a little restrictive as far as exchanges go. Much as Astarion likes to tease, insatiability etched into the marrow of his wicked bones, sitting like this isn’t the most thrilling way to burn waning daylight.
“Do me a favor at least. There’s a bottle of wine beside you: uncork it and fill any of the cups just there.” All of them have been used, of course— but there’s no need to tell Ellis that.
And really, who has time to wash anything anyway?
“No point in just sitting here doing nothing to pass the time while we wait.”
no subject
A single cup, chosen and filled and offered, with the bottle set down before Ellis takes the cork from between his teeth.
"You needn't crouch that way."
Or extend this generosity to Ellis at all. He won't deny it is a help. The cold mutes the aching burn of the cut, and it will make all things easier in the morning when he needs to assess whether to venture into the infirmary or adjust bandages and go about his day.
Somewhere, Richard is frowning without a sense of why.
But he hadn't been putting on a show, or exaggerating when he'd said it wasn't the sort of wound worth worrying over. It's a small thing. It'll heal neatly. Maybe it won't even leave a mark behind. Babying this wound is—
Something else, really.
He sets the cork on the table, then flattens his palm against the pocked wood. No cup for him.
no subject
His chin fits itself to the slope of Ellis’ thigh without pause for either courtesy or consideration. A cat, sprawling itself in odd shapes to lounge wherever it pleases, no matter how uncomfortable it finds itself for it.
The cup he takes with his spare hand, sipping from it precisely where he rests.
“Hand on a handsome not-stranger, a good vintage to drain while I wait for him to tire, all in all it’s not the worst evening I’ve had.” His lips purse, he’s clearly thinking back on something. “Not by a long shot.”
But that aside:
“Nothing for you, though? Cross my heart, I’m not about to tattle on you for having a sip or two on the job any more than I would for our little stroll through Darktown.”
no subject
He's quiet for a long moment. Letting the first flush of reaction settle, draw in a deep breath as he considers the question.
"I've lost the taste for it."
Honest, if lacking the fuller context.
"What was the worst evening you've had?"
Unfair. A deflection, preemptive, against what might come after his paltry explanation.
no subject
Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
no subject
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
no subject
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
hovers bow over this thread menacingly
ties it for you