[It is, as far as Fenris understands the concept, like coming home.
Familiar. Routine. Safe, and what an ironic word to describe a den in which the most dangerous people gather to hone their deadliest abilities. But it is safe, at least for him. No one cares about him here. No one looks at him twice, not just because such a thing might be a foolish mistake, but because he is the least interesting thing right now. What is one lyrium-enhanced bodyguard, after all, in a sea of magitech upgrades? Everyone who roams these halls are the sort always looking for an extra edge. Blades embedded beneath one's fingernails, ready to spring out with the right command; artificial eyes that will scan and catalogue every person in the room. They pass a woman Fenris knows by sight who grins at him in recognition, revealing teeth artificially sharpened to resemble a shark's toothy countenance.
And in the middle of it all, one lone little patriar, pretty and delicate and decidedly out of place.
It would be a lie to say Fenris doesn't relish it. He does, just a little. Just enough to satisfy some petty part of his soul that still lingers in the hall of that manor, hearing the echoing laughter of Astarion's friends. But ah, no more of that: a truce goes both ways, after all. Soon enough they're led into a private arena, and all the outside distractions disappear.
Fenris exhales slowly. Tension sloughs off him in waves— and it's a remarkable difference, for only now does one realize just how rigidly he otherwise holds himself. Back always straight, his shoulders always thrown back (and yet his head always dipped, a quiet deference when in face of his betters). There's no more paranoid glancing around, no wary looks towards the windows or lingering upon his ward . . . for right now, the outside world doesn't exist. Astarion's father does not exist; those vicious little vipers that he calls friends certainly don't. There's no Danarius, no debt, no grief, no pain— there's nothing right now save his own self and his weaponry.
(And Astarion, now. A quiet addition, but not, Fenris is pleased to find, an unwelcome one thusfar.)
Fenris hasn't bothered picking out his own weapon yet, but that rather works out, doesn't it? Coming over, he gently bats at those fiddling hands, encouraging him to set the gun down without outright demanding it.]
Your first lesson: treat every gun as if it is loaded. It isn't, for I have not yet paid for ammunition, but still: ignoring that rule is how one inevitably loses an eye.
[It's actually Astarion's father who pays for this, not that Astarion needs the reminder. The itemized bill all goes to some accountant somewhere, who presumably inspects it to make sure Fenris isn't secretly spending the money on whores or alcohol or some such nonsense.]
But yes, this is where I come to practice. They have a range of simulations available— I can practice my marksmanship with any number of weapons, and if I need to face an opponent for hand-to-hand, they have simulations for that too.
[He taps a screen along the wall; a few moments later, a target appears ten yards away. It's a laughably close thing, but that's rather the point.]
Now. You could watch me practice, and I would not mind that. But if you wish to learn yourself . . . start with this.
[Another few taps. The handgun Astarion had been fiddling with disappears, replaced with a far more compact pistol. It's painted a rather bland shade of refrigerator-teal, and there's far too many sights for Fenris' preference, but so it goes when you use the weaponry the range supplies for you.]
Go on. Do well, and I will allow you ones that do elemental damage. Simply line yourself up here, [his foot tapping gently at the small square set before the target,] loosen yourself, and try your best to aim. If this is to be a lesson, it would be best to know your range before I begin teaching you.
no subject
Familiar. Routine. Safe, and what an ironic word to describe a den in which the most dangerous people gather to hone their deadliest abilities. But it is safe, at least for him. No one cares about him here. No one looks at him twice, not just because such a thing might be a foolish mistake, but because he is the least interesting thing right now. What is one lyrium-enhanced bodyguard, after all, in a sea of magitech upgrades? Everyone who roams these halls are the sort always looking for an extra edge. Blades embedded beneath one's fingernails, ready to spring out with the right command; artificial eyes that will scan and catalogue every person in the room. They pass a woman Fenris knows by sight who grins at him in recognition, revealing teeth artificially sharpened to resemble a shark's toothy countenance.
And in the middle of it all, one lone little patriar, pretty and delicate and decidedly out of place.
It would be a lie to say Fenris doesn't relish it. He does, just a little. Just enough to satisfy some petty part of his soul that still lingers in the hall of that manor, hearing the echoing laughter of Astarion's friends. But ah, no more of that: a truce goes both ways, after all. Soon enough they're led into a private arena, and all the outside distractions disappear.
Fenris exhales slowly. Tension sloughs off him in waves— and it's a remarkable difference, for only now does one realize just how rigidly he otherwise holds himself. Back always straight, his shoulders always thrown back (and yet his head always dipped, a quiet deference when in face of his betters). There's no more paranoid glancing around, no wary looks towards the windows or lingering upon his ward . . . for right now, the outside world doesn't exist. Astarion's father does not exist; those vicious little vipers that he calls friends certainly don't. There's no Danarius, no debt, no grief, no pain— there's nothing right now save his own self and his weaponry.
(And Astarion, now. A quiet addition, but not, Fenris is pleased to find, an unwelcome one thusfar.)
Fenris hasn't bothered picking out his own weapon yet, but that rather works out, doesn't it? Coming over, he gently bats at those fiddling hands, encouraging him to set the gun down without outright demanding it.]
Your first lesson: treat every gun as if it is loaded. It isn't, for I have not yet paid for ammunition, but still: ignoring that rule is how one inevitably loses an eye.
[It's actually Astarion's father who pays for this, not that Astarion needs the reminder. The itemized bill all goes to some accountant somewhere, who presumably inspects it to make sure Fenris isn't secretly spending the money on whores or alcohol or some such nonsense.]
But yes, this is where I come to practice. They have a range of simulations available— I can practice my marksmanship with any number of weapons, and if I need to face an opponent for hand-to-hand, they have simulations for that too.
[He taps a screen along the wall; a few moments later, a target appears ten yards away. It's a laughably close thing, but that's rather the point.]
Now. You could watch me practice, and I would not mind that. But if you wish to learn yourself . . . start with this.
[Another few taps. The handgun Astarion had been fiddling with disappears, replaced with a far more compact pistol. It's painted a rather bland shade of refrigerator-teal, and there's far too many sights for Fenris' preference, but so it goes when you use the weaponry the range supplies for you.]
Go on. Do well, and I will allow you ones that do elemental damage. Simply line yourself up here, [his foot tapping gently at the small square set before the target,] loosen yourself, and try your best to aim. If this is to be a lesson, it would be best to know your range before I begin teaching you.