[Enslavement was a piss poor damper: there are countless things Astarion's longed for in his long, bleak facsimile of life. Freedom chief amongst them— though the only thing his desires ever had in common was their fondness for driving him to salivating desperation in the absence of all hope.
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
1/2
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]