Don't tell me you want to tussle for the other. [Hollow passageways swallowing any intonation it might've held almost instantly, and replacing it with the soft hiss of city noise seeped in steadily from outside— the odd crunch of debris caught underneath his (once more) booted heels, though the feeling of dustbound decay persists between his toes thanks to whatever he hadn't been able to wipe clean before descent.

But his head's tilted upwards as they channel through; gloved hand trailed across each wall— aside from where skeletal holes in plaster break that pleasant constant— jumping from flat surface to flat surface until they reach their destination. Until he has to call out to make certain that he's heard, despite withering boards and slanted archways. What nominal barrier they provide.]

I doubt I can enact an encore of tonight's performance without getting you blackout drunk first.

Possibly not even then. [Is that an admission of his battle prowess' limitations?

Perhaps.

But there'll be time to delve into that later once Astarion finishes struggling with the hearth: first fighting to open the flu, then fighting to wedge the level he's just broken clean off back into place before Fenris notices what he's done.

Shit.]