"Oi! Paid good money for that, I did. You'll not have it as some trophy." She stands, following him on quick feet. She feels like a nag, and it heats her face, ugliness rising once more to the forefront. "It were a tie, anyroad."
He does not care if she feels foolish for it, he does not care if her face is reddened or her fury becomes a mark against his reputation. He keeps his strides smooth and even, stopping only so that he might turn to face her fully, footing squared off when he adds:
“Unless you wish to truly challenge me for it now.”
"It's like you don't even know me, luv. Hurt, I am."
Her stance is spread out, ready for a fight, with singed hair and dried blood on her face, an open cut on her shoulder, and raw determination in her hard green eyes.
Truthfully, he had expected this. Longed for it, as surely as he’d yearned to goad Basch into striking out against all reason so many countless years ago.
Time has changed him, granted him less malice in his own hardened heart, that much is true— but he is no less petty for it.
Her strike does him the favor of spilling the drink in hand, offering him the opportunity to let it tumble away while keeping her armor held fast in his other arm. Emptied palm raised, air turning drier by the second, congealing into living flame at his back— a fan of swords splayed like cards, spitting embers out onto the floor like drooling hounds.
They cannot last. They will not last more than a few febrile seconds at most, but this is fine: she need not know that, and it stands firm as his warning when he once again turns to leave.
“Fetch your rest, Daughter of Denerim. I shall see you two days hence.”
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no subject
He does not care if she feels foolish for it, he does not care if her face is reddened or her fury becomes a mark against his reputation. He keeps his strides smooth and even, stopping only so that he might turn to face her fully, footing squared off when he adds:
“Unless you wish to truly challenge me for it now.”
no subject
"It's like you don't even know me, luv. Hurt, I am."
Her stance is spread out, ready for a fight, with singed hair and dried blood on her face, an open cut on her shoulder, and raw determination in her hard green eyes.
no subject
Time has changed him, granted him less malice in his own hardened heart, that much is true— but he is no less petty for it.
Her strike does him the favor of spilling the drink in hand, offering him the opportunity to let it tumble away while keeping her armor held fast in his other arm. Emptied palm raised, air turning drier by the second, congealing into living flame at his back— a fan of swords splayed like cards, spitting embers out onto the floor like drooling hounds.
They cannot last. They will not last more than a few febrile seconds at most, but this is fine: she need not know that, and it stands firm as his warning when he once again turns to leave.
“Fetch your rest, Daughter of Denerim. I shall see you two days hence.”
no subject
She basks in the heat of the flame until it's gone, momentarily at peace.