WHO: Fitcher + Wysteria + Flint & You WHAT: Catch-all WHEN: Firstfall-ish WHERE: Kirkwall and stuff. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
[ By whistles and jerks his head, an invitation to Athessa to come down, because there are few things more pleasing than besmirching the dueler's code by having a little elf girl as a second. Charming. ]
Scoutmaster, kindly inform your subordinate that this is a matter which falls above her rank.
[With a scrape of the boot to clear some minor hedge-adjacent related debris from the cobblestones between them, Flint settles into his stance across from Byerly. It's a touch wider here, the line of his sword arm drifting out by some imperceptible degree. Less weight in the heels. Less square across the span of his shoulders. Hovering at the edge of forward momentum.]
[ But he doesn't seem all that bothered, really. Instead, he gives up the vamping as he observes the shift in Flint's stance. His own posture changes in turn - moving back on his heels a bit, ready to evade rather than engage. ]
I see. Did it seem they came down for this, or did it begin once they were here? [ This to Benedict, who seems the only informed member of the company, and after a click of her tongue at Bastien.
She then tips her head back to flash a smile at Darras as he appears, before turning back to the duel at Flint's call. ]
You would deny him his choice of second, Commander? That hardly seems sporting.
[Byerly's instinct is the right one. No sooner has hardly sporting been voiced than Flint strikes forward. It's a shockingly abrupt assault, his intended blow falling heavy and high despite Byerly's nearly full hand of height advantage, and designed to take full advantage of this new arrangement.
If round one had been contained, it seems Flint means to drive the length of the courtyard during this one.]
[ Hell. How can a fellow that sturdy move that fast? Even with By preparing to flee, it takes him by surprise. Which: it shouldn't; he's seen the ferocity Flint has on and off the battlefield both. But it's so damnably different from the last time that he's genuinely caught off-guard.
His parry is decidedly ungraceful. It's the downside of a sword like his: although it's light and quick, it can't really stand up to heavy assault, and so it's knocked away. By pivots, backs away, tries to put some distance between himself and Flint. ]
Twenty silver, [ Bastien says to Darras around the chunk he’s torn off of Athessa’s apple and is holding between his teeth.
Then Flint is going after Byerly in a burst, and Bastien pulls the apple piece into his mouth to chew at a leisurely pace and holds the remainder out to Athessa without looking away from the action. ]
[It's distance he's not keen to let Byerly win. That quick sword needs some room to be clever in, and allowing Byerly to find context in this will only encourage the cunning bastard to be a cunning bastard.
That light blade is knocked away; Byerly looks for room and Flint presses the attack with a callous rising slash. It's a brazenly open assault, all strength and speed and reliant on Byerly being kept off balance—on being steered to think backward rather than to examine the way through forward.]
[ If Byerly's physical prowess is at times underestimated, then perhaps in turn he does tend to underestimate how clever others are. But look at Flint. That bald head, that permanent scowl, that burly frame - even though By has seen time and again that the fellow's quick-witted, it's easy to forget. Perhaps he'll remember next time. Perhaps he won't let Flint move so quickly that he doesn't have time to consider all his options. Perhaps he'll spend more time analyzing the ground than he spends bantering with the audience.
For now, in this fight, he continues his retreat. Step by step, he moves backwards, parrying away Flint's sword but losing ground. But he does still try, lunging forward, quick blade seeking out any opening whatsoever - but not quickly enough. ]
[ Bastien plops his hand heavily on top of Athessa’s head, as if to make it stay still. But it’s only a suggestion though, and a teasing one at that. Not a demand. His fingers and wrist are loose enough that they’ll wobble right along with her head if she keeps shaking it. ]
No backing out.
[ —with a very quick glance at Darras to mark him as the target of that comment, in agreement with Yseult, while Flint herds Byerly backwards. ]
[That lunge might succeed in breaking the advance were it matched against a more similar blade or a weaker arm, or even cut successfully through Flint's open defense if it came from a place less disadvantaged. Instead, a heavy parry beats wide its line and Flint cuts in after that shoulder he'd lost in the first round.
Or would, were butchery the goal after all. The turn of the blade and the angle of his arm behind it, that coil of momentum ready to spring, are implication enough.]
[ Flint's answer is a curse (to Byerly's credit, perhaps, it's an affable bit of scatalogism rather than a bitter one), and a hand run through his hair, and then an elegant bow. ]
One-one, oh you relentless siege engine of a man.
[ He heads over to the whiskey now, and pours himself a draught of defeat - and then tips some into Flint's glass and holds it out on offer to him. ]
[ Here is where it gets interesting. Two bouts, each other’s measures taken, it becomes a new game. Further strategy than ones trained reactions opens, and Alexandrie— recovered now from her initial shock— watches to see how it will unfold with raptorial intensity.
And the pleasantly coy “You have my attention, impress me,” expression of a lady deciding if she’s willing to be courted, fan out to rest its tip thoughtfully at her collarbone, waiting to see if she will be incentive or distraction if spotted and preparing to adjust accordingly. ]
[The offered cup warrants a skeptical look - that won't help you, Byerly -, but isn't refused. He drinks it down, attention flicking briefly toward their collection of onlookers. His subsequent half turn away from them makes—]
You can concede if you'd rather.
[—for Byerly's hearing only. It's a patient kind of condescension, good tempered and mean all at once.]
[ Alexandrie is incentive, to be sure; the crook of his smile deepens, turns more genuine, and he lifts the glass to her. Then he turns to Flint, and claps him on the upper arm, and replies - ]
Wouldn't dream of it, old man. It suits me very well to be seen to be getting trounced. You have my thanks for your service.
[ Which is, likewise, both cheery and mean. Mean, of course, because it dampens the satisfaction of Flint's likely victory. It'll leave him wondering whether or not By threw the match for appearance's sake. Maker willing, it'll get under his skin. ]
[His dry scoff across the cup's edge is for Byerly's alleged motives, and emphatically not at all on account of old man.
(Yes it is.)]
You hardly need thank me for something I do daily, Rutyer.
[The drained cup is deferred back to its place on the retaining wall. He works his wrist, his grip. If they're not brisk about this, they won't make it to five before the drinks starts to make them both look more foolish than they do already.]
[ The fan snaps open and flutters in reply to Byerly’s lifted glass, her own smile broadening for a moment before she returns to her previous position. ]
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[With a scrape of the boot to clear some minor hedge-adjacent related debris from the cobblestones between them, Flint settles into his stance across from Byerly. It's a touch wider here, the line of his sword arm drifting out by some imperceptible degree. Less weight in the heels. Less square across the span of his shoulders. Hovering at the edge of forward momentum.]
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[ By turns around with a theatrical pout. ]
Well, I wanted you, Athessa.
[ But he doesn't seem all that bothered, really. Instead, he gives up the vamping as he observes the shift in Flint's stance. His own posture changes in turn - moving back on his heels a bit, ready to evade rather than engage. ]
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She then tips her head back to flash a smile at Darras as he appears, before turning back to the duel at Flint's call. ]
You would deny him his choice of second, Commander? That hardly seems sporting.
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[He seems uneasy all of a sudden-- he's not snitching on anyone, is he? Spirits seem fairly light, all things considered.
To Athessa:]
You can fence?
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Probably.
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If round one had been contained, it seems Flint means to drive the length of the courtyard during this one.]
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His parry is decidedly ungraceful. It's the downside of a sword like his: although it's light and quick, it can't really stand up to heavy assault, and so it's knocked away. By pivots, backs away, tries to put some distance between himself and Flint. ]
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Then Flint is going after Byerly in a burst, and Bastien pulls the apple piece into his mouth to chew at a leisurely pace and holds the remainder out to Athessa without looking away from the action. ]
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That light blade is knocked away; Byerly looks for room and Flint presses the attack with a callous rising slash. It's a brazenly open assault, all strength and speed and reliant on Byerly being kept off balance—on being steered to think backward rather than to examine the way through forward.]
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For now, in this fight, he continues his retreat. Step by step, he moves backwards, parrying away Flint's sword but losing ground. But he does still try, lunging forward, quick blade seeking out any opening whatsoever - but not quickly enough. ]
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C'mon, By... Stop retreating...
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No backing out.
[ —with a very quick glance at Darras to mark him as the target of that comment, in agreement with Yseult, while Flint herds Byerly backwards. ]
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Or would, were butchery the goal after all. The turn of the blade and the angle of his arm behind it, that coil of momentum ready to spring, are implication enough.]
One-one?
[He's reasonably certain he's hilarious.]
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One-one, oh you relentless siege engine of a man.
[ He heads over to the whiskey now, and pours himself a draught of defeat - and then tips some into Flint's glass and holds it out on offer to him. ]
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And the pleasantly coy “You have my attention, impress me,” expression of a lady deciding if she’s willing to be courted, fan out to rest its tip thoughtfully at her collarbone, waiting to see if she will be incentive or distraction if spotted and preparing to adjust accordingly. ]
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You can concede if you'd rather.
[—for Byerly's hearing only. It's a patient kind of condescension, good tempered and mean all at once.]
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Wouldn't dream of it, old man. It suits me very well to be seen to be getting trounced. You have my thanks for your service.
[ Which is, likewise, both cheery and mean. Mean, of course, because it dampens the satisfaction of Flint's likely victory. It'll leave him wondering whether or not By threw the match for appearance's sake. Maker willing, it'll get under his skin. ]
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(Yes it is.)]
You hardly need thank me for something I do daily, Rutyer.
[The drained cup is deferred back to its place on the retaining wall. He works his wrist, his grip. If they're not brisk about this, they won't make it to five before the drinks starts to make them both look more foolish than they do already.]
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That's a second wind. I'm not backing out, I know where I've put my money. [Against his boss, so what.]
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