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.
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. ]
We hardly see one another so often as that - [ Byerly is saying as he takes his position again, partially because he wants to see if he can chat Flint to distraction and partially because the thought of allowing Flint to have the last word (especially a very good last word) is anathema to him on a spiritual level. ] That you could so trounce me. I wish we would, of course.
[ He draws his sword again, rolling his shoulders and getting into position. ]
There's something thrilling about how stern and severe you are. Especially with that voice. If you win, will you please scold me?
[ Bastien—who has also bet against his boss, but it suits him just fine if no one notices—removes his hand from Athessa's head to hold out for the apple again while he strains to listen to the banter/taunting from a distance. ]
Depends on how many they had before they started, non?
[ And a little lower, while there's still the relative quiet before they go at it: ]
Do you think the Commander ever drinks enough to giggle?
[As if he's heard her (he hasn't), the man in question's face does adopt that much talked about expression. It is an uncomfortable looking thing, possessing rather too many teeth and decidedly more at home in the mouth of some animal which makes its living by hunting for the jugular.]
He settles across from Byerly, that faint predatory sense living too in the forward tilt of his shoulders. They've both played their opening cards now.]
If you beat me, I might consider doing you a favor.
[ And he attacks, then, moving forward confidently and capably. His focus is clearly on the offensive, winning it and maintaining it, not letting Flint's strange leer throw him off. By now he's seen the smile enough times that it's lost some of its power. ]
[The flash in his face meant to reply to that is promptly eclipsed. and that open quality to his stance - the straying line of his arm so designed for heavy assault - snaps shut like trap as Byerly makes his move. The heavier sword batters that first offensive strike in a blatant attempt to turn him off the concept of assault. But without having Byerly on his heels to begin with, the follow through isn't quite so decisive or swift and Flint is forced back into that more upright and squared form to keep up.
This more so than the previous two rounds are a play of strength and speed, a push and a pull punctuated by the crack of steel. A clever lunge meets an edge on parry, a sturdy flick of the wrist designed to turn a riposte into an opening worth exploiting catches the blade a fraction too late to create a space wide enough to take advantage of. Clang, clang, clang. It would be undignified to describe it as two goats deciding how to butt heads.
And yet there is something distinctly investigative in how Flint cedes ground by degrees, testing first playing from one direction and then the other in an attempt to determine from which direction Byerly is slower.]
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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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[ He draws his sword again, rolling his shoulders and getting into position. ]
There's something thrilling about how stern and severe you are. Especially with that voice. If you win, will you please scold me?
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Depends on how many they had before they started, non?
[ And a little lower, while there's still the relative quiet before they go at it: ]
Do you think the Commander ever drinks enough to giggle?
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Dunno that I've ever seen him smile.
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He smiles. But does not giggle.
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He settles across from Byerly, that faint predatory sense living too in the forward tilt of his shoulders. They've both played their opening cards now.]
If you beat me, I might consider doing you a favor.
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Will you kiss me again?
[ And he attacks, then, moving forward confidently and capably. His focus is clearly on the offensive, winning it and maintaining it, not letting Flint's strange leer throw him off. By now he's seen the smile enough times that it's lost some of its power. ]
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This more so than the previous two rounds are a play of strength and speed, a push and a pull punctuated by the crack of steel. A clever lunge meets an edge on parry, a sturdy flick of the wrist designed to turn a riposte into an opening worth exploiting catches the blade a fraction too late to create a space wide enough to take advantage of. Clang, clang, clang. It would be undignified to describe it as two goats deciding how to butt heads.
And yet there is something distinctly investigative in how Flint cedes ground by degrees, testing first playing from one direction and then the other in an attempt to determine from which direction Byerly is slower.]
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Why is he smiling like that? [he whispers to the nearest person.]