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.
[ 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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[ 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.]