"Since always," Astarion huffs in turn, the edges of his teeth flashed for it. "I realize trickery and deceit might not qualify in your mind as making ends meet, but this, my dear, is how one affords one's own wealth when you have ears like mine in a place like this."
And oh, he is still bitter about that fact.
The allies he's made are worth it. The distance from Cazador beyond invaluable. But that doesn't mean he agrees with Thedas and its treatment of species that would— back home— regard only the highest respect and adoration.
The thing is, he's spent so much time of thinking Astarion as vampire, that he never put much thought into the elvish features, or what species Astarion might've belonged to before. Which was, he thinks as soon as he realizes that, stupid. Vampires may or may not exist in Thedas, but elves do, and there's no question Astarion must be treated like any other in Kirkwall and beyond.
His bitterness is more than deserved; and Jim acknowledges that, with a particular tilt to his head, ruefulness in his expression. Lucky him, that he can forget.
"Good for you," is what he says, and means it. Shitty humans deserve what they get, says local human man. Then, after a brief consideration: "Do you have the time to help me with something? I could use your input."
Astarion detects that contempt. He also, despite Holden being one of those much-more-fortunate humans now, approves of it with all his withered heart. The man treats him better than all the others around here, and somehow Astarion doubts that has anything at all to do with being a Rifter.
Soft heart and all.
“Depends. What is it— and how much are you going to owe me for my time?”
"I'll let you be the judge of that," he says, with no apparent concern for the dangers of so doing.
Instead, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small sheathed blade: a finely made dagger from the dwarven smithies in Orzammar. Replacing it in his bag, he says,
"I've got a few of these, but not much familiarity with using them or keeping them good."
It can't be terribly different than all he's learned about sword upkeep, but God knows he's not experienced enough to say. Similarly: there's probably more to knives than just, like, hacking and stabbing. It could make the difference between life or death to take the time to learn now.
Alluring, that offer. So much so that Astarion's eyes gleam bright as jewels for a flicker of a beat, clearly enticed.
More so when that blade comes glittering out of its sheathe.
"And you...want to learn, is it?" Astarion asks carefully, head tilting to one side to expose the long, sharp tip of an almost quizzical ear, like a dog attempting to follow a command with only middling comprehension.
"No," he says, dry, "I wanted to take them out for a walk."
Well, them in a general sense; he only has the one with him currently, having intended to ask his one blacksmith friend in town for some advice. He'd gotten plenty from the dwarves, in truth, but that's months and an invasion past, and he'd been more occupied with hobnobbing.
"I know I can. But I'm not a fan of the training yard, if I'm honest. Smells far too much like ass." Delicate fingers fan themselves near his face, lip already curling as though he can smell it just by virtue of describing it.
"The animal, of course— and the other thing, too."
In other words, if a little training is in order, they're going to need a better place to work.
There is no question in his mind that Astarion is keeping his skills sharp in some manner or other, especially after the last several weeks. It takes more than picking fights with Venatori where you can find them.
"Naturally, my dear." Astarion all but purrs, those fingertips folding themselves beneath his chin, practiced in their fitted poise. He waits a beat longer for dramatic effect before adding, ever-so-sweetly:
"You're looking at it."
Lowtown, to be precise. The misery of it, the early morning fog of doused fires and kindled kettles and refuse and whatever else the filth of Kirkwall weaves into the very air around them.
"There's no better place to learn than in the thick of it, darling."
Which they are, undoubtedly, in right now, given the smoky air wafting about them under the faintest breeze. The crowds rushing to pass them by.
"And by it, I mean the worst Kirkwall has to offer: thieves, thugs, mercenaries, drunken sailors— me." As he makes that final addition he preens, chin raising to new, proud heights, so that even though Holden is the (much) taller of the two, Astarion's practically looking down his own arched nose at him.
"War is so much less fun a teaching tool than the chaos of life itself, after all."
is not a thing that he says aloud, but is writ clear across his face, the particular slant his eyebrows have taken. Maybe, probably, he should've expected an answer like this. He tries to temper his tone before he speaks, mostly because he did in fact ask, but he still sounds pretty incredulous.
"I'm not going to get into bar fights," or, what, street fights? Jesus, "just to figure out how to hold a dagger."
“Oh don’t be such a spoilsport. It’s fun. You’ll love it.” Spoken the way someone insistently talks about trying a new food, or an unfamiliar wine.
“You never feel so alive as when some bastard with a hundred scars holds a knife to your throat.” His grin is sharp and dangerous, fingertips perched high beneath the jut of his own jaw as some sort of pseudo demonstration.
He crosses his arms as he listens, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. He does have the good grace not to interrupt Astarion, so there's that.
"You might not believe this," he says, fairly unmoved, "but people have tried to kill me more times than I can count, and it's never made me feel more alive." A beat, then, "Mostly, it's been a pain in the ass."
"Ugh," he groans, the verbal equivalent of a child dragging its heels under a supposedly unjust expectation. One long tooth flashes when his lip curls, exhaling low as he grabs hold of Holden's wrist, dragging him towards a less crowded side street.
He lets Astarion steer him, following without protest. He's not sure if it's more or less reassuring, given their topic of conversation, that Astarion pulls him towards an empty street and not a noisy pub.
(Possibly, it's just too early for a pub to be noisy. Then again, maybe not.)
"If you're planning on killing me in a deserted alleyway for annoying you, I should tell you," a slight falter, verbally (his feet keep up), before he continues instead, "that you had your chance already, and didn't take it."
It's not, actually, too late to kill him for being annoying.
“Hilarious.” Astarion counters softly, tongue clicking in a way that seems to express just how much Holden irritates— though his tone is lighter now.
“But I’ve always stood by the idea that it’s better late than never. So please, try your very best not to drive me to madness. I’m not a bastion of patience, after all.”
He does not, of course, say anything about Astarion — despite his dramatics, his complaining — ceding to his preferences with pretty minimal argument. He doesn't, but he notices, and hides a smile pretty well as he reaches back into his bag for the blade. The bag goes on the ground, and he's trusting that this road is empty, and that Astarion probably wouldn't just let someone rob him while they're together (maybe).
Straightening, he wraps his hand around the hilt of the blade, force of recent habit meaning it's not unlike how he would with his sword.
“...ah.” He murmurs, witheringly. The way a shitty parent might disparagingly hum at their own child’s middling project.
Slender fingers reach out, twisting the dagger slightly— angling it just in front of Jim so that it’s guarding the near center of his chest, rather than held lower and outward.
He’s hovering near for those adjustments, purring in that usual, almost throaty way of his.
“Close combat means you have to do a little better at protecting your heart, darling.”
"Oh," he says in turn, looking down and watching how Astarion rearranges his arm, understanding the feel of it. It makes sense, of course, but is one of those things he wouldn't have thought of on his own.
Which is why he's here.
"I'd say, where would I be without you, but we both know the answer to that."
It's funny because the answer is not just dead (because he didn't consider the possibility of someone trying to stab him in the chest), but also dead (under a pile of rubble in Tantervale).
It is funny. And for once, he actually earns a snorting chuckle from Astarion, already withdrawing easily to kneel down beside the satchel of spares, paging through them with an idle curiosity.
"Keeping your hands held higher has its advantages, you know." Spoken over the faint rustle of fabric and metal. "You can more easily go for your enemy's throat or eyes— the soft, vulnerable parts of their bodies, even if they're wearing armor. And what's more is if someone's attacking you with a dagger in turn, odds are they're going to aim low, like say...oh, I don't know, opting for a stab at your gut, or your prick. Either way, you'll have plenty more time to drag yourself to a healer without immediately dying."
"Those aren't for you," he says preemptively, but doesn't otherwise stop Astarion from looking.
Astarion will find them all to be well-made, but of differing styles — he clearly visited quite a few different smiths, so there's evidence of manufacture by various hands. While he's busy with that, Holden tries to acclimate himself to the idea, experimenting with keeping the blade about sternum-height, or marginally lower, what a stabbing motion might look like.
He makes a sound, light, at that last bit of advice, says, "Well, I've already been stabbed in the gut around here, and I'm not looking for a repeat of that. But I see your point."
Looking, borrowing— sometimes the two can be one and the same.
He chews on his lip with one of his shorter fangs, rising not long after to (mildly) correct the force and application of Holden’s feigned jabs, offering the importance of knowing when to twist the arm, versus the wrist.
It’s ultimately no skin off his neck if Holden gets murdered in a dark alleyway, here or elsewhere, but—
But...
No, never mind. No point in thinking about that now.
“Yes, well. That’s the thing about daggers, darling. Easy to conceal almost anywhere, anytime. Keep one on you, and no matter what happens, you’ll at least have options.”
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The skepticism could be unflattering, except...well. It is. But spoken not without amusement.
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And oh, he is still bitter about that fact.
The allies he's made are worth it. The distance from Cazador beyond invaluable. But that doesn't mean he agrees with Thedas and its treatment of species that would— back home— regard only the highest respect and adoration.
Literally. High. Elves.
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His bitterness is more than deserved; and Jim acknowledges that, with a particular tilt to his head, ruefulness in his expression. Lucky him, that he can forget.
"Good for you," is what he says, and means it. Shitty humans deserve what they get, says local human man. Then, after a brief consideration: "Do you have the time to help me with something? I could use your input."
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Soft heart and all.
“Depends. What is it— and how much are you going to owe me for my time?”
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Instead, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small sheathed blade: a finely made dagger from the dwarven smithies in Orzammar. Replacing it in his bag, he says,
"I've got a few of these, but not much familiarity with using them or keeping them good."
It can't be terribly different than all he's learned about sword upkeep, but God knows he's not experienced enough to say. Similarly: there's probably more to knives than just, like, hacking and stabbing. It could make the difference between life or death to take the time to learn now.
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More so when that blade comes glittering out of its sheathe.
"And you...want to learn, is it?" Astarion asks carefully, head tilting to one side to expose the long, sharp tip of an almost quizzical ear, like a dog attempting to follow a command with only middling comprehension.
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Well, them in a general sense; he only has the one with him currently, having intended to ask his one blacksmith friend in town for some advice. He'd gotten plenty from the dwarves, in truth, but that's months and an invasion past, and he'd been more occupied with hobnobbing.
Then, "Do you think you can help me?"
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"The animal, of course— and the other thing, too."
In other words, if a little training is in order, they're going to need a better place to work.
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"I'm assuming you have somewhere else in mind."
There is no question in his mind that Astarion is keeping his skills sharp in some manner or other, especially after the last several weeks. It takes more than picking fights with Venatori where you can find them.
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"You're looking at it."
Lowtown, to be precise. The misery of it, the early morning fog of doused fires and kindled kettles and refuse and whatever else the filth of Kirkwall weaves into the very air around them.
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"I'm what?"
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Which they are, undoubtedly, in right now, given the smoky air wafting about them under the faintest breeze. The crowds rushing to pass them by.
"And by it, I mean the worst Kirkwall has to offer: thieves, thugs, mercenaries, drunken sailors— me." As he makes that final addition he preens, chin raising to new, proud heights, so that even though Holden is the (much) taller of the two, Astarion's practically looking down his own arched nose at him.
"War is so much less fun a teaching tool than the chaos of life itself, after all."
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is not a thing that he says aloud, but is writ clear across his face, the particular slant his eyebrows have taken. Maybe, probably, he should've expected an answer like this. He tries to temper his tone before he speaks, mostly because he did in fact ask, but he still sounds pretty incredulous.
"I'm not going to get into bar fights," or, what, street fights? Jesus, "just to figure out how to hold a dagger."
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“You never feel so alive as when some bastard with a hundred scars holds a knife to your throat.” His grin is sharp and dangerous, fingertips perched high beneath the jut of his own jaw as some sort of pseudo demonstration.
“...and you still know you can win.”
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"You might not believe this," he says, fairly unmoved, "but people have tried to kill me more times than I can count, and it's never made me feel more alive." A beat, then, "Mostly, it's been a pain in the ass."
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An entirely uncrowded one, in fact.
"You are so demanding. So utterly taxing."
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(Possibly, it's just too early for a pub to be noisy. Then again, maybe not.)
"If you're planning on killing me in a deserted alleyway for annoying you, I should tell you," a slight falter, verbally (his feet keep up), before he continues instead, "that you had your chance already, and didn't take it."
It's not, actually, too late to kill him for being annoying.
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“But I’ve always stood by the idea that it’s better late than never. So please, try your very best not to drive me to madness. I’m not a bastion of patience, after all.”
Still, now that they’re alone:
“Now, hold that dagger as you would in a fight.”
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Straightening, he wraps his hand around the hilt of the blade, force of recent habit meaning it's not unlike how he would with his sword.
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Only Astarion gets to steal from his friends.
“...ah.” He murmurs, witheringly. The way a shitty parent might disparagingly hum at their own child’s middling project.
Slender fingers reach out, twisting the dagger slightly— angling it just in front of Jim so that it’s guarding the near center of his chest, rather than held lower and outward.
He’s hovering near for those adjustments, purring in that usual, almost throaty way of his.
“Close combat means you have to do a little better at protecting your heart, darling.”
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Which is why he's here.
"I'd say, where would I be without you, but we both know the answer to that."
It's funny because the answer is not just dead (because he didn't consider the possibility of someone trying to stab him in the chest), but also dead (under a pile of rubble in Tantervale).
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"Keeping your hands held higher has its advantages, you know." Spoken over the faint rustle of fabric and metal. "You can more easily go for your enemy's throat or eyes— the soft, vulnerable parts of their bodies, even if they're wearing armor. And what's more is if someone's attacking you with a dagger in turn, odds are they're going to aim low, like say...oh, I don't know, opting for a stab at your gut, or your prick. Either way, you'll have plenty more time to drag yourself to a healer without immediately dying."
Win win.
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Astarion will find them all to be well-made, but of differing styles — he clearly visited quite a few different smiths, so there's evidence of manufacture by various hands. While he's busy with that, Holden tries to acclimate himself to the idea, experimenting with keeping the blade about sternum-height, or marginally lower, what a stabbing motion might look like.
He makes a sound, light, at that last bit of advice, says, "Well, I've already been stabbed in the gut around here, and I'm not looking for a repeat of that. But I see your point."
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He chews on his lip with one of his shorter fangs, rising not long after to (mildly) correct the force and application of Holden’s feigned jabs, offering the importance of knowing when to twist the arm, versus the wrist.
It’s ultimately no skin off his neck if Holden gets murdered in a dark alleyway, here or elsewhere, but—
But...
No, never mind. No point in thinking about that now.
“Yes, well. That’s the thing about daggers, darling. Easy to conceal almost anywhere, anytime. Keep one on you, and no matter what happens, you’ll at least have options.”