“...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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no subject
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.”
no subject
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).
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.”