You want me to teach you how to properly use a dagger?
[ oddly... flattered...??? ]
Well, I don't usually do that sort of thing for free, but considering your aim [ it's fine, he's just mean ] I suppose you are a bit of a charity case.
[ Clive needs a lawyer. or like, someone who will negotiate terms on his behalf. he literally got five percent of what he wanted from this conversation with Astarion, but also: five percent isn't zero percent!!!! ]
And my shirt off, yes. I'll see you in the morning.
[ Clive leaves the conversation at that. The very optional, no obligation text-to-action followup is thus: at precisely 7:50 in the morning, Clive sics his giant dog on Astarion, forcing him awake via very insistent doggy kisses. Alternately, I'll terrorize another person on your roster if you want to spare Astarion!!!!!! ]
[ pls it's me who's doing the terrorizing... which is to say that Astarion stalks out of his tent moments after, face gleaming with slobber, hair in a horrific state. Everyone in this game sleeps in their regular ass clothes for some reason, so the small mercy is that at least he's not in pajamas. He finds Clive quickly, glowering as he stomps up to him. ]
That dog of yours should be sent to a farm up north.
―is shirtless as promised, dripping sweat from a prolonged run and his usual comically high number of swings with his broadsword. He looks over his shoulder at Astarion, and knits his brows in mild exasperation. ]
His name is Torgal. [ put some RESPECT on his dog's name ] And I invite you to try doing anything to him that he doesn't want.
Well, I think Torbjorn needs to be treated for fleas.
[ Hmph!!!
Mercurial as always, though, Astarion's mood changes quickly at the sight of The Promised Abs™. He's entirely covered up himself, as there's really no reason anyone should need to be shirtless while throwing daggers, but given that this is essentially a free service, he deserves a little eye candy. ]
—Mm. Perhaps a few more laps around camp before we get started.
[ He will KEEP correcting Astarion about his beloved dog until the name sticks!!! A meager protest in the face of what he's already giving Astarion, which is the dubious blessing of his bared upper body, but whatever.
Clive tips his head. ] ―And it'll be noon if I let you put this off, Astarion. Best to do this before we draw a crowd.
[ Namely, Shadowheart heckling them about being friends. Clive doesn't mind at all, but he thinks Astarion might. ]
I meant, [ he laughs a little, dry, ] us consorting would.
[ Clive, the most paladin of paladins, and Astarion, the most rogue of rogues. ]
Come on. These daggers won't throw themselves. [ Flicking one deftly from his extensive toolbelt, and motioning to a tree that's been enduring the worst of Clive's morning training. ]
[ 'Consorting'. Very lame way to describe what's actually happening here, which is that they're throwing knives and Astarion is ogling Clive.
As they approach the poor, victimized tree, Astarion realizes for the first time that he actually has no idea how one goes about teaching people things. His only education in two hundred years has been— nonstandard, to say the least. 'Tough love', put euphemistically. As annoying as Clive's do-gooder tendencies are, Astarion is still hesitant to pull out the pliers and start torturing him when he gets it wrong.
(Currently. That could change.) ]
Ah— [ He falters for a moment, then squares his shoulders, pushing down any uncertainty. ] Well, go on. Pretend that tree is a goblin, and kill it.
[ Wow, is the sentiment on Clive's face, written plainly. That's unhelpful. Here he is, shirtless with a dagger poised in his hand, and the only instruction he's given is to pretend that he really wants to kill this tree.
There was that moment of faltering, though. Patient, Clive offers: ]
How would you throw it? [ Brandishing his (very bare) (very thick) arm, allowing Astarion to maneuver it into 'correct' throwing position, if he'd be so kind. ]
[ Clive is endlessly more patient than Astarion deserves, because he snarks, ] Not like that.
[ He rubs his palms together briefly, creating enough friction to warm them to something slightly less corpselike; it's both habit and because he doesn't want to hear any complaints about his temperature, thanks. When he touches Clive's arm with a still very chilly palm: ]
—Gods, you're sweaty.
[ As if he wasn't just telling Clive he wanted to see him all sweaty. Seeing is different than touching! Somewhat roughly, he pushes on the arm. ]
Tuck your elbow in, or you're going to look like an amateur.
[ Sweaty, and warm to the point of being hot. (Clive's companion quest is deceptive: you go into it thinking it's just about Clive finding his lost brother, but it turns out he can animorph into a giant hellbeast made entirely of fire and he's looking into why the fuck that is! great!) Their temperature difference breaks Clive out into goosebumps, but it feels rude to tell a vampire that they're cold, so. Clive doesn't. ]
Right, [ he says, diligently doing as told. ] Like this?
[ Elbows in, arm closer to his torso. ] You can't expect much grace from me, I'm afraid. That's more your department.
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[ is he hellbent on making this a joint activity???? yes ]
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[ oddly... flattered...??? ]
Well, I don't usually do that sort of thing for free, but considering your aim [ it's fine, he's just mean ] I suppose you are a bit of a charity case.
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Good. I'll see you at first light tomorrow.
[ at first light ]
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So, what, ten AM?
[ SURELY 'FIRST LIGHT' IS JUST A SAYING... ]
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Take ten, and divide it in half.
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Seven in the morning, then.
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I'll be there at eight, of course.
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Fine. Eight it is. I'll have my dagger ready.
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And your shirt off.
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And my shirt off, yes. I'll see you in the morning.
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That dog of yours should be sent to a farm up north.
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―is shirtless as promised, dripping sweat from a prolonged run and his usual comically high number of swings with his broadsword. He looks over his shoulder at Astarion, and knits his brows in mild exasperation. ]
His name is Torgal. [ put some RESPECT on his dog's name ] And I invite you to try doing anything to him that he doesn't want.
[ Read: 'it won't happen'. ]
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[ Hmph!!!
Mercurial as always, though, Astarion's mood changes quickly at the sight of The Promised Abs™. He's entirely covered up himself, as there's really no reason anyone should need to be shirtless while throwing daggers, but given that this is essentially a free service, he deserves a little eye candy. ]
—Mm. Perhaps a few more laps around camp before we get started.
[ Just so he can watch!! ]
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[ He will KEEP correcting Astarion about his beloved dog until the name sticks!!! A meager protest in the face of what he's already giving Astarion, which is the dubious blessing of his bared upper body, but whatever.
Clive tips his head. ] ―And it'll be noon if I let you put this off, Astarion. Best to do this before we draw a crowd.
[ Namely, Shadowheart heckling them about being friends. Clive doesn't mind at all, but he thinks Astarion might. ]
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Hands on his hips, he gives Clive a once-over. ]
...Well, I'm not sure your physique is crowd-drawing. Let's not get too carried away.
[ That's not what he meant, and Astarion knows that's not what he meant, but never shall he pass up the opportunity to neg someone. ]
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[ Clive, the most paladin of paladins, and Astarion, the most rogue of rogues. ]
Come on. These daggers won't throw themselves. [ Flicking one deftly from his extensive toolbelt, and motioning to a tree that's been enduring the worst of Clive's morning training. ]
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As they approach the poor, victimized tree, Astarion realizes for the first time that he actually has no idea how one goes about teaching people things. His only education in two hundred years has been— nonstandard, to say the least. 'Tough love', put euphemistically. As annoying as Clive's do-gooder tendencies are, Astarion is still hesitant to pull out the pliers and start torturing him when he gets it wrong.
(Currently. That could change.) ]
Ah— [ He falters for a moment, then squares his shoulders, pushing down any uncertainty. ] Well, go on. Pretend that tree is a goblin, and kill it.
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There was that moment of faltering, though. Patient, Clive offers: ]
How would you throw it? [ Brandishing his (very bare) (very thick) arm, allowing Astarion to maneuver it into 'correct' throwing position, if he'd be so kind. ]
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[ He rubs his palms together briefly, creating enough friction to warm them to something slightly less corpselike; it's both habit and because he doesn't want to hear any complaints about his temperature, thanks. When he touches Clive's arm with a still very chilly palm: ]
—Gods, you're sweaty.
[ As if he wasn't just telling Clive he wanted to see him all sweaty. Seeing is different than touching! Somewhat roughly, he pushes on the arm. ]
Tuck your elbow in, or you're going to look like an amateur.
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Right, [ he says, diligently doing as told. ] Like this?
[ Elbows in, arm closer to his torso. ] You can't expect much grace from me, I'm afraid. That's more your department.
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