[ 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.
[ He's just going to assume the goosebumps are because Astarion's so incredibly hot (rather than so incredibly cold). It's more flattering.
Clive does shape up, though, sort of. He's right that his grace isn't up to par with Astarion's, although if he had to guess, part of it is because you can't really be that beefy and elegant. Obviously, that's the reason Astarion has noodles for arms. It's on purpose! ]
Flattery will get you everywhere.
[ At least, in his experience. ]
—But it won't make your grip any better. Grip it like you actually plan to kill someone!
[ Clive has been informed by Shadowheart that his primary role in the party is to provide moral support by shutting up and removing his shirt, so he supposes that this is also just him playing his part. The critique about his grip is also heeded, since Astarion manages to be correct: he's holding the dagger the way he would when he'd fight non-lethal battles against people he'd rather not kill.
Rather astute of their resident vampire. Readjusting, he grips the weapon tighter and flings it at the poor, blameless tree in front of them.
Thunk. The blade sinks all the way to the hilt. A matter of course, but he still turns towards Astarion with Happy Big Dog Energy. ]
―Look, Astarion. [ Invisible dog ears prick up, and an invisible dog tail wags wildly. ] You make a good teacher.
[ Stupid dog!!! He's not at all pleased at being told he makes a good teacher, because that would be dumb. Only ugly and untalented people care about that sort of thing. You know, like Gale.
But he does puff up a bit despite himself, because fuck, it does feel good for someone to tell him he's done a good job of something for once, instead of them scolding and berating him for being useless and idiotic (among other, more colorful terms). ]
Yes, well. [ The corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. ] You still have an awful lot of work left to do, but I suppose you did kill that tree.
[ Just like Astarion told him to! ]
Mm. Your homework is to actually kill something with it. Preferably something that I can eat. It is tradition to give the teacher an apple.
[ Everyone deserves to be acknowledged!!! Clive, yet another character that has a hideous (for a given value of hideous, since Square Enix is not brave enough to make their main characters ugly) scar on his face from when he was branded as a slave, very much believes in the power of positive reinforcement.
Which is why he doesn't protest being asked to do a fetchquest for Astarion, no matter how much of a waste of his talents it might be. ]
Ah. ―That's right. You must be hungry. [ Since literally every other person traveling with them have either declined or just not been very appetizing, Clive included: he could try to give blood, but he probably tastes like brimstone. ] It's no issue at all. Torgal's been wanting more bones to gnaw on, and I'd intended to go out for a hunt.
[ The dog, suddenly appearing by Astarion's leg, barks. ] ―Don't be greedy, boy. You can share.
[ Adorable. A boy and his dog. Unfortunately, Astarion isn't a dog person; he flinches at Torgal's sudden arrival, then takes a step away. Mangy mutt. ]
Oh, lovely. You're going to feed me the dog's scraps.
[ —Well. Beggars can't be choosers, and Astarion is certainly a beggar when it comes to blood. He can and does hunt for himself—including goblins, bandits, general ne'er-do-wells—but it's always so much work, and so messy when they struggle. That, or it's some squirrel he has to drink from like a furry juice pouch. ]
Just give it to me before the mutt slobbers all over it. [ He has dignity, and he will not be putting his mouth anywhere near doggy saliva!
From across camp, Lae'zel, who's been up since 5 AM, says, "Your efforts would be better spent practicing on true enemies. We break camp in five minutes." ]
[ Torgal is a very good boy, and doesn't understand why the strange-smelling pale man who doesn't feel alive doesn't LOVE him!!!! He noses at Astarion's pant leg and paws at his boot, and gets chided by Clive for the trouble ("leave him alone, Torgal").
There's Lae'zel with her no-nonsense demand to get a move on, though. Clive huffs a laugh, and slaps his palm against Astarion's shoulder. ]
Not even fifteen minutes to ourselves. [ To the tune of "I told you you should come earlier". ] ―If we stumble across anything that looks good enough for you to eat, I'll sound the call.
[ A quirk of his lips. ] Or you could try my blood, with no guarantees on its taste.
[ Again, it probably tastes like embers and old, old magic. A strange thing, since Clive doesn't particularly come across as someone with arcane powers. His blood probably smells a little unusual, too. ]
[ Clive slaps a palm to his shoulder, and Astarion primly brushes off the area after he removes it. The lingering heat feels strange. Clive should probably get tested for some sort of disease, if he's running that warm. ]
I appreciate the offer [ —genuinely, although he doesn't sound genuine— ] but I'm hesitant to burn my tongue.
[ A shrug. ]
Perhaps if you can't procure me anything better. [ As if this is somehow a privilege for Clive??? ] But don't take that as an excuse not to try.
[ The barest, barest flick of melancholy when Astarion mentions burning his tongue. As if he's aware of the anomaly that sits under his skin (he is), and is reticent to trouble anyone about it (he is). Astarion is likely the only one that actually has any real idea about how strange Clive is under his warmly stoic demeanor, and, in a way, Clive is somewhat grateful that Astarion hasn't gone around and started yelling about it.
Yet. If he's giving the guy too much credit for something he hasn't done, well. That's Clive. ]
I'll do my utmost, [ he says, and he's actually being sincere about it. Gross. ] And thank you for the lesson.
[ Wow. The sincerity actually makes Astarion want to throw up in his mouth a little.
—But it's good to have allies, especially ones who are big and burly and willing to hunt food for him. Clive may be an overly genuine idiot, but he's also proving to be a useful idiot. He can stay for now.
Of course, he still shrugs off the gratitude. ]
I only did it because your form was so poor that I was afraid you might accidentally hit me with one of those daggers.
[ Ten feet away, Lae'zel barks at Gale to pack his books up already. ]
If that's all, I have to go pretend to be ill so Lae'zel won't make me go on whatever ridiculous mission she has planned for the day.
[ Prickly. Fortunately, no one in any realm could treat Clive worse than his own mother did, so Astarion's attitude just reads as slightly familiar instead of irritating.
With the sort of troubled, knowing smile that says "Lae'zel is definitely going to single you out for the most cumbersome mission just because you just said that", Clive whistles to Torgal and brushes by Astarion to go pack up his own meager belongings. ]
Good luck. Your acting skills will need it.
[ The good dog can throw a little shade!!!!!! With that, he waves and sees himself off, dutiful paladin that he is.
(That night, Astarion will find a freshly-killed bugbear deposited outside his tent. On it, a note in Clive's neat handwriting: Torgal hasn't touched him, I promise.) ]
[ Astarion does not verbally acknowledge the bugbear — although Gale does, hemming and hawwing about a corpse in their camp. (To which Shadowheart says don't talk about Withers that way.)
In the morning, though, there's a note similarly placed outside Clive's tent, Astarion's handwriting as flowery and filled with flourishes as one would expect:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Clive does shape up, though, sort of. He's right that his grace isn't up to par with Astarion's, although if he had to guess, part of it is because you can't really be that beefy and elegant. Obviously, that's the reason Astarion has noodles for arms. It's on purpose! ]
Flattery will get you everywhere.
[ At least, in his experience. ]
—But it won't make your grip any better. Grip it like you actually plan to kill someone!
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Rather astute of their resident vampire. Readjusting, he grips the weapon tighter and flings it at the poor, blameless tree in front of them.
Thunk. The blade sinks all the way to the hilt. A matter of course, but he still turns towards Astarion with Happy Big Dog Energy. ]
―Look, Astarion. [ Invisible dog ears prick up, and an invisible dog tail wags wildly. ] You make a good teacher.
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But he does puff up a bit despite himself, because fuck, it does feel good for someone to tell him he's done a good job of something for once, instead of them scolding and berating him for being useless and idiotic (among other, more colorful terms). ]
Yes, well. [ The corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. ] You still have an awful lot of work left to do, but I suppose you did kill that tree.
[ Just like Astarion told him to! ]
Mm. Your homework is to actually kill something with it. Preferably something that I can eat. It is tradition to give the teacher an apple.
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Which is why he doesn't protest being asked to do a fetchquest for Astarion, no matter how much of a waste of his talents it might be. ]
Ah. ―That's right. You must be hungry. [ Since literally every other person traveling with them have either declined or just not been very appetizing, Clive included: he could try to give blood, but he probably tastes like brimstone. ] It's no issue at all. Torgal's been wanting more bones to gnaw on, and I'd intended to go out for a hunt.
[ The dog, suddenly appearing by Astarion's leg, barks. ] ―Don't be greedy, boy. You can share.
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Oh, lovely. You're going to feed me the dog's scraps.
[ —Well. Beggars can't be choosers, and Astarion is certainly a beggar when it comes to blood. He can and does hunt for himself—including goblins, bandits, general ne'er-do-wells—but it's always so much work, and so messy when they struggle. That, or it's some squirrel he has to drink from like a furry juice pouch. ]
Just give it to me before the mutt slobbers all over it. [ He has dignity, and he will not be putting his mouth anywhere near doggy saliva!
From across camp, Lae'zel, who's been up since 5 AM, says, "Your efforts would be better spent practicing on true enemies. We break camp in five minutes." ]
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There's Lae'zel with her no-nonsense demand to get a move on, though. Clive huffs a laugh, and slaps his palm against Astarion's shoulder. ]
Not even fifteen minutes to ourselves. [ To the tune of "I told you you should come earlier". ] ―If we stumble across anything that looks good enough for you to eat, I'll sound the call.
[ A quirk of his lips. ] Or you could try my blood, with no guarantees on its taste.
[ Again, it probably tastes like embers and old, old magic. A strange thing, since Clive doesn't particularly come across as someone with arcane powers. His blood probably smells a little unusual, too. ]
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I appreciate the offer [ —genuinely, although he doesn't sound genuine— ] but I'm hesitant to burn my tongue.
[ A shrug. ]
Perhaps if you can't procure me anything better. [ As if this is somehow a privilege for Clive??? ] But don't take that as an excuse not to try.
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Yet. If he's giving the guy too much credit for something he hasn't done, well. That's Clive. ]
I'll do my utmost, [ he says, and he's actually being sincere about it. Gross. ] And thank you for the lesson.
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—But it's good to have allies, especially ones who are big and burly and willing to hunt food for him. Clive may be an overly genuine idiot, but he's also proving to be a useful idiot. He can stay for now.
Of course, he still shrugs off the gratitude. ]
I only did it because your form was so poor that I was afraid you might accidentally hit me with one of those daggers.
[ Ten feet away, Lae'zel barks at Gale to pack his books up already. ]
If that's all, I have to go pretend to be ill so Lae'zel won't make me go on whatever ridiculous mission she has planned for the day.
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With the sort of troubled, knowing smile that says "Lae'zel is definitely going to single you out for the most cumbersome mission just because you just said that", Clive whistles to Torgal and brushes by Astarion to go pack up his own meager belongings. ]
Good luck. Your acting skills will need it.
[ The good dog can throw a little shade!!!!!! With that, he waves and sees himself off, dutiful paladin that he is.
(That night, Astarion will find a freshly-killed bugbear deposited outside his tent. On it, a note in Clive's neat handwriting: Torgal hasn't touched him, I promise.) ]
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In the morning, though, there's a note similarly placed outside Clive's tent, Astarion's handwriting as flowery and filled with flourishes as one would expect:
Too furry.
But thank you.]