－two more men. Less lumpy, but with the same ill-fitting leather armor and worse facial hair: an overgrown beard on one, patchy and uneven fuzz on the other. They hear their comrade say something garbled in the distance, and one of them cups his hand around his mouth to holler "found something?"
Again: a fool. By the time Astarion has embedded his blade into his victim's neck, Iorveth has scaled the nearest tree, bounding from branch to branch with wood elf ease: he appears from above the two men, flail in hand, and drops down on silent feet. A woodland creature, born to hunt.
His first swing hits the man closest to him－ full-beard－ in the head, contacting with a sickening crunch as the rock inside the satchel splinters his skull. He drops like a stone (heh) onto dirt, causing the other man－ patchy-beard－ to step back with a wail, dirty nails scrabbling against the scabbard of his sword in several failed attempts to draw it.
"Oh gods, don't, don't, I promise I won't come after you again, hells－"
(Meanwhile, the leader has taken one look at the proceedings and has made the executive decision to run. Briskly, unabashedly, and unwittingly in Astarion's direction in his madcap scramble to escape Iorveth's warpath.
On his person: Astarion's pack full of pretty things. Of course the bastard took it for himself.) ]
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－two more men. Less lumpy, but with the same ill-fitting leather armor and worse facial hair: an overgrown beard on one, patchy and uneven fuzz on the other. They hear their comrade say something garbled in the distance, and one of them cups his hand around his mouth to holler "found something?"
Again: a fool. By the time Astarion has embedded his blade into his victim's neck, Iorveth has scaled the nearest tree, bounding from branch to branch with wood elf ease: he appears from above the two men, flail in hand, and drops down on silent feet. A woodland creature, born to hunt.
His first swing hits the man closest to him－ full-beard－ in the head, contacting with a sickening crunch as the rock inside the satchel splinters his skull. He drops like a stone (heh) onto dirt, causing the other man－ patchy-beard－ to step back with a wail, dirty nails scrabbling against the scabbard of his sword in several failed attempts to draw it.
"Oh gods, don't, don't, I promise I won't come after you again, hells－"
(Meanwhile, the leader has taken one look at the proceedings and has made the executive decision to run. Briskly, unabashedly, and unwittingly in Astarion's direction in his madcap scramble to escape Iorveth's warpath.
On his person: Astarion's pack full of pretty things. Of course the bastard took it for himself.) ]