[ The holier-than-thou attitude and the flashing of the sword rankle, but even beyond that, Henrik is a human; Iorveth dislikes him on principle, and feels justified in assuming the worst about him. Elf, the man almost spits, and the familiar revulsion and rage against the entirety of the human race creeps up again. The city and its casual acceptance of different races and creeds has almost lulled Iorveth into a false sense of security, but Henrik reaffirms what he already knows to be true: humans will always rub him the wrong way.
So he responds to the threat with retaliation. A lightning-fast pullback of bowstrings, followed by a fluid nocking of an arrow seguing impossibly smoothly into a released shot. It's the kind of warning shot meant to kill a man who isn't paying attention; fortunately for Henrik and Henrik only, the man isn't all bluster. His lover's accusation that he does nothing but work is a point in his favor this time― instinct and training are what allow him to deflect the arrow in time and retaliate with a lunge and an upward arc of his sword.
Annoying. Iorveth prefers when humans are all talk and no technique. The narrow space of the alley doesn't leave him with much options for escape, and a ranged weapon offers no defense; he's hardly going to step aside and let Astarion take the hit. So he shoves his companion backwards towards the dead end, putting more distance between Henrik and Astarion while catching the sharp end of the human's sword, unfortunately, with his gambeson-padded upper arm and shoulder.
The weapon cuts through fabric, and Iorveth can feel the firebrand pain of skin splitting. He grits his teeth against it, and kicks Henrik away from him with a low curse under his breath.
Henrik, pleased by the turn of events despite the viciousness of Iorveth's kick, staggers back and rights his stance. "Consider this your last warning, rat," he huffs, and glances at Astarion with a smug smile. "Why don't you talk some sense into your commander? Without his trees and caves to hide in, he's hardly a threat." ]
no subject
So he responds to the threat with retaliation. A lightning-fast pullback of bowstrings, followed by a fluid nocking of an arrow seguing impossibly smoothly into a released shot. It's the kind of warning shot meant to kill a man who isn't paying attention; fortunately for Henrik and Henrik only, the man isn't all bluster. His lover's accusation that he does nothing but work is a point in his favor this time― instinct and training are what allow him to deflect the arrow in time and retaliate with a lunge and an upward arc of his sword.
Annoying. Iorveth prefers when humans are all talk and no technique. The narrow space of the alley doesn't leave him with much options for escape, and a ranged weapon offers no defense; he's hardly going to step aside and let Astarion take the hit. So he shoves his companion backwards towards the dead end, putting more distance between Henrik and Astarion while catching the sharp end of the human's sword, unfortunately, with his gambeson-padded upper arm and shoulder.
The weapon cuts through fabric, and Iorveth can feel the firebrand pain of skin splitting. He grits his teeth against it, and kicks Henrik away from him with a low curse under his breath.
Henrik, pleased by the turn of events despite the viciousness of Iorveth's kick, staggers back and rights his stance. "Consider this your last warning, rat," he huffs, and glances at Astarion with a smug smile. "Why don't you talk some sense into your commander? Without his trees and caves to hide in, he's hardly a threat." ]