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“You know, I don’t think these fools will ever learn, mi amor.” Zevran sighed in disappointment, shaking his head as he whirled round and stabbed a bandit in the gut, twisting his blade up. The man let out a choked sound, and slid off the blade to die on the floor, organs following a second later. Smiling grimly, Zevran launched himself at the next opponent.
“Agreed. It’s been five years already.” Theron answered, drawing his bowstring back and narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he aimed for chinks in armour. “We’re good teachers by now, aren’t we? Duck, by the way.” He grinned as he let the arrow fly; Zevran ducked into a roll underneath the swipe of a two-handed sword, allowing the arrowhead to embed itself in someone else’s throat as he sprang back to his feet beside another bandit.
“I think that shot ruffled my hair. Try to be more careful.” The Antivan pouted, glancing at the ranger pacing the edge of the fray after he’d cut the too-slow bandit’s throat, the silver of his blade gleaming with even more blood. Spin, parry, riposte, lunge in a leatherclad gold and silver blur.
“Elven bastards!” One of their opponents snarled.
“Like we haven’t heard that one before!”
“You can worry about your hair after. But to ease your mind, it looks fine, lath.” Theron sighed, nocking, aiming and loosing another arrow in one fluid movement, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing. Zevran shrugged, and parried a sword blow that had more power than speed behind it. The impact jarred his shoulders, and he shoved the blade back with a grunt of effort.
“Would me worrying about my hair be before or after we ravish each other in celebration?” The blond quipped, swords a blood-spraying blur as he pressed the bandit’s defence, forcing him away step by step from the ranger pacing behind Zevran.
“You’d rather worry about your hair than celebratory ravishing? I’m shocked.”
“Would you shut up and fight?” The bandit fumed from within his helmet.
“Aw, he doesn’t think we’re fighting. Hey, Zevran, what shall we eat tonight?” Theron chuckled when that seemed to rile the bandit more, rolling his shoulders between arrows as he scanned for an opening. Three bandits left. “Behind you.” He called helpfully, but Zevran was already dodging to one side. He watched as the bandit that had tried to creep up behind him while his front was occupied buried his longsword into his companion’s side. Bones crunched, and the bandit that had spoken up screamed in agony.
“Oh dear.” Theron intoned as he blinked apathetically.
“Why do warriors always think they can try that trick on a dashing rogue such as myself? It never works, I hear them coming a mile off.”
Theron snorted at Zevran’s exasperation, letting him deal with the two preoccupied bandits as he crept after the third, who seemed to welcome the reprieve from being used for target practice. The ranger had run out of arrows anyway, so time to improvise.
This bandit seemed younger than his fallen or falling companions, with a scruffy beard and squinting eyes. He was absorbed completely in trying to figure out how to get to Zevran without getting himself or the other two killed immediately. Enough that Theron was easily capable of wrapping his arm around the man’s throat, yanking him down against his chest - damn the height difference - and squeezing his throat. The man tried to bring up his sword, but a swift boot to the wrist made his grip falter. Another awkward kick sent the sword to the ground, just out of his reach. Now the man was busy trying to wriggle free from the crushing grip, gasping for air.
Zevran embedded a poisoned dagger in the sides of his bandits; they were left to roll around on the ground in agony a few minutes of distracting swordfighting later. Zevran backed away to a safe distance, and then turned his back on the two.
“So brutal.” He tutted as he watched Theron choke the man, who let out a strangled gasp as his eyes bugged and his face started to redden.
“It works.” The ranger answered defensively, tensing his arm further and keeping the man’s increasingly feeble blows away from his face with the other.
“On chickens.” The Antivan retorted, shaking his head. “You have strength in your arms from that bow, but not enough to properly choke a man to death like that. You might make him pass out in ten minutes. Five if you hold his nose shut.”
“Oh, thanks.” Theron grumbled.
Zevran rolled his eyes, but made a shooing gesture. Annoyed, Theron abruptly dropped both arms and stepped back so the man slumped at their feet. The bandit lay gasping for air and choking, clasping at his throat weakly.
“I told you this last time. Either use that hold to break their neck, or use something as a garrote to do the difficult work for you.” The former Crow shook his head, and then ended the man’s loss of dignity with a sharp blade to the throat. Zevran then set about looting the corpses and checking all the bandits were dead, while Theron reclaimed his arrows and muttered sulkily about chokeholds.
“So, about the celebratory ravishing…?”
Theron heaved a sigh as he tugged a particularly stubborn arrow from a shoulder, stumbling back when the bloodied arrow shot free.
“Can it wait until we’re not covered in blood?” He asked, wiping the worst of the blood off on a cloth and tucking the arrow back into his quiver. Zevran glanced the ranger over thoughtfully, taking in their dishevelled states as the rush of another victorious fight still burned in their veins.
“I don’t particularly want to.” The Antivan admitted, running his fingers through his hair. The Dalish elf rolled his eyes skywards.
“You’re insatiable, you do realise?”
“But you look so very stunning when you fight, how am I to resist?” Zevran purred, waiting patiently until Theron had finished salvaging arrows before they carried on walking down the road in the waning Antivan sun, the blond putting an arm around the other elf’s shoulders and pulling him close.
“I do.” The ranger pointed out dryly.
“With great difficulty, I imagine?”
“... Perhaps.”
Zevran grinned wickedly, knowing that was a yes.