#blackshadowed

On a crisp winter’s night like tonight, there were many who sought to fend off the CHILL. The tavern was packed well beyond capacity with patrons; Drizzt hadn’t even been able to find a seat, so he’d made himself comfortable in the shadows of the back wall.

The shadows were sanctuary-- the shadows were SAFE. Drawn back beneath the darkness of his cowl, most passersby were oblivious of the jet black skin. Stark white hair spilled out over his shoulders, but that wasn’t such a strange thing; it was all too easy to miss the DROW lingering in plain sight.

Especially in the midst of a turbulent crowd. He lost himself to thought as he watched the strangers go about their business, instinctively scanning the room for potential threats even as his conscious mind wandered. He never could let his guard down in a place like this; he made too easy a TARGET.

The subtle gleam of a knife beneath the folds of a cloak caught his eye. Lavender gaze honed in, searching among the swirl of bodies and the low flicker of light-- but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The drow searched for the face of the wielder, a blond elf with a distinctive tattoo-- he was giving one of the barmaids a charming smile.

Perhaps it was just his IMAGINATION.

But as the elf turned, Drizzt caught sight of it again. It was subtle-- oh so carefully hidden in the cradle of a muscled forearm-- and the ease at which the elf made his way across the room spoke of EXPERIENCE. This was no brawler; this was an assassin.

He was headed for a quieter corner of the tavern where a lone figure rested his head back against the wall. He’d had a little too much to drink, that one, and was losing the fight against his own weariness. How easy it would be for the assassin to slip in, KILL the man quickly and silently, and retreat again.

Drizzt began to work his way in that direction.

He was careful to stay out of the elf’s line of sight, moving in the wake of those who passed him by. He shifted into place just as the tip of the dagger slid FREE, the assassin angling himself to shield his work from view.

A jet black hand shot out and caught him by the wrist.

                                                OH DEAR.  Of all times to knock out a man, this    –    this was not a planned occasion.  Her, the    (  rather marvellous  )    kick-boxing instructor  ;  him, supposedly a beginner.  Supposedly an innocent.  Not a trained killer at all, who now traces his marks to this threshold of her class    –    who operates under disguise  ;  an innocent mien.  Of all times to knock out a man    …    he smiles, truly, but it is a bashful expression.  The towel in his hands pats away the sheen of sweat that has healthily exercised itself upon his temple, caressing even the fair strands of his shoulder-length    (  and growing  )    hair.    “A mere stroke of luck,”  he says, his lean yet strong shoulders shifting upward in a dance of carelessness.  “I apologise for it too.  He has not bruised too much, I hope?”

❛     stroke of luck  .     ❜       deadpan    /    disbelieving  .     astrid KNOWS what a stroke of luck looks like  .     a stroke of luck is a lucky jab  ,     a swift kick  .     luck isn’t perfect form  ,     it isn’t rendering someone IMMOBILE for a few moments  .     it isn’t knocking someone down with one  ,     swift motion  .     so fast  ,     so fast   —        ❛     sure  .     ❜

astrid doesn’t quite know what this was  ,     but it WASN’T a stroke of luck  .     she tips her head up  ,     looks at him across the bridge of her nose  .     unassuming  .     she doesn’t remember his name  .     the back of her hand reaches to wipe her own brow  before dropping to bare hip  .     she stares  .