[ This is taken as a compliment and thusly Sleipnir's smile does not fade, although he does shrug. ]
I see no reason to dull my enjoyment for others. That seems a wearisome way to live.
[ He'll raise an eyebrow at the small stutter in Mythos' response, but won't comment until he makes mention of his peers. ]
At this point the only people who can best me with a sword is you and His Majesty.
[ The eye contact here carries a little bit of that weight and intensity from before. Truly he is impressed and enamored with your skill.
Then Clive laughs mid drink causing Sleipnir's own look to become mirthful once more. He gestures as he speaks, movements as languid as his voice it. ]
And what is strange with liking your voice?? It has a rugged intensity, particularly when you are combative, but also when speaking like this.
[ Sleipnir hadn't noticed he'd lapsed into a small silence when Clive's beautiful voice pulls him from his reverie. With his attention blinking back to the other man he can feel the alcohol's spin and perhaps that is why Sleipnir has been so chatty, too much drink. It's certainly why he doesn't hesitate in answering now; a smaller smile tugging at Sleipnir's lips, something softer, or maybe even tender. ]
Everything, my all. [ his blink is slow as his gaze lowers and goes a little unfocused ] I see him. ...His feet, sure and steady, which marched a war across an entire continent. Legs, corded with muscle, sturdy in holding to his duty. His core, ever constant, undoubting and undaunted. His chest, expansive, firm, containing and fighting for a dream which has spanned uncountable lifetimes... His back, beautiful, unbroken, bearing the weight not only of Waloed, but of Ash and all her people: the ones now, those who came before, and of those who come after. Hands, such beautiful hands, which grasp and hold tenderly... yet capable of such skilled violence, the command and dexterity he wields in those fingers... His shoulders ready to push further through, to knock down an enemy or burst through a door; his entire body a weapon of such deadly precision... Neck, unbowed, unbent.
Lips soft... long ago whispered hurts; a strained voice; cries for the lost; screams for it to cease, for it to stop, for it to be done, for peace to reign.... ...Nose and brow: most noble one would think him born a prince. His eyes... ever intent on his mission, our goals, never losing sight of which is most important, yet cradling such suffering within their depths... With hair as soft and silken as it was on the boy I first met...
[ His voice grows quieter near the end and for the first time, if Clive is watching closely, he may witness a well of sadness with unknown depth lurking behind Sleipnir's lashes.
It is an odd sensation, having Clive's hands slip down his arms... When the other fully retreats his arms back to himself Sleipnir will grasp his glass once more and take sip, eyes remaining on his drinking partner of the night. The gaze is probing and daring at the same time.
Once Clive organizes his thoughts into words Sleipnir sets the drink atop the bar, then scrunches his nose when he is accused of being 'put out', eyes narrowing. Not the word he'd use himself. And what is this about 'trying to be worried'? He isn't-
Sleipnir's eyes drop to the finger prodding his chest, then back to Clive's eyes the judgement lingering there, but there might be a hazy pink tint forming on his cheeks. Could be the lighting though. Could be the alcohol. Either way he raises a hand to bat away the invisible specter left behind by the other man's touch. ]
You have it all wrong. I am frustrated [ that word Clive had right ] because the conversation's focus was on you- I am perfectly fine, but you- that- [ he hisses a sigh in the back of his throat ] I am not "trying" to be anything, least of all "worried". Worry implies fear for you. I am- [ his eyes glance between Clives's, searching for better words ] concerned, pained, and upset over you- for you. [ he waves his hand as if clearing the air ] It is not necessarily about my want to, as you put it, take care of you, but rather... [ still searching for better words ] ... rather you [ now he prods Clive's chest ] should have been cared for better already.
[ An exasperated sigh escapes his lips before he grabs for his glass again. That took a herculean effort and Sleipnir is a little embarrassed at the lack of finesse that all came out with. ]
no subject
I see no reason to dull my enjoyment for others. That seems a wearisome way to live.
[ He'll raise an eyebrow at the small stutter in Mythos' response, but won't comment until he makes mention of his peers. ]
At this point the only people who can best me with a sword is you and His Majesty.
[ The eye contact here carries a little bit of that weight and intensity from before. Truly he is impressed and enamored with your skill.
Then Clive laughs mid drink causing Sleipnir's own look to become mirthful once more. He gestures as he speaks, movements as languid as his voice it. ]
And what is strange with liking your voice?? It has a rugged intensity, particularly when you are combative, but also when speaking like this.
[ Sleipnir hadn't noticed he'd lapsed into a small silence when Clive's beautiful voice pulls him from his reverie. With his attention blinking back to the other man he can feel the alcohol's spin and perhaps that is why Sleipnir has been so chatty, too much drink. It's certainly why he doesn't hesitate in answering now; a smaller smile tugging at Sleipnir's lips, something softer, or maybe even tender. ]
Everything, my all. [ his blink is slow as his gaze lowers and goes a little unfocused ] I see him. ...His feet, sure and steady, which marched a war across an entire continent. Legs, corded with muscle, sturdy in holding to his duty. His core, ever constant, undoubting and undaunted. His chest, expansive, firm, containing and fighting for a dream which has spanned uncountable lifetimes... His back, beautiful, unbroken, bearing the weight not only of Waloed, but of Ash and all her people: the ones now, those who came before, and of those who come after. Hands, such beautiful hands, which grasp and hold tenderly... yet capable of such skilled violence, the command and dexterity he wields in those fingers... His shoulders ready to push further through, to knock down an enemy or burst through a door; his entire body a weapon of such deadly precision... Neck, unbowed, unbent.
Lips soft... long ago whispered hurts; a strained voice; cries for the lost; screams for it to cease, for it to stop, for it to be done, for peace to reign.... ...Nose and brow: most noble one would think him born a prince. His eyes... ever intent on his mission, our goals, never losing sight of which is most important, yet cradling such suffering within their depths... With hair as soft and silken as it was on the boy I first met...
[ His voice grows quieter near the end and for the first time, if Clive is watching closely, he may witness a well of sadness with unknown depth lurking behind Sleipnir's lashes.
It is an odd sensation, having Clive's hands slip down his arms... When the other fully retreats his arms back to himself Sleipnir will grasp his glass once more and take sip, eyes remaining on his drinking partner of the night. The gaze is probing and daring at the same time.
Once Clive organizes his thoughts into words Sleipnir sets the drink atop the bar, then scrunches his nose when he is accused of being 'put out', eyes narrowing. Not the word he'd use himself. And what is this about 'trying to be worried'? He isn't-
Sleipnir's eyes drop to the finger prodding his chest, then back to Clive's eyes the judgement lingering there, but there might be a hazy pink tint forming on his cheeks. Could be the lighting though. Could be the alcohol. Either way he raises a hand to bat away the invisible specter left behind by the other man's touch. ]
You have it all wrong. I am frustrated [ that word Clive had right ] because the conversation's focus was on you- I am perfectly fine, but you- that- [ he hisses a sigh in the back of his throat ] I am not "trying" to be anything, least of all "worried". Worry implies fear for you. I am- [ his eyes glance between Clives's, searching for better words ] concerned, pained, and upset over you- for you. [ he waves his hand as if clearing the air ] It is not necessarily about my want to, as you put it, take care of you, but rather... [ still searching for better words ] ... rather you [ now he prods Clive's chest ] should have been cared for better already.
[ An exasperated sigh escapes his lips before he grabs for his glass again. That took a herculean effort and Sleipnir is a little embarrassed at the lack of finesse that all came out with. ]