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Date Posted: 02:06:47 01/23/02 Wed
Author: Tristan
Subject: Hit me, baby, one more time
In reply to: Valhorek 's message, "Scratching away, and Isobel" on 20:20:39 01/22/02 Tue

Tristan bristled visibly at Rowan’s comments, and was annoyed at himself for not being able to think of a decent comeback. He really hated it when the stupid elf called him a pussy cat, too. He didn’t think there was anything remotely catlike about him at all, except that maybe he was rather quiet. And maybe not the most sociable person in the world either, oh, and perhaps a little moody. And he did growl a lot. Sometimes he even purred. But not too often. Okay, but probably a little more than he used to.

A tiny smile came to his face when Marz staunchly defended him by saying something about cats having claws. You’re damned right I’ll mess that face up of yours! he thought, staring furiously at Rowan. The elf didn’t look too happy about that jealousy remark either; apparently, it had hit closer to home than they could have hoped for.

But the thing that finally made Tristan’s face burst into a real grin was when Tia spoke up, blithely informing Rowan that she and Corum were going for a walk—together—alone! Tristan was so happy for her he wanted to jump up and hug her, but of course he only sat where he was, smiling like an idiot. When she flashed him two fingers for the second time, he furrowed his brow again, still slightly confused. Then he finally understood: the second choice! His advice! She was taking his advice from earlier, and was going to try to be Rowan’s friend the way Tristan had tried to be Eremis’ friend.

Well, he wished her better luck than he’d had. Of course, having Marz and his constant insecurities around hadn’t made being friends with his former crush (emphasis on former, mind you) any easier. Thankfully, the healer was gone, and although Tristan missed his company, he was glad he didn’t have to put up with Marz’s daily interrogations over the series of “looks” he and Eremis had been exchanging together.

Once Tia and Corum left, Rowan abruptly departed as well, and it was just Tristan and Marz again. But not for long. Tristan wasn’t quite sure why Justin was suddenly racing towards them, yelling for Marz’s blood, but he was pretty sure Marz had done something at some time or other to deserve it. Naturally, he’d missed Barry dumping the fleas on the merc’s head, but he would have considered that Marz’s fault anyway, since, well, since he had been the one to ask the skull to do it in the first place.

The chase was on. Since Marz obviously had everything under control, Tristan decided to just cool it for now and watch the action from the sidelines. He shook his head as Justin huffed and puffed his way after his laughing quarry, who kept running just fast enough before twisting and dodging nimbly out of the way. Eventually, Marz led the fat hairy mercenary in the direction of the pond, the loud splashing of water indicating that someone at least had now had an impromptu bath.

He couldn’t resist chuckling slightly as Marz trotted back, a smug grin on his face. When he sat down again, Tristan frowned at him. Why did he keep scratching at himself like that? It was really kind of disgusting. He shook his head and tried to ignore it for now. But if Marz was getting some sort of rash, he could definitely count on sleeping alone for a while.

“The thing about secret hand signals,” he said, giving his itchy lover a superior look, “Is that they’re supposed to be a secret.” Marz didn’t like the sound of that, judging from the frown that suddenly came to his face. Before he could open his mouth to protest, though, Tristan stood up quickly, offering his hand to help him get up, too.

“If you want to learn to fight with a weapon in both hands,” he went on, “You’ve got to first learn to fight with each hand individually.” He took a couple steps back and drew his sword, nodding at Marz. “So come on and try to hit me, left-handed.”

Of course, his sword always hung at his left hip so he could grasp it right-handed, but he had been trained to use both hands. The smaller blade, a twin to the one he had now except for its shorter length, had been missing for some time. And since he wasn’t about to go back to Odarin and ask for another, nor could he even think to purchase one from a stranger, he simply stuck with what he had. He was still quite capable of switching hands in combat, which was a pretty neat way to throw his enemies off for a couple seconds.

Marz made a couple of quick swings, but, not surprisingly, his mark was way off at first. At one point, he almost took Tristan’s head off because he’d been going for a shoulder cut. Of course, he hadn’t been swinging at full impact anyway, but it still would have been pretty ugly if Tristan hadn’t ducked just in time.

He started to get the hang of it rather quickly though. Tristan was secretly impressed, but decided not to blow his ego over or anything, so continued throwing out comments like, “You can do better than that!” or “Maybe if I stand still you might actually hit me.”

Marz especially didn’t like it when Tristan started faking yawns. Tristan realized what a bad idea that was when his pseudo-opponent started coming at him with renewed vigor. Unfortunately, he would stoop down at the most inopportune moments to scratch frantically at some part of his body or other, making his sword swing dangerously out of whack, whereupon Tristan would either sidestep, block, or have the good fortune to trip on his feet at exactly the right moment.

“Stop!” he said, holding up his free hand and breathing slightly hard. Marz didn’t need the command, for he was already stooped down, rubbing like crazy at some unattainable itch behind his knees. Tristan sheathed his sword and narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to figure out just what the hell was wrong with him. He swore to all the gods, if it was some kind of disgusting rash….

Suddenly, Valhorek appeared as if from nowhere, and, despite Marz’s angry retorts of protests, examined the now reddened spots all over his body. “You’ve got flea bites,” the healer finally stated, before digging into his bag and handing his reluctant patient a bottle of medicine.

“Flea bites?” Tristan repeated, a horrified look coming to his face as he took a big step back from his lover. You have fleas?” He couldn’t believe it. And Marz thought he was messy!

Once the healer walked off, Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and fixed Marz with a look. “I am not touching you until you get rid of them,” he declared adamantly. How long had he been infested, anyway? What if some of them had gotten on Tristan?? Ugh! “Next thing you know he’ll be bringing home the mange,” he muttered, examining the pieces of his hair and the skin under his clothing—just in case.

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