More a tree than flower? He shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with being a tree, he supposed, other than the fact that they were scarcely pretty. And it made sense with the way he fought - with endurance, durability, strength and persistence. The rose scarcely embodied Alistair, truth be told -- he'd have been a much better fit for Andaris, or Warrick, or even Krome. But alas.
"There's no such thing as a dirty move, Lord Xander," the man stated, shaking his head. "There is only a move, successful or not. Whether it does you well decides its legitimacy, rather than whether or not it's typically seen as honorable." At least, that was his perspective. Xander's move was well-executed, and it had almost turned the tide of the spar to his favor, had Alistair not taken the initiative to grab his wrists before hitting the ground. Both of them fought well, he concurred.
"You do need more practice," he said bluntly, "but so do I. No need to worry, though - we can spar with one another every day, if you'd like. I quite enjoyed that, to be entirely honest." Catching Xander's sides with his fingertips so the man's fall onto his chest wasn't so hard, Alistair helped him get up and off of his chest, rolling beside him on the floor. He could only grin as the man stated his distaste for the idea of wrestling Alistair again, noting the clear difference in their physical strength at the present time.
He looked to the other man from where he laid, and raised his shoulder. "You'll be able to wrestle me, Xander. You've just gotta work at improving your strength a little. I can teach you," he offered, then observed as the other Lord removed himself from the ground, getting onto his feet only to stare down at the other Lord. Comfortable down there? he asked, teasing Alistair all the meanwhile, nudging at his leg. The man swatted Xander's foot away with his palms, though he did so playfully, the two of them teasing one another in equal tempo. Alistair chuckled as the man finally left his leg alone.
"Oh, my eyes?" he asked, clarifying. Of course, he told himself. Everyone's always curious about the eyes.
"They're... well. I don't know what they are. Some hereditary illness? Some mutation of my body? Some curse by the Immortals? Who knows. I know they're... strange, though. I... apologize for your surprise." In actuality, he was lying, and there was no such confusion on his part. He knew exactly what happened to his eyes -- they mutated as a result of his practice in the art of Rupturing. Now they were as if a flowing nebula, colors leaking in and out of his iris in a constant flurry, though only noticeable in the light or upon close inspection. Often, the colors that ran through were dark... violet, indigo, even black. He did not know what his eyes looked like at current -- they must have been bright, if Xander had noticed from that locking of their eyes alone.
"Not unattractive?" he repeated the man's words. Mesmerizing. An embarrassed expression overcame him from the words -- that was certainly a lot less critical a term than he'd come to expect.
Taking the Krome's hand, Alistair stood on his feet, noting that he'd begun to sweat from the contact of the other man's body heat and the physical exertion. Not to mention the fire lit in the room, though it was surprising nonetheless; he never thought he'd experience the sensation of sweat in the season of Cylus.
Finally, he mustered the courage to respond properly to the man's compliments on his eyes, his thoughts enthusiastically alight. "Thank you, Lord Krome," he said. "At risk of sounding overly-familiar, I find that my eyes are dwarfed in their brilliance by yours," he stated, drawing closer, looking into the man's gaze. "I had heard that your line is of the biqaj, albeit only half. Yet from you, all I've seen is a piercing shade of blue. Do your eyes not change? Or have I just not noticed it?"
After his words, a pause.
Staring into the man's piercing gaze, Alistair's mind numbed, in a way that was far atypical of any human instinct. It wasn't that he was mesmerized, but rather something else. He was enthralled -- but not necessarily by Xander. The mark on his back stung, as if it were digging into his skin. He was confused. Then he wasn't, his eyes shifting back to the other Lord, staring intently. Then... he was lost yet again. Alistair seemed to all but freeze in time, at least for a few moments, placing his hand on his back and taking a step backward from the Lord of Krome.
Fucking hell, he cursed under his breath. An instinct kicked into him, at the behest of the cruel mark laid upon his back.
"Xander," he called him, again by naught but his first name. "I think I'll be... going to my room. I'm not feeling... optimal, to put it easily." He bit his lower lip, the stinging returning to his back. His desires were being inflamed by Sesser, and by resisting them, he was punishing himself -- painfully. All of the contact, the compliments, the stares. Syroa didn't allow any such thing to be as simple as they could have been. She'd made Alistair turn into a man immolated with want.
It didn't help that Xander was an attractive man. A very attractive one. The mage almost wished he was some frumpy rube, but alas.
He could almost hear a voice, a second voice -- the one plagued by Sesser's will. His inner compulsions had gone too far for the night, and he found himself seeking seclusion. "Sorry if I appear out of sorts, it's just -- you know. The weather," he said, an obvious fabrication.
"There's no such thing as a dirty move, Lord Xander," the man stated, shaking his head. "There is only a move, successful or not. Whether it does you well decides its legitimacy, rather than whether or not it's typically seen as honorable." At least, that was his perspective. Xander's move was well-executed, and it had almost turned the tide of the spar to his favor, had Alistair not taken the initiative to grab his wrists before hitting the ground. Both of them fought well, he concurred.
"You do need more practice," he said bluntly, "but so do I. No need to worry, though - we can spar with one another every day, if you'd like. I quite enjoyed that, to be entirely honest." Catching Xander's sides with his fingertips so the man's fall onto his chest wasn't so hard, Alistair helped him get up and off of his chest, rolling beside him on the floor. He could only grin as the man stated his distaste for the idea of wrestling Alistair again, noting the clear difference in their physical strength at the present time.
He looked to the other man from where he laid, and raised his shoulder. "You'll be able to wrestle me, Xander. You've just gotta work at improving your strength a little. I can teach you," he offered, then observed as the other Lord removed himself from the ground, getting onto his feet only to stare down at the other Lord. Comfortable down there? he asked, teasing Alistair all the meanwhile, nudging at his leg. The man swatted Xander's foot away with his palms, though he did so playfully, the two of them teasing one another in equal tempo. Alistair chuckled as the man finally left his leg alone.
"Oh, my eyes?" he asked, clarifying. Of course, he told himself. Everyone's always curious about the eyes.
"They're... well. I don't know what they are. Some hereditary illness? Some mutation of my body? Some curse by the Immortals? Who knows. I know they're... strange, though. I... apologize for your surprise." In actuality, he was lying, and there was no such confusion on his part. He knew exactly what happened to his eyes -- they mutated as a result of his practice in the art of Rupturing. Now they were as if a flowing nebula, colors leaking in and out of his iris in a constant flurry, though only noticeable in the light or upon close inspection. Often, the colors that ran through were dark... violet, indigo, even black. He did not know what his eyes looked like at current -- they must have been bright, if Xander had noticed from that locking of their eyes alone.
"Not unattractive?" he repeated the man's words. Mesmerizing. An embarrassed expression overcame him from the words -- that was certainly a lot less critical a term than he'd come to expect.
Taking the Krome's hand, Alistair stood on his feet, noting that he'd begun to sweat from the contact of the other man's body heat and the physical exertion. Not to mention the fire lit in the room, though it was surprising nonetheless; he never thought he'd experience the sensation of sweat in the season of Cylus.
Finally, he mustered the courage to respond properly to the man's compliments on his eyes, his thoughts enthusiastically alight. "Thank you, Lord Krome," he said. "At risk of sounding overly-familiar, I find that my eyes are dwarfed in their brilliance by yours," he stated, drawing closer, looking into the man's gaze. "I had heard that your line is of the biqaj, albeit only half. Yet from you, all I've seen is a piercing shade of blue. Do your eyes not change? Or have I just not noticed it?"
After his words, a pause.
Staring into the man's piercing gaze, Alistair's mind numbed, in a way that was far atypical of any human instinct. It wasn't that he was mesmerized, but rather something else. He was enthralled -- but not necessarily by Xander. The mark on his back stung, as if it were digging into his skin. He was confused. Then he wasn't, his eyes shifting back to the other Lord, staring intently. Then... he was lost yet again. Alistair seemed to all but freeze in time, at least for a few moments, placing his hand on his back and taking a step backward from the Lord of Krome.
Fucking hell, he cursed under his breath. An instinct kicked into him, at the behest of the cruel mark laid upon his back.
"Xander," he called him, again by naught but his first name. "I think I'll be... going to my room. I'm not feeling... optimal, to put it easily." He bit his lower lip, the stinging returning to his back. His desires were being inflamed by Sesser, and by resisting them, he was punishing himself -- painfully. All of the contact, the compliments, the stares. Syroa didn't allow any such thing to be as simple as they could have been. She'd made Alistair turn into a man immolated with want.
It didn't help that Xander was an attractive man. A very attractive one. The mage almost wished he was some frumpy rube, but alas.
He could almost hear a voice, a second voice -- the one plagued by Sesser's will. His inner compulsions had gone too far for the night, and he found himself seeking seclusion. "Sorry if I appear out of sorts, it's just -- you know. The weather," he said, an obvious fabrication.
