[They brag amongst themselves, the nobles of the city. And it carries, you know— what the eldest members do in their lounges with their smoke and drink, the youngest do too in the gardens: huddling together with (sharper) smiles just to boast about their exploits, diminutive though they may be.
He's partway through boasting about his new bodyguard's odds when—
—thud.
clatter—
—Astarion drops his pipe in a startled jolt.
Laughter erupts from the gathered pack (three young bucks Astarion's age and two girls), all in various states of repose on expensive furniture. All drinking— or drunk. All amused to see something this unexpectedly entertaining in its abrupt irony: schadenfreude bolstering the whole of their already well-fanned elation, where the bottom of a bottle is at most the start of a long, exhausting evening. The air smelling of honey, amber, ambrosia, and now— smoke.
And he does get to his feet, but it doesn't take him long to recover from the shock— or to register the sound of delighted cackling— twisting around to yank his shoulder free and glower at the nuisance he's been shackled to by something so expendable as duty.]
Get your hands off me—
[Incredulous, now that he's recovered. That he's puffed up his own chest like an agitated stoat is subconscious, but the roused authority behind it serves a purpose: insisting that he won't back down.
Which, like the rest of his delayed reaction, finds itself just a half-step off cue in terms of relevance, next shoved from its mark by exasperation:]
What is wrong with you? [Following Astarion this far, actually managing to get inside to chase after him; he could've just stayed home. Covered his own ass. Stood at the doorway insisting the young lord Astarion was resting soundly if anyone came knocking— now, though, now they're both up to their necks in this excursion, and for what? Approval? A pat on the head, a little coin? Selûne's cunt, Astarion could've given him all of the above and saved them both the trouble.
Behind them, one of the boys (a smug thing with dark hair down to his shoulders) whistles low in their direction, clicking the tip of his tongue to a chipped canine while adding 'you never said he was this devourable, Astarion.']
That's because he's more trouble than his face is worth. [He snorts back, reaching out for another pass of wine from over his shoulder. Bringing it to his lips and letting it bring back his own sense of carefree deliquency, swaying just a segue for his forced little grin (mean. Be mean).] ....maybe not the rest of him, though.
[There's another peal of snickering soon to rise up from that dark corner, and like any attention-starved thing, he's clearly encouraged by it.]
If you're going to stay, be useful: you can get down on your knees and entertain us, or go wait with the other wet coats at the exit while we finish having fun.
no subject
He's partway through boasting about his new bodyguard's odds when—
—thud.
clatter—
—Astarion drops his pipe in a startled jolt.
Laughter erupts from the gathered pack (three young bucks Astarion's age and two girls), all in various states of repose on expensive furniture. All drinking— or drunk. All amused to see something this unexpectedly entertaining in its abrupt irony: schadenfreude bolstering the whole of their already well-fanned elation, where the bottom of a bottle is at most the start of a long, exhausting evening. The air smelling of honey, amber, ambrosia, and now— smoke.
And he does get to his feet, but it doesn't take him long to recover from the shock— or to register the sound of delighted cackling— twisting around to yank his shoulder free and glower at the nuisance he's been shackled to by something so expendable as duty.]
Get your hands off me—
[Incredulous, now that he's recovered. That he's puffed up his own chest like an agitated stoat is subconscious, but the roused authority behind it serves a purpose: insisting that he won't back down.
Which, like the rest of his delayed reaction, finds itself just a half-step off cue in terms of relevance, next shoved from its mark by exasperation:]
What is wrong with you? [Following Astarion this far, actually managing to get inside to chase after him; he could've just stayed home. Covered his own ass. Stood at the doorway insisting the young lord Astarion was resting soundly if anyone came knocking— now, though, now they're both up to their necks in this excursion, and for what? Approval? A pat on the head, a little coin? Selûne's cunt, Astarion could've given him all of the above and saved them both the trouble.
Behind them, one of the boys (a smug thing with dark hair down to his shoulders) whistles low in their direction, clicking the tip of his tongue to a chipped canine while adding 'you never said he was this devourable, Astarion.']
That's because he's more trouble than his face is worth. [He snorts back, reaching out for another pass of wine from over his shoulder. Bringing it to his lips and letting it bring back his own sense of carefree deliquency, swaying just a segue for his forced little grin (mean. Be mean).] ....maybe not the rest of him, though.
[There's another peal of snickering soon to rise up from that dark corner, and like any attention-starved thing, he's clearly encouraged by it.]
If you're going to stay, be useful: you can get down on your knees and entertain us, or go wait with the other wet coats at the exit while we finish having fun.
[One more sip.]
Whatever gets you off more.