[What, now? He almost asks, like it isn't a matter of making the decision and simply going; like the same cocksure elf that'd slipped out into empty streets through an open window can't somehow just walk right through a door his kin pulled shut. But of course he can— of course he can— and more than that: it's his godsdamned right to, so long as his feet are planted on Baldurian soil, let alone his own estate.
Never to forget that disapproval isn't imprisonment, and like Fenris himself said, he isn't his bloody jailer.
So.
Right then.
Take two— this time with a little less shameful fucking naivety.
With the back of his hand, he swipes away the last few vestiges of glassy water from the fringe edge of his jaw, heavy curls carrying a few wayward droplets here and there, and all quickly dispersed. By the time it's done, he's just as straight-backed as ever. Chin resolutely lifted in a haughty show of command: not aimed or leveled at the only living thing in sight, just worn.
In other words, he's himself again.
Still livid, mind. And rife with roiling resentment hotter than the mark upon his cheek, but not a day goes by any differently, really. At least now there's something real to set his sights on. An asset worth having beside him, and a fascinating show ahead— wherever it might lead.]
Immediately.
[He orders, jewelry jangling. Cloth rustling. A light interlude spent straightening his clothes and jacket before departure.
And it's—
Not what he'd expected.
Even in the Upper City, the training range smells stringent and perfumelessly dank, yet there's more magitech inside its walls than what he's seen at the most extravagant of celebrations: from scrolling advertisements to minute readouts, to assistant-familiars meant to help select a weapon from one second to the next. Courses are marked, privacy screens obscured, running tabs for even things like ammunition or refreshments are tallied and paid for with a flick of a wrist. It's nice, but it's not that nice, which is baffling—
Before he realizes that no one here's a patriar.
At least not unless they're so well disguised as to cease existing altogether. Just assassins and servants, bodyguards and mercenaries. Well-paid fighters from the highest illegal rings. Merchant lackeys bearing their allegiance on their skin. All aside from Astarion, that is, who suddenly feels more out of place for the accessories he's sporting than he's ever felt before. Though at least that doesn't last long.
They're led into a private section of the range not much later. Muffled from outside noise. Filtered from outside contact— a thick wall of glasslike smoke the color of gunmetal outlining the borders of their given territory. A little notification bobbing latently in one far corner above a stack of weaponry and ammunition promises they could pay to broaden those boundaries, if they wished. The price for that obscured in favor of a small animated mabari, its wiry tail wagging back and forth awaiting an inquiry— or an order.
Huh.]
Is this where you come to practice?
[Question drifting in while he picks up whichever handgun's closest to him, starting to fiddle with its various fasteners and locks.]
no subject
Never to forget that disapproval isn't imprisonment, and like Fenris himself said, he isn't his bloody jailer.
So.
Right then.
Take two— this time with a little less shameful fucking naivety.
With the back of his hand, he swipes away the last few vestiges of glassy water from the fringe edge of his jaw, heavy curls carrying a few wayward droplets here and there, and all quickly dispersed. By the time it's done, he's just as straight-backed as ever. Chin resolutely lifted in a haughty show of command: not aimed or leveled at the only living thing in sight, just worn.
In other words, he's himself again.
Still livid, mind. And rife with roiling resentment hotter than the mark upon his cheek, but not a day goes by any differently, really. At least now there's something real to set his sights on. An asset worth having beside him, and a fascinating show ahead— wherever it might lead.]
Immediately.
[He orders, jewelry jangling. Cloth rustling. A light interlude spent straightening his clothes and jacket before departure.
And it's—
Not what he'd expected.
Even in the Upper City, the training range smells stringent and perfumelessly dank, yet there's more magitech inside its walls than what he's seen at the most extravagant of celebrations: from scrolling advertisements to minute readouts, to assistant-familiars meant to help select a weapon from one second to the next. Courses are marked, privacy screens obscured, running tabs for even things like ammunition or refreshments are tallied and paid for with a flick of a wrist. It's nice, but it's not that nice, which is baffling—
Before he realizes that no one here's a patriar.
At least not unless they're so well disguised as to cease existing altogether. Just assassins and servants, bodyguards and mercenaries. Well-paid fighters from the highest illegal rings. Merchant lackeys bearing their allegiance on their skin. All aside from Astarion, that is, who suddenly feels more out of place for the accessories he's sporting than he's ever felt before. Though at least that doesn't last long.
They're led into a private section of the range not much later. Muffled from outside noise. Filtered from outside contact— a thick wall of glasslike smoke the color of gunmetal outlining the borders of their given territory. A little notification bobbing latently in one far corner above a stack of weaponry and ammunition promises they could pay to broaden those boundaries, if they wished. The price for that obscured in favor of a small animated mabari, its wiry tail wagging back and forth awaiting an inquiry— or an order.
Huh.]
Is this where you come to practice?
[Question drifting in while he picks up whichever handgun's closest to him, starting to fiddle with its various fasteners and locks.]