[He's too busy curling his lip to notice the change in his bodyguard's demeanor: the way he hunches forwards over the angle of his hips, spine loose and arms roughly flexed in the sort of posing usually reserved for murals depicting fearsome unseelie warriors or feral battlemages— a kind of flexion bend to fingers that curl like they have claws. Relaxed in ways that don't translate between hierarchies or cultures or—
The air leaves Astarion's nose in a rush.
Agitated and huffy, clutching that diminutive piece against his palm in a mirror to whatever movies or faff the boy and his friends take to watching when they aren't out actively hunting for wealthy game (projections bore him, truth be told, but there were a scarce few involving merchant princes with gilded belt clips or mercenary leaders that picked their teeth with ruby daggers that always kept him from wandering off), and it's that same image he's still picturing in his head when he pushes past his tutor to level his given gun at the target barely ten yards away. Thumb stiff, grip pushed snug between his palms—
Grip pushed snug against his palm.
(Revised for its small size, and the fact that it's no worldshattering thing.)]
Easy.
[He purrs over his cocked shoulder. His wiry frame twisted at an angle opposite his neck. His head. Cream-colored suit coat catching light across thin beadwork in that dim excuse for light, where the course and its target are the only thing that shines.
If Fenris won't show him first, then he'll show Fenris instead.
—bang—
A pop. A scream of zipping movement from the barrel of his gun as it whips back, barely kept from catching his own cheek.
There's a mark on the target's conjured screen. It takes a moment to come fully into view, but still, it's there. A single, isolated, narrow little bullet mark punched into the lowest left corner.
Any further out, and it'd have gone right into dead air.]
no subject
The air leaves Astarion's nose in a rush.
Agitated and huffy, clutching that diminutive piece against his palm in a mirror to whatever movies or faff the boy and his friends take to watching when they aren't out actively hunting for wealthy game (projections bore him, truth be told, but there were a scarce few involving merchant princes with gilded belt clips or mercenary leaders that picked their teeth with ruby daggers that always kept him from wandering off), and it's that same image he's still picturing in his head when he pushes past his tutor to level his given gun at the target barely ten yards away. Thumb stiff, grip pushed snug between his palms—
Grip pushed snug against his palm.
(Revised for its small size, and the fact that it's no worldshattering thing.)]
Easy.
[He purrs over his cocked shoulder. His wiry frame twisted at an angle opposite his neck. His head. Cream-colored suit coat catching light across thin beadwork in that dim excuse for light, where the course and its target are the only thing that shines.
If Fenris won't show him first, then he'll show Fenris instead.
—bang—
A pop. A scream of zipping movement from the barrel of his gun as it whips back, barely kept from catching his own cheek.
There's a mark on the target's conjured screen. It takes a moment to come fully into view, but still, it's there. A single, isolated, narrow little bullet mark punched into the lowest left corner.
Any further out, and it'd have gone right into dead air.]