[The agreement's been made, but Astarion's throat still feels tight (tight enough to choke him if he leans wrong), dragging up the idea of leaning back across his elbows again— his thin outline sinking back into soft, overstuffed down alongside a promise that won't wane: together. Together. Together.
It seems more real with each passing second.
Thank the gods for small segues though, if nothing else. A sudden wave of warmth flickering as it passes through a quickly thawing expression: trading out fear for its most familiar balm— and a dry glance that fights to be seen around the tumid edges of his pillows.]
What's to tell? They're no threat to you.
[Because that's where his own mind leaps first, of course. Innate as sucking air, particularly with the discussion they'd just had still resting soft inside their half-tensed palms.]
But....[Astarion interjects through a meandering hum] in case you want to shut them up next time they start to bark: they're all patriar. Mostly my age or younger— with the exception of one. [Antwun Dufay. The singular soul that hadn't been there the night Fenris came trampling through carpeted shores just to be met with glinting eyes and cold mockery in the dark.
Picking over it now, Astarion's glad he wasn't.
Mostly for the fact that shame— weeks, if not closing in on a full month late for its would-be-decent arrival— is busy scribbling the tips of Astarion's ears (and the short gaps between inkdrop moles and constellatory freckles) a few shades darker with its retrospective presence; he can't stand the thought of hearing Fenris denigrated by his peers.
Least of all by someone twice his age.]
Leon's a working apprentice to the Jannath line. [His scoff is feathering; pushing away malleable night air with its disdain.] You can expect him to supplicate himself like one, too. [Slim fingers gesticulate towards white curls. An example.] Human, long hair. Won't say much, but absolutely thinks he's right whenever he does, even when he's being as dense as wet cement. Which, for the record? Happens a lot.
Violet, on the other hand, is vicious. Ignore her, if you can. I don't even need to describe her; you'll know which one she is. [Antithetical to the term all bark, but....] Thankfully for all of us, she loses interest faster than anything so long as you play figuratively dead.
Sometimes I think she can only sense movement.
[Ha and also ha— but seriously though.]
Yousen's the grim-eyed halfling, and by nature only follows the herd: his shrewd perception does wonders for milling gossip— but only if he thinks the others will approve.
[Call it an unsung implication in delivery that the lanky noble at Fenris' side looks proud for just a few clear beats, insisting don't worry, I won't let them.]
Aurelia the tiefling's aloof and haughty. If her chin raised any higher, she'd be strutting around with a broken neck. [Again, his body language's shifted. Again, he mimics the creature he describes: his arms curling while his throat's stretched out long.] Our resident holier-than-thou heiress. Who so happens to use that as a tragically unfortunate mask for just how middling her family's influence is. Calling them glorified merchants is like calling a dockwhore a peeress— they both have tits and like to spread their legs, but that's about where the similarities begin and end.
Petras is....
[His head shakes. His tongue clicks.
....eugh.]
A fellow magistrate and the son of a to-do lord. Goes by the title of pale, though only the gods know why. Expect him to boast and brag and cock about as if he owns everyone and everything in earshot, showing said pale ass all the while. [Less than a threat:] He's a gnat. If he ever tries to give you hell, swat him and watch how red he turns.
It's quite fun, actually.
[Mm.]
And last but not least: Dal. Dalyria, that is. A drow healer of all things, if you can believe those exist. [How she got so far as to rub elbows with sunlight and aristocracy both....Astarion's spent too long wondering whether it's wealth or talent she's kept locked inside her estate vaults.] Gets in as much trouble as the rest of us, but can't stand to see us snarl.
The others wouldn't be half as irritating if she'd just let us have our way. As you saw— they could do with being taken down a peg. [As if Astarion would ever be the one to cow the pack, when he was crowing before them just to see them smile.]
Is that enough information to sate your curiosity? Or would you like me to give you their rut count as well?
[Too late: he's already volunteering that all on his own, flashing the blunt corners of his own gossiping canines.]
no subject
It seems more real with each passing second.
Thank the gods for small segues though, if nothing else. A sudden wave of warmth flickering as it passes through a quickly thawing expression: trading out fear for its most familiar balm— and a dry glance that fights to be seen around the tumid edges of his pillows.]
What's to tell? They're no threat to you.
[Because that's where his own mind leaps first, of course. Innate as sucking air, particularly with the discussion they'd just had still resting soft inside their half-tensed palms.]
But....[Astarion interjects through a meandering hum] in case you want to shut them up next time they start to bark: they're all patriar. Mostly my age or younger— with the exception of one. [Antwun Dufay. The singular soul that hadn't been there the night Fenris came trampling through carpeted shores just to be met with glinting eyes and cold mockery in the dark.
Picking over it now, Astarion's glad he wasn't.
Mostly for the fact that shame— weeks, if not closing in on a full month late for its would-be-decent arrival— is busy scribbling the tips of Astarion's ears (and the short gaps between inkdrop moles and constellatory freckles) a few shades darker with its retrospective presence; he can't stand the thought of hearing Fenris denigrated by his peers.
Least of all by someone twice his age.]
Leon's a working apprentice to the Jannath line. [His scoff is feathering; pushing away malleable night air with its disdain.] You can expect him to supplicate himself like one, too. [Slim fingers gesticulate towards white curls. An example.] Human, long hair. Won't say much, but absolutely thinks he's right whenever he does, even when he's being as dense as wet cement. Which, for the record? Happens a lot.
Violet, on the other hand, is vicious. Ignore her, if you can. I don't even need to describe her; you'll know which one she is. [Antithetical to the term all bark, but....] Thankfully for all of us, she loses interest faster than anything so long as you play figuratively dead.
Sometimes I think she can only sense movement.
[Ha and also ha— but seriously though.]
Yousen's the grim-eyed halfling, and by nature only follows the herd: his shrewd perception does wonders for milling gossip— but only if he thinks the others will approve.
[Call it an unsung implication in delivery that the lanky noble at Fenris' side looks proud for just a few clear beats, insisting don't worry, I won't let them.]
Aurelia the tiefling's aloof and haughty. If her chin raised any higher, she'd be strutting around with a broken neck. [Again, his body language's shifted. Again, he mimics the creature he describes: his arms curling while his throat's stretched out long.] Our resident holier-than-thou heiress. Who so happens to use that as a tragically unfortunate mask for just how middling her family's influence is. Calling them glorified merchants is like calling a dockwhore a peeress— they both have tits and like to spread their legs, but that's about where the similarities begin and end.
Petras is....
[His head shakes. His tongue clicks.
....eugh.]
A fellow magistrate and the son of a to-do lord. Goes by the title of pale, though only the gods know why. Expect him to boast and brag and cock about as if he owns everyone and everything in earshot, showing said pale ass all the while. [Less than a threat:] He's a gnat. If he ever tries to give you hell, swat him and watch how red he turns.
It's quite fun, actually.
[Mm.]
And last but not least: Dal. Dalyria, that is. A drow healer of all things, if you can believe those exist. [How she got so far as to rub elbows with sunlight and aristocracy both....Astarion's spent too long wondering whether it's wealth or talent she's kept locked inside her estate vaults.] Gets in as much trouble as the rest of us, but can't stand to see us snarl.
The others wouldn't be half as irritating if she'd just let us have our way. As you saw— they could do with being taken down a peg. [As if Astarion would ever be the one to cow the pack, when he was crowing before them just to see them smile.]
Is that enough information to sate your curiosity? Or would you like me to give you their rut count as well?
[Too late: he's already volunteering that all on his own, flashing the blunt corners of his own gossiping canines.]
Aurelia's last— but Petras is a pitiable second.