It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?
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It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?