[What owlish creatures they've all become, their eyes wide and their appetites wider— save for Dal, of course, who has enough sense in her head to see the larger picture rather than the waves of pure shock still roiling as they bounce back and forth between the others, some of whom seem to have forgotten how to blink.
A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]
no subject
A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]