Go fix your pastries. [Astarion's heel stretches out far enough to kick at the tray of thoroughly drowned petit fours, threatening to spill wine on the blanket underneath.
And while Violet's eyes flare hot enough to burn inside their sockets, miraculously enough, he isn't bitten for it.
Like handling a pack of wild animals, apparently focused provocation— despite logically being the much worse and much, much more disastrous route— somehow has the opposite effect: Petras might've lunged, but he's moved past the point of no return and circled round to talking; Violet (fanged and shrewd Violet, who enjoys tormenting anyone she can), is more inclined to turn her prowess on Pale Petras than either Astarion or Fenris in the moment— and the association likely means that'll stay true for a while longer.
He's starting up a circus inside the borders of three blankets, and it's working well enough.]
Anyway, I made my choice. Fenris is right: I'm not playing at anything. [He might be courting a dog in the eyes of his family and peers, but the confidence in that warmth of tone insists: at least he's courting someone he enjoys.]
Look at him. You can't tell me you'd find the willpower to love a creature like that and then leave it.
[Which— like clockwork— yet again sparks a very heated session in which whether or not they could becomes the topic of the day for that pack of now-distracted sighthounds. Topic quickly drifting from Fenris to anyone, wherein Leon admits he considered fleeing once to try proposing to an elven duchess, and Petras spends four minutes bringing up a servant with the most piercing blue eyes anyone has ever seen.
It's not really relevant, but then again, seeing as how he still hasn't forgotten her, whoever she was, might tangentially be on point regardless.
And when the chattering's gone down and the food and drink dispersed alongside nearly everyone else—
Astarion exhales, slumping back flat against the earth. It's the first sign of weakness (relief) to triumph over cockiness all day, and it's no mistake it only shows up in front of Dal and Fenris, no one else.]
Oh go on. Say it.
[It's muttered to the sky.
He's speaking to Dalyria.]
'You meant what you told them today, didn't you?'
[Her inflection's there, distinct as anything— though he's too lazy to bother lifting his voice to finish off his imitation, thumbing loosely at the edge of Fenris' knee now that the storm has passed. Hello. Hi.]
no subject
And while Violet's eyes flare hot enough to burn inside their sockets, miraculously enough, he isn't bitten for it.
Like handling a pack of wild animals, apparently focused provocation— despite logically being the much worse and much, much more disastrous route— somehow has the opposite effect: Petras might've lunged, but he's moved past the point of no return and circled round to talking; Violet (fanged and shrewd Violet, who enjoys tormenting anyone she can), is more inclined to turn her prowess on Pale Petras than either Astarion or Fenris in the moment— and the association likely means that'll stay true for a while longer.
He's starting up a circus inside the borders of three blankets, and it's working well enough.]
Anyway, I made my choice. Fenris is right: I'm not playing at anything. [He might be courting a dog in the eyes of his family and peers, but the confidence in that warmth of tone insists: at least he's courting someone he enjoys.]
Look at him. You can't tell me you'd find the willpower to love a creature like that and then leave it.
[Which— like clockwork— yet again sparks a very heated session in which whether or not they could becomes the topic of the day for that pack of now-distracted sighthounds. Topic quickly drifting from Fenris to anyone, wherein Leon admits he considered fleeing once to try proposing to an elven duchess, and Petras spends four minutes bringing up a servant with the most piercing blue eyes anyone has ever seen.
It's not really relevant, but then again, seeing as how he still hasn't forgotten her, whoever she was, might tangentially be on point regardless.
And when the chattering's gone down and the food and drink dispersed alongside nearly everyone else—
Astarion exhales, slumping back flat against the earth. It's the first sign of weakness (relief) to triumph over cockiness all day, and it's no mistake it only shows up in front of Dal and Fenris, no one else.]
Oh go on. Say it.
[It's muttered to the sky.
He's speaking to Dalyria.]
'You meant what you told them today, didn't you?'
[Her inflection's there, distinct as anything— though he's too lazy to bother lifting his voice to finish off his imitation, thumbing loosely at the edge of Fenris' knee now that the storm has passed. Hello. Hi.]