Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]
no subject
[And it's nothing.
Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]