Shall I speak irreverently to you, then? Few stories end with death occurring midway through a ribald tale.
[Around them, the sky lightens. Pink streaks turn blazing shades of orange and scarlet and gold, as towards the west, the last vestiges of night hold out stubbornly for a few minutes more. Dawn is here, and it will not be long before the sun herself rises from behind the mountains. Even now, the world changes around them: colors suddenly more vivid than they had been in the hours before, the deep-dyed indigos and emeralds becoming something softer. Sweeter. Lighter, in every shape and form.
And Astarion is so good at looking calm. Truly he is, and Fenris will not spoil that act, no matter what he might suspect lurks beneath it. Part of him thinks to speak, prattling on about nonsense for the sole reason for distraction, but . . . ah, that was never his style, and it does not suit. Better not to flinch from this, to Fenris' reckoning. Best to face it as best they both can, and accept whatever consequences from from it.
But as the air begins to warm and the dew glimmers on the grass, liquid gold finally cresting over the horizon, he sets his hand atop Astarion's shoulder, gripping it wordlessly.]
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Shall I speak irreverently to you, then? Few stories end with death occurring midway through a ribald tale.
[Around them, the sky lightens. Pink streaks turn blazing shades of orange and scarlet and gold, as towards the west, the last vestiges of night hold out stubbornly for a few minutes more. Dawn is here, and it will not be long before the sun herself rises from behind the mountains. Even now, the world changes around them: colors suddenly more vivid than they had been in the hours before, the deep-dyed indigos and emeralds becoming something softer. Sweeter. Lighter, in every shape and form.
And Astarion is so good at looking calm. Truly he is, and Fenris will not spoil that act, no matter what he might suspect lurks beneath it. Part of him thinks to speak, prattling on about nonsense for the sole reason for distraction, but . . . ah, that was never his style, and it does not suit. Better not to flinch from this, to Fenris' reckoning. Best to face it as best they both can, and accept whatever consequences from from it.
But as the air begins to warm and the dew glimmers on the grass, liquid gold finally cresting over the horizon, he sets his hand atop Astarion's shoulder, gripping it wordlessly.]