Phshf. You're drunk. I'm delightfully tipsy. [Insists a creature that once risen nearly falls back flat across the floor. Twice.
But he stills his horizon (mostly), sets his swaying mainsail, and carves said charted languid course towards what he no doubt hopes will prove itself a bet well won.
Halfway to his target, and Astarion yanks the front of his blouse open with one hand, grabs a bottle of port from the counter with another, and deftly—
Oh, pours a glass of wine for the lady pointed out as his secondary option. Something spoken as he wends in with a smile and a few deferential nods— a shake of his head, a more intentive look, and then less than one minute later he's up and peeling away from that corner of the bar, taking what's left of the bottle with him. Not returning yet. Perhaps lost?
Ah— to the first mark again. That nervous, twitching thing (dressed no better than the rest of this bar's flock, but a fair sight cleaner, at the very least. Attentive and yet frail, or attentive because of frailty, which is something worth noting for even those spectating this sly sport). The one that jolts like a startled fawn before Astarion fills his cup and gestures towards the woman at the bar— who's looking at the man Astarion speaks to— who's looking back at her with a smile that can only be described as outright bashful.
Up goes the now distracted banker (merchant? Dockside ledgerkeep?), down goes Astarion into— lopsidedly drinking from that freshly orphaned cup, then up one last time with the bottle well in hand, slinking across a thoroughly distracted tavern and back towards their table.]
As his lordship requested: [begins the show portion of show and tell upon arrival, all laid out before Fenris directly like a hunting dog laying out dead ducks, each carefully retrieved ] one necklace and math- mavtching pair of bangles, one ladies' coin purse, one skinflint's wallet, and one bottle of mostly intact port. To go.
no subject
But he stills his horizon (mostly), sets his swaying mainsail, and carves said charted languid course towards what he no doubt hopes will prove itself a bet well won.
Halfway to his target, and Astarion yanks the front of his blouse open with one hand, grabs a bottle of port from the counter with another, and deftly—
Oh, pours a glass of wine for the lady pointed out as his secondary option. Something spoken as he wends in with a smile and a few deferential nods— a shake of his head, a more intentive look, and then less than one minute later he's up and peeling away from that corner of the bar, taking what's left of the bottle with him. Not returning yet. Perhaps lost?
Ah— to the first mark again. That nervous, twitching thing (dressed no better than the rest of this bar's flock, but a fair sight cleaner, at the very least. Attentive and yet frail, or attentive because of frailty, which is something worth noting for even those spectating this sly sport). The one that jolts like a startled fawn before Astarion fills his cup and gestures towards the woman at the bar— who's looking at the man Astarion speaks to— who's looking back at her with a smile that can only be described as outright bashful.
Up goes the now distracted banker (merchant? Dockside ledgerkeep?), down goes Astarion into— lopsidedly drinking from that freshly orphaned cup, then up one last time with the bottle well in hand, slinking across a thoroughly distracted tavern and back towards their table.]
As his lordship requested: [begins the show portion of show and tell upon arrival, all laid out before Fenris directly like a hunting dog laying out dead ducks, each carefully retrieved ] one necklace and math- mavtching pair of bangles, one ladies' coin purse, one skinflint's wallet, and one bottle of mostly intact port. To go.