[He laughs softly, at first in drunken instinct, and then again as the realization of what Astarion is saying sets in. Swiftly he rises up from his seat, his grin widening into something recklessly conspiratorial.]
Easy, easy— take your loot, I will handle the bottles—
[Clumsily, stupidly, drunkenly— liquor trickling coldly against his fingers as he snatches a glass from Astarion's hand, swigging it swiftly and shuddering as it stings his throat. He grabs bottles by their necks and tucks them beneath one arm, laughing as he hasn't in years as he throws some money on the table and they slip out swiftly (and not half so subtly as they seem to think, but no one thinks them anything more than two drunken fools).
The night air is cool and refreshing, and the two moons shine brightly down on them as they emerge into the evening. And for the first time since he entered Kirkwall, Fenris doesn't think about how miserable he is, or the ghosts that eternally haunt him in this city. He's too busy grinning over at Astarion, drunkenly delighted and still more than a little awed by his deft fingers.]
Come. Before they follow—
[Up to Hightown, where his mansion lies. He doesn't think about the broken glass scattered over the floors, nor the layers of dust and debris that have settled over the past decade and a half; he isn't thinking of anything save Astarion, and how much lighter his own heart feels in this moment.]
Now you're getting in the spirit of Kirkwall. Keep those trinkets close, though— there is a not insubstantial chance we'll be jumped before we reach home.
[He sways faintly as he walks, the world spinning in the best way.]
Then again, you can handle yourself . . . and I would not pass up the opportunity to watch you work again, in one way if not another.
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Easy, easy— take your loot, I will handle the bottles—
[Clumsily, stupidly, drunkenly— liquor trickling coldly against his fingers as he snatches a glass from Astarion's hand, swigging it swiftly and shuddering as it stings his throat. He grabs bottles by their necks and tucks them beneath one arm, laughing as he hasn't in years as he throws some money on the table and they slip out swiftly (and not half so subtly as they seem to think, but no one thinks them anything more than two drunken fools).
The night air is cool and refreshing, and the two moons shine brightly down on them as they emerge into the evening. And for the first time since he entered Kirkwall, Fenris doesn't think about how miserable he is, or the ghosts that eternally haunt him in this city. He's too busy grinning over at Astarion, drunkenly delighted and still more than a little awed by his deft fingers.]
Come. Before they follow—
[Up to Hightown, where his mansion lies. He doesn't think about the broken glass scattered over the floors, nor the layers of dust and debris that have settled over the past decade and a half; he isn't thinking of anything save Astarion, and how much lighter his own heart feels in this moment.]
Now you're getting in the spirit of Kirkwall. Keep those trinkets close, though— there is a not insubstantial chance we'll be jumped before we reach home.
[He sways faintly as he walks, the world spinning in the best way.]
Then again, you can handle yourself . . . and I would not pass up the opportunity to watch you work again, in one way if not another.