[Now empty, there's no purpose in clinging to all that remains of his stolen plunder: with care it's set aside in those first few moments of traversal on Fenris' part, and by the time he's turned himself around—
He sees nothing more than a very handsome elf scrabbling up across sections of beams, bars and girders, and much of the latter obscures the more ungainly moments of his struggles at the very least. Something Astarion's now-dulled senses can't track by way of overheard heartbeats or the fainter hiss of rushing blood, not even once he's plonked down (fallen, more like, in a sprawl of collapsed angles and fangbound panting), grinning at the slouched elf at his side.]
You don't say. [Comes out especially breathy, tugging at the loose front of his shirt— slightly damp from prior spillage— which has the additional effect of wafting the scent of rum and sweetened brandy out into the cool night air.]
no subject
He sees nothing more than a very handsome elf scrabbling up across sections of beams, bars and girders, and much of the latter obscures the more ungainly moments of his struggles at the very least. Something Astarion's now-dulled senses can't track by way of overheard heartbeats or the fainter hiss of rushing blood, not even once he's plonked down (fallen, more like, in a sprawl of collapsed angles and fangbound panting), grinning at the slouched elf at his side.]
You don't say. [Comes out especially breathy, tugging at the loose front of his shirt— slightly damp from prior spillage— which has the additional effect of wafting the scent of rum and sweetened brandy out into the cool night air.]
What exactly does that make us, then?