[Like sleeping giants, all cities have fangs. The smaller the beast, the more avoidable its appetites; larger ones— the sort that choke out starlight and sunlight itself— become leviathans unsated soon enough. Dangerous, and driven by desperation's vulgar maw. And what it doesn't devour, it poisons. And what it doesn't poison dies anyway, or flees, if it knows better. (The smooth weight of his name hitting his ears, assurance given through a gentle darling.) On and on and on (never to be heard again).
Tempered glass twists once within his grip, bottleneck shifted up around lithe fingers, and then—
—crash—
Against the farthest wall, that oh-so-priceless bottle shatters into a thousand little shards, glittering as if it were a sea of stars.]
Hm.
[Thoughtful, that sound, curling the corner of stained lips.]
[A short, sharp bark of a laugh, surprised and all the more delighted by it. It's louder than he usually allows himself and he's too drunk to care: he grins as he glances between shattered glass and Astarion's face, absurdly pleased by that bit of indulgent rebellion.]
I told you.
[So drunkenly smug. So drunkenly enthusiastic (and no matter those revelations of this conversation, for that is something Fenris will have to think about. He is too attached to Astarion to be upset by them, but nor will he ignore those implications; merely incorporate them into his understanding of his newfound companion). He reaches for the next bottle, his fingers idly picking at the label. There's no rush, not tonight, but nor does he see any reason not to get even more drunk.
Whatever hangover he has is a tomorrow-Fenris problem.]
Well?
You have had your first night of drunken revelry, as promised, and seen a fair bit of Kirkwall to boot. Is it everything you hoped it would be?
You were on the nose about one thing, sweetheart. Don't let it go to your head. [Someone still has rocks between his toes, thank you.
And the second bottle? Same as the first once weightlessly snatched as deftly as stray coin from its owners' grasp. He takes a sip, and for a moment—
Oh, it's a little blinding to his senses, yet again. Too sweet. Too beautiful. Too wondrous, by any stretch. And really, beneath the casual lay of this moment, that's his answer too, though he's far too soused for striking self reflection. The best he can do runs far less deep.]
Mmh. Well you know, what I'd actually hoped for was never to be collared again. Shackled to a place that I can't flee, despite the best of all my efforts. [Mildly said, his hand turns over, flexing. Through thick, dark leather, nothing visible shines through. He can still feel it though, like a burr. Like a weight somehow atop and pushed within the center of his palm— docile, for the moment. Sedate. His smile's slanted, but sincere.]
In lieu of that, tonight's surpassed everything I ever pictured in captivity. Your old city included.
[He's coming round on Kirkwall, now that he's seen more than just the Gallows by way of one closed-off (assigned) room.
That, and the warm fire helps. The drink in his hands— dust-laden bottle cool between long fingers and against the lower measure of his belly where he sprawls. The space itself, empty and overlooming like a promise that all the grandeur of its prior master lies dead, inherently unlike the weeping walls of Cazador's estate. And the presence at his side—
His smile's slanted, but gods, it truly is sincere.]
But then again, I never exactly had the most inventive imagination.
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[Like sleeping giants, all cities have fangs. The smaller the beast, the more avoidable its appetites; larger ones— the sort that choke out starlight and sunlight itself— become leviathans unsated soon enough. Dangerous, and driven by desperation's vulgar maw. And what it doesn't devour, it poisons. And what it doesn't poison dies anyway, or flees, if it knows better. (The smooth weight of his name hitting his ears, assurance given through a gentle darling.) On and on and on (never to be heard again).
Tempered glass twists once within his grip, bottleneck shifted up around lithe fingers, and then—
—crash—
Against the farthest wall, that oh-so-priceless bottle shatters into a thousand little shards, glittering as if it were a sea of stars.]
Hm.
[Thoughtful, that sound, curling the corner of stained lips.]
You know— you're right. It is fun.
no subject
[A short, sharp bark of a laugh, surprised and all the more delighted by it. It's louder than he usually allows himself and he's too drunk to care: he grins as he glances between shattered glass and Astarion's face, absurdly pleased by that bit of indulgent rebellion.]
I told you.
[So drunkenly smug. So drunkenly enthusiastic (and no matter those revelations of this conversation, for that is something Fenris will have to think about. He is too attached to Astarion to be upset by them, but nor will he ignore those implications; merely incorporate them into his understanding of his newfound companion). He reaches for the next bottle, his fingers idly picking at the label. There's no rush, not tonight, but nor does he see any reason not to get even more drunk.
Whatever hangover he has is a tomorrow-Fenris problem.]
Well?
You have had your first night of drunken revelry, as promised, and seen a fair bit of Kirkwall to boot. Is it everything you hoped it would be?
no subject
And the second bottle? Same as the first once weightlessly snatched as deftly as stray coin from its owners' grasp. He takes a sip, and for a moment—
Oh, it's a little blinding to his senses, yet again. Too sweet. Too beautiful. Too wondrous, by any stretch. And really, beneath the casual lay of this moment, that's his answer too, though he's far too soused for striking self reflection. The best he can do runs far less deep.]
Mmh. Well you know, what I'd actually hoped for was never to be collared again. Shackled to a place that I can't flee, despite the best of all my efforts. [Mildly said, his hand turns over, flexing. Through thick, dark leather, nothing visible shines through. He can still feel it though, like a burr. Like a weight somehow atop and pushed within the center of his palm— docile, for the moment. Sedate.
His smile's slanted, but sincere.]
In lieu of that, tonight's surpassed everything I ever pictured in captivity. Your old city included.
[He's coming round on Kirkwall, now that he's seen more than just the Gallows by way of one closed-off (assigned) room.
That, and the warm fire helps. The drink in his hands— dust-laden bottle cool between long fingers and against the lower measure of his belly where he sprawls. The space itself, empty and overlooming like a promise that all the grandeur of its prior master lies dead, inherently unlike the weeping walls of Cazador's estate. And the presence at his side—
His smile's slanted, but gods, it truly is sincere.]
But then again, I never exactly had the most inventive imagination.