['Sir, please stop moving,' the dwarven tailor says patiently. 'We're nearly done.' Leto's lost count of how many times they've asked him that, spoken with the same unerringly patient intonation each and every time. And to be fair to Leto: he's tried. He really has. It's just that he's always so full of energy even on the worst of days, and scribbling flirtatious come-ons in his notebook does him no favors, never mind having to wait for what feels like hours for any kind of response.
But here one is now.
Still, he tells himself, and tries to keep his form rigid as he reaches out one arm. It's only the second time he's seen Astarion's familiar, but what other crow would possibly land in the windowsill? Still: the bird doesn't look at him with any kind of recognition. It just sort of stares at him, black eyes beady and vaguely murderous, and squawks at him again.]
Come here. Come here—
[It doesn't help that Leto isn't particularly fond of any kind of bird, much less corvids. There's a lot of flapping involved and it makes him nervous, and Poe is . . . well. Poe is a very new addition to their family. It's only the second time Leto's ever seen him (and the first barely counts, for he thought him a hallucination). But surely he was sent for a purpose . . .
. . . which never stopped Astarion from being playful, of course.
He leans towards him, trying very hard to keep his legs rooted in place as he sort of inches his arm out further, his eyes locked on that parchment, on that phial— just a little further, and—
Poe flutters back half an inch. It's impossible for birds to look smug, and yet, somehow, he does.]
Poe—
['Sir, please—'
They repeat that little routine— grab, dodge, sternly toned warning— about four or five times. Long enough that the tailor actually finishes his measurements before Leto manages to grab the damned bird, both hands clamping around its little black body in triumph, and then stands there and endures any number of passive-aggressive comments about impatient teenagers and their addiction to messenger birds.
But whatever. Whatever. It will be well worth it, for now he at least has something to sustain him for the next few hours while his clothes are tailored into his precise measurements. A message, a message, and surely it will be something filthy, Leto thinks. He's had a lot of time to think about what it might be— instructions, maybe? Some filthy demand to drink that phial and make it back upstairs before the aphrodisiac hits, or maybe something more instructional— something on how to dress, or some game to play when he comes in— oh, but it must be worth it, it will be, it has to be—]
no subject
['Sir, please stop moving,' the dwarven tailor says patiently. 'We're nearly done.' Leto's lost count of how many times they've asked him that, spoken with the same unerringly patient intonation each and every time. And to be fair to Leto: he's tried. He really has. It's just that he's always so full of energy even on the worst of days, and scribbling flirtatious come-ons in his notebook does him no favors, never mind having to wait for what feels like hours for any kind of response.
But here one is now.
Still, he tells himself, and tries to keep his form rigid as he reaches out one arm. It's only the second time he's seen Astarion's familiar, but what other crow would possibly land in the windowsill? Still: the bird doesn't look at him with any kind of recognition. It just sort of stares at him, black eyes beady and vaguely murderous, and squawks at him again.]
Come here. Come here—
[It doesn't help that Leto isn't particularly fond of any kind of bird, much less corvids. There's a lot of flapping involved and it makes him nervous, and Poe is . . . well. Poe is a very new addition to their family. It's only the second time Leto's ever seen him (and the first barely counts, for he thought him a hallucination). But surely he was sent for a purpose . . .
. . . which never stopped Astarion from being playful, of course.
He leans towards him, trying very hard to keep his legs rooted in place as he sort of inches his arm out further, his eyes locked on that parchment, on that phial— just a little further, and—
Poe flutters back half an inch. It's impossible for birds to look smug, and yet, somehow, he does.]
Poe—
['Sir, please—'
They repeat that little routine— grab, dodge, sternly toned warning— about four or five times. Long enough that the tailor actually finishes his measurements before Leto manages to grab the damned bird, both hands clamping around its little black body in triumph, and then stands there and endures any number of passive-aggressive comments about impatient teenagers and their addiction to messenger birds.
But whatever. Whatever. It will be well worth it, for now he at least has something to sustain him for the next few hours while his clothes are tailored into his precise measurements. A message, a message, and surely it will be something filthy, Leto thinks. He's had a lot of time to think about what it might be— instructions, maybe? Some filthy demand to drink that phial and make it back upstairs before the aphrodisiac hits, or maybe something more instructional— something on how to dress, or some game to play when he comes in— oh, but it must be worth it, it will be, it has to be—]