You'll miss my war-inclined feet the moment they're gone tonight, and pine for me until I return to the bed. Or did I imagine the fussed bat who herded me back to bed when I took too long getting water the other night?
Then again: Ataashi will steal my place the moment I lie down with the pups. You may be content after all.
I'll only be content when you return unharmed: I didn't like the idea of you leaving from the start— is anyone even keeping an eye on you whilst Karlach fights??
and JUSTIFIABLY CONCERNED THAT MY ONCE-KIN ALONGSIDE HALF THE DAMNED CITY ARE ALL LYING IN WAIT TO SNATCH YOU AND-OR MURDER YOU THE SECOND THAT YOU'RE NOTICED.
They're considerate beasts to wait until the match is over, then.
I'm sitting in broad daylight. Karlach is fighting on and off, and she keeps looking at me, making sure I'm where I was last. Gale cast a spell on me earlier that would track my location. I have magic. I can read a crowd. I learned how to kill a man over twenty years ago.
I'll be fine.
Gather up Fortunato and let Ataashi take my place and go to sleep, for I will be home soon. Or stay on the line with me, but do not insult me by saying I need looking after like I am a child in need of nannying— or a bird to be kept caged and safe.
Don't you dare opt to be so needlessly dramatic you sharp-toothed little thing.
You're not me.
And sitting in the sunlight without me at your side isn't exactly what I'd call nannying or a gilded cage either, but what do I know? Mine had iron bars and blood magic for its make.
[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
[His writing is a scrawl, jostled for the way he's walking and writing all at once. Darling heart, precious thing, his eyes locked on the smear of ink and the ring heavy in his pocket.]
Gaudy, I think, is the term. Well-meant, but too obvious. It—
[There's a long moment where he tries and fails to scribble out an example, and then scrawls it out.]
It had a giant ruby in the shape of a heart, with a lot of little "diamonds" and "sapphires" surrounding it— though for the price, I suspect they used colored glass.
[There's a pause, and then:]
We can return the one I bought, if you find you do not like it. I will not be offended.
[But that amused incredulity pales before the true subject at hand. What softens his sharp features and takes the fanged edge out of a smile that only knows sincerity.]
I know you won't.
[The little half-breath held imitates the one he'd take in life if they were speaking:]
You were always kinder than myself in that regard.
[Oh, and he nearly causes a fight in the streets for how he stops on his heels, staring down in awe and growing pleasure at those words. Oh, and he thinks again of that bloody cloth left in Thedas. The weight of it tied securely around his wrist, as much a part of his daily attire as his sword or his armor, and how right it always felt to have it near. He got into such a habit of worrying at it, you know. Touching it with two fingers or tying and retying it, pleased each time it reminded him of his beloved.]
You know you need not fear such a thing. Not when your taste in fashion is so much more select than mine. Besides: you know my tastes.
I doubt I'll ever take it off.
Did you find it yourself, or did Karlach aid you too?
[Absently, he brushes his thumb over his ring finger, a little smile on his face. He can feel the lack already, he thinks. There's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, a growing giddiness that makes him pick up the pace as he heads down the street.]
[It's going to be a dreadful nightmare trying to keep the thing from getting scuffed under Leto's metal talons, he realizes, casting a sidelong glance towards the little nightstand table where he'd hidden it beneath well-worn overhangs. Years of wear and tear will likely get to it regardless, and he's already more than prepared to have to set himself to stealing replacement gems for the one that inevitably goes down in a barfight or dockside brawl.
The thought brings a smile to his face.]
Wylliam.
[Wyll he means, as he's reasonably certain the young Duchal heir isn't actually sporting the name as a shortened variation, but a crow can never resist an opportunity to tease.]
He had it commissioned on my behalf from one of the local jewelers to avoid arousing suspicion from anyone the Szarr palace and its beneficiaries might employ, and I suppose given his heritage, that equated to skipping the line when it comes to turnaround.
I'm not complaining, of course. I've never had a ring spring fully to life, let alone be delivered to my doorstep, in the span of a single day and night.
Someone really ought to make a business out of it.
[They're both teasing little things, and he wouldn't love Astarion half as much if he didn't adore that sense of humor.]
Suggest it to him. If Baldur's Gate undergoes a violent revolution and he's left wanting for a job, jewelry delivery boy might just suit.
[Clever darling, Leto thinks, his bias unmistakable. Clever, clever darling to go to such efforts to hide this. And oh, as for Wyll himself: he'll have to find some way to make it up to him. Offering him praise or a free lesson in how to wield a proper blade (for all that rapier business is pretty, but not particularly effective, not to Leto's eye), maybe. He's grateful to him. More grateful than he can say.]
I'll be even more impressed with the ring once I see it— but right now, I think I may be more in awe you managed to corner him and convey all your specific instructions without cluing me in.
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Then again: Ataashi will steal my place the moment I lie down with the pups. You may be content after all.
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2/2
????
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what?
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i do not need LOOKING AFTER
are you drunk???
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I'm sitting in broad daylight. Karlach is fighting on and off, and she keeps looking at me, making sure I'm where I was last. Gale cast a spell on me earlier that would track my location. I have magic. I can read a crowd. I learned how to kill a man over twenty years ago.
I'll be fine.
Gather up Fortunato and let Ataashi take my place and go to sleep, for I will be home soon. Or stay on the line with me, but do not insult me by saying I need looking after like I am a child in need of nannying— or a bird to be kept caged and safe.
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You're not me.
And sitting in the sunlight without me at your side isn't exactly what I'd call nannying or a gilded cage either, but what do I know? Mine had iron bars and blood magic for its make.
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you tell me if you think two weeks could ever be enough.
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And here I just bought you a ring.
[And here he is, getting up and turning towards home, for what other option does he have when faced with a statement like that?]
Shall I return it? Only I spent several minutes arguing with Karlach over what would appeal to you.
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[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
what sort of design did she pick?
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Gaudy, I think, is the term. Well-meant, but too obvious. It—
[There's a long moment where he tries and fails to scribble out an example, and then scrawls it out.]
It had a giant ruby in the shape of a heart, with a lot of little "diamonds" and "sapphires" surrounding it— though for the price, I suspect they used colored glass.
[There's a pause, and then:]
We can return the one I bought, if you find you do not like it. I will not be offended.
1/
[All heart.
Utterly zero sense in fashion or decor.]
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I know you won't.
[The little half-breath held imitates the one he'd take in life if they were speaking:]
You were always kinder than myself in that regard.
3/3
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You know you need not fear such a thing. Not when your taste in fashion is so much more select than mine. Besides: you know my tastes.
I doubt I'll ever take it off.
Did you find it yourself, or did Karlach aid you too?
[Absently, he brushes his thumb over his ring finger, a little smile on his face. He can feel the lack already, he thinks. There's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, a growing giddiness that makes him pick up the pace as he heads down the street.]
When did you do this?
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The thought brings a smile to his face.]
Wylliam.
[Wyll he means, as he's reasonably certain the young Duchal heir isn't actually sporting the name as a shortened variation, but a crow can never resist an opportunity to tease.]
He had it commissioned on my behalf from one of the local jewelers to avoid arousing suspicion from anyone the Szarr palace and its beneficiaries might employ, and I suppose given his heritage, that equated to skipping the line when it comes to turnaround.
I'm not complaining, of course. I've never had a ring spring fully to life, let alone be delivered to my doorstep, in the span of a single day and night.
Someone really ought to make a business out of it.
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[They're both teasing little things, and he wouldn't love Astarion half as much if he didn't adore that sense of humor.]
Suggest it to him. If Baldur's Gate undergoes a violent revolution and he's left wanting for a job, jewelry delivery boy might just suit.
[Clever darling, Leto thinks, his bias unmistakable. Clever, clever darling to go to such efforts to hide this. And oh, as for Wyll himself: he'll have to find some way to make it up to him. Offering him praise or a free lesson in how to wield a proper blade (for all that rapier business is pretty, but not particularly effective, not to Leto's eye), maybe. He's grateful to him. More grateful than he can say.]
I'll be even more impressed with the ring once I see it— but right now, I think I may be more in awe you managed to corner him and convey all your specific instructions without cluing me in.
Silver or gold?
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