[There's no answer for some time. Not an egregious stretch, given Leto's present activity and all its demands (no doubt he's snipped at more than once for thumbing at that book with measuring tape tucked taut against lithe contours), but by the time he's nearly finished, through an open store window letting in the thick, balmy heat of the Jewel Coast this time of year, there comes a cascade of fluttering wings— and a dark, overly large crow who slams down hard across the sill in landing. A discerning twitch of its wings, its head, jerking once, twice— surveying the scene it's fluttered into out of one eye before the next— a redsilk bundle tied off with a slip of parchment and a small phial caught within its talons.
['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—]
With his wings caught between both hands, he screeches like a siren— feathers angrily flared, nimble talons kicking and batting at the branded fingers that need to partially let go in order to seize their prize, and once that happens— once Leto actually manages to steal away the little bundle and all attached accoutrements, he's scolded via pecking till he gives Poe leave to flutter away in a livid huff, dark down peppered in his wake.
From the doorway, a few heavy steps precede Karlach's horns (and then the rest of her) as she peeks in. Not knowing exactly how a fitting goes, but remembering that Gortash's had never been that loud, she chances an unsure, 'everything okay in here?'
To which the tailor answers gruffly from his desk, 'I'm charging twice for that.'
But Leto has his prize, so does it really matter?
Dark crimson silk that smells of brandy and bergamot, rosemary with a hint of leather oil and— ah, there it is, the little phial that'd been gleaming. No longer than a thumbnail, and no wider than a quill nib, signature lilac oil trapped inside and corked off with a gilded topper. And what's more is that around its neck, attached to the phial's ornate cap, a golden chain dangles loosely in the nest of Leto's palm, turning the whole arrangement into a necklace. A discreet offering— after all, one would need to know the giftor well to understand it's no mere portable decanter or bottle of cologne.
There's only one thing Astarion uses lilac oil for, and it wears that devilish intent across the parchment last unfurled, illuminated by the bottled glow of reflecting daylight funneled through the belly of that phial.]
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And then it squawks at Fenris. Loudly.]
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['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
Not that it matters: Poe is interminably louder.
With his wings caught between both hands, he screeches like a siren— feathers angrily flared, nimble talons kicking and batting at the branded fingers that need to partially let go in order to seize their prize, and once that happens— once Leto actually manages to steal away the little bundle and all attached accoutrements, he's scolded via pecking till he gives Poe leave to flutter away in a livid huff, dark down peppered in his wake.
From the doorway, a few heavy steps precede Karlach's horns (and then the rest of her) as she peeks in. Not knowing exactly how a fitting goes, but remembering that Gortash's had never been that loud, she chances an unsure, 'everything okay in here?'
To which the tailor answers gruffly from his desk, 'I'm charging twice for that.'
But Leto has his prize, so does it really matter?
Dark crimson silk that smells of brandy and bergamot, rosemary with a hint of leather oil and— ah, there it is, the little phial that'd been gleaming. No longer than a thumbnail, and no wider than a quill nib, signature lilac oil trapped inside and corked off with a gilded topper. And what's more is that around its neck, attached to the phial's ornate cap, a golden chain dangles loosely in the nest of Leto's palm, turning the whole arrangement into a necklace. A discreet offering— after all, one would need to know the giftor well to understand it's no mere portable decanter or bottle of cologne.
There's only one thing Astarion uses lilac oil for, and it wears that devilish intent across the parchment last unfurled, illuminated by the bottled glow of reflecting daylight funneled through the belly of that phial.]
Don't keep me waiting tonight.
Eternally your husband
-Astarion Ancunín