Granted, a healthy dose of caution would’ve done Astarion good long before now in regards to scouting out his prey before he has his gloved hands perched just at their hip— but in his defense, so few creatures in Kirkwall are sharp enough to even notice when they’re being robbed blind, let alone turn the entire thing into an ambush of sorts. That pitching little moment when the man he'd been hunting turned almost immediately on his heel the very second that distance between them became nominal, and Astarion realized they weren't at all alone in that ratty little corner of Lowtown.
Which...all right, yes, fine. An albinic elf with sharp teeth admittedly stands out in just about any crowd, but this time he was certain he was the one doing the stalking, not the other way around.
Still, he knows where he’s going in his present flight from looming disaster. These streets are like a second home, now, and if he can just cut through this alleyway unscathed, keeping that cluster of pursuers at a distance, he’ll reach the docks and all its bustling signs of life. The perfect place to disappear, even with his face.
Footsteps heavy over stone. Heart pounding in his ears. Easy. Done a thousand times before. One last corner before—
He skids so hard to a halt he very nearly topples over to avoid colliding with yet another pack of waiting silhouettes, cutting off the exact route he’d meant to take.]
[Look: he is no stranger to dealing with slavers, even now. Danarius and his illegitimate sons are dead, but shockingly, Tevinter has not taken well to even one elf routinely and relentlessly disrupting the steady flooding income of slaves. Fenris does not know the current price on his head, but Maker knows it's high enough that he's routinely spotted and bothered. Often it's easy enough to dispatch with them: idiots who see the promise of money and don't wonder why anyone else has cashed in, oh, yes, those are throats easily slit.
But sometimes, even slavers are smart. Sometimes, they manage a proper ambush, a two-pronged attack that had sent Fenris running. Three dead at the site of the ambush, four on his tail— if he can just find an alley somewhere, some chokehold where they'll be forced to come at him two at a time, he can plant his feet and sweep through them, he knows he can.
Duck down the alleyway, one sharp turn, and thank the Maker for quick reflexes, for he nearly murders the poor elf he all but runs headon into. Silver-haired and chased by, oh, too many others . . . they must have mistaken him for Fenris. They must have seen someone with pointed ears and silver hair and decided to take their chances. Why not? At worst, they get even the ordinary payout for a slave.
This does not make the elf Fenris' problem, not really. But it sort of does, all at once.]
If you cannot fight, stay behind me. Back to the wall.
[He says it distractedly, trying to keep track of too many opponents at once. Everyone's gone terribly still, waiting to see who will strike first— but though the odds are against them, not impossibly so. The new group of men doesn't even have armor (and that, later, will strike at Fenris; these aren't slavers, not all of them, but it's hard to think when you're caught up in the moment). They can survive this.
He waits, tense— but there, one slaver from Fenris' group growing impatient and darting forward, blade flashing through the air, and oh, how swiftly Fenris' sword rises to meet him in response. Three stabs to kill him, his body crumpling before Fenris— but while an alley had its tactical advantages, it also means Fenris hasn't any room to swing, not really. He won't be able to kill quite so fast as he ordinarily does, and oh, doesn't everyone seem to realize it all at once. The other three slavers rush forward, yelling loudly, and oh, fuck it—
It happens very quickly; later, he'll remember it broken up into moments. One: Fenris goes invisible, his lyrium bursting into a bright brilliant blue glow before fading, the scent of ozone thick in the air and everyone shouting. Two: screams, the scent of ozone overpowered by copper, blood spraying wildly as one man, two, three, clutches at their chests, their torsos, hearts and lungs torn halfway out of their bodies, evisercated but not necessarily dead just yet. Three: his bloody fingers wrapping tight around the other elf's wrist, yanking him invisibly forward, urging him through the stumbling bodies—]
Run!
[Sometimes a tactical retreat is best. Away, down the streets, and he reappears as they move, heading not for the docks but up, up on the rooftops, where it's easier to leap from roof to roof in a frantic dash away.]
[He can fight. Gods above he can fight by now, proof laid out in the Silent Wastes behind Tevinter walls— in the wreckage of Val Chevin, where one more blood mage rots in tatters— vicious enough that he’ll easily bleed anyone foolish enough to get close.
The problem is, Astarion bleeds too.
And now that he’s as tentatively mortal as anyone else in Thedas, shadows don’t exactly wreath him in glorious strength.
All right. Fine. Middling strength. The strength of a spawn, rather than a lord, but it’d still be more than what he has now in seemingly living form. In other words, he knows when he’s dangerously outnumbered and at risk for a thousand nagging— potentially unraveling— cuts. He knows when he’s in danger. And he knows the second someone comes rushing his way, a blur against a darkened backdrop, white hair and pale lines—
He—
He doesn’t move.
'Stay behind me', and utterly dumbstruck, Astarion simply does, in fact, stay. Watches the outpouring of lyrium-bursts as stupidly as he’d ever done in their first meeting, crimson stare wide and bewildered, and the name Fenris on his lips— lost completely to the fray itself.
And pulled in the next second.
Right.
Hells, right. Run first. Disbelief later.
To the rooftops he follows, and rapidly the two of them descend into the fluid simplicity of survival: avoiding the rusted metal lining stony structures each time they leap deftly from ledge to ledge in retreat.
And whether their adversaries are doggedly tailing still, or whether nimbleness gives them an advantage, it won’t be worth half as much as a clean getaway: nearer to the foundry than the docks, it’s Astarion that grabs for Fenris this time (he knows better, something to be said for pain, but necessity’s necessity), twisting him off course towards the edge of a roof with no connections.]
This way— trust me, darling.
[Breathless. Quick. One hard yank before they’re careening wildly over the edge.
Before they land in a spare heap of ruined sheeting left behind from the last inward influx of seafaring vessels still slithering down from Val Chevin. Rough, not particularly soft, but still preferable to broken bones or a knife to the ribs or— if particularly unlucky— a set of binding shackles.
And when Astarion spurs himself to his feet in the very next breath, he pulls Fenris with him one last time, shoving him flat against the wall beneath a tattered awning, his eyes cast high to try and ensure they haven’t been successfully spotted.]
I heard that you have a fixer-upper in need of fixing up.
[Dante does keep his ear to the ground, but he's also heard a lot of things and he's passed by the dilapidated manor enough times to know it's a fixer-upper.]
[Glory be, and Fenris honestly blinks for a few seconds, taken aback by the offer. Not because it's so unbelievable, but because he isn't used to getting things he needs so easily. He'd thought—
Well, it doesn't matter what he'd thought.]
I do, yes. Astarion tipped you off?
[He assumes. Although, really, it isn't that hard a guess, the manor is in such a state of disrepair.]
Not to be cryptic and mysterious, but it might be easier to explain if I just show you.
Come to my place in Lowtown. I need your help.
[And, if (or perhaps when) Fenris makes that trek, he’ll find the door to Astarion’s home unlocked, the former vampire perched in clear dismay somewhere near a half-lit hearth—
And one hulking shade of a wolf perched atop the bed, almost buckling its frame— its eyes blazing a sickly shade of Fade Touched green— massive head whipping around to face the sound of an intrusion, fur bristling in alert.]
[In the pages of Leto's book appears (1) entirely new scribble:]
[It'd be super cute if not for an arrow drawn just underneath it complete with regal looking writing that spells out the word 'YOU', and ends with ':)'.]
Call my masterpiece inaccurate all you want, but you certainly couldn't seem to stop yourself from greedily wolfing down my assets the last time you had me on your tongue. Always trying to take more than you could easily manage. Nearly gagging for the effort.
[Precious.]
Anyway I never took you for the flowers and chocolates sort compared to damp thighs, bruised skin.
...a sore throat.
So, in the interest of self-betterment and proving myself worthy of your affection: if I'm wrong, I'll happily adjust my present strategy in regards to all my declarations of adoration.
[It's late (read: just past noon). The bakery-flat curtains are drawn, his coffin lid tightly shut— though he isn't even close to tired, yet. And much to one local amatus' immense pain: Leto isn't home right now (because someone insists on paying rent via legally sanctioned murder, for some annoying reason). In fact, he's not even within reach—
Which is a sundamned tragedy, Astarion'll tell you.
But then again, that's where stones of farspeech come in handy.]
....can I ask you something, my precious little cabochon?
[No 'hello'. No 'are you busy, darling?' —no. Just that nosy little sing-song tone signaling impending boredom.
[It's both refreshing and intriguing to get to dart past the city's walls. He quite enjoys Baldur's Gate, don't get him wrong— but it's fascinating to venture outside it and see another aspect of this new world. Add to the fact he's managed to close a significant gap between him and his quarry, and he's in a rather good mood when he hears Astarion's voice in his ear.
[Oh, and the message surprises him when he gets it, but he's all the more pleased for it. There's something uniquely wonderful about this kind of fussing, especially when it comes unexpectedly.]
sleep eludes me. i forgot how ataashi would kick in her sleep.
[And maybe some nights, when his fears get the better of him and there isn't a pair of cool arms to snuggle up into, he doesn't even bother trying.]
i will explain my reasoning in a moment, but a question for you first: do you truly expect me to pick anything other than vampirism, regardless of the demon in question?
Every shoddy pickup line, every horrible nickname or filthy word, pushed to the absolute limits of Astarion's rich-throated charisma, and weighed equally therein.
He takes a sip of brandy in an overcrowded Lower City dive, heat sticking to his lips (drawing out a flash-quick lick to clean the slate) before— (every syllable goes pantherine. Rumbling— )]
Come laced cockbin practically screaming to be filled up and slammed shut.... [Say nothing that he snorts in rakish amusement only a sound half-second later, breaking character to add:] darling.
[Leto is drunk. Drunk in that very particular dive bar way which tastes disgusting and does the job wonderfully, his whiskey potent and eye-wateringly sharp. Drunk enough that he's picked up a fascination with playing with whatever bit of Astarion he can get his hands on: playing with his vampire's left hand, idly stroking his fingers or pressing his thumb against the hard muscle of his palm in a lazy attempt at a massage. Drunk enough that some of these lines are honestly kind of doing it for him, sort of . . . though he snorts at that last attempt.]
Five out of ten. You manage to deliver it well, but cockbin is, mm, a difficult combination of words. [And then, in the spirit of total honesty:] It might not completely wreck the mood if you whispered it in the heat of the moment— but don't. Of all the things I wish to be compared to, a bin is low on the list.
[Hm hm hm.]
At least you never named your cock. Or use euphemisms . . . Isabela told me a story once of a man who used to refer to his prick as his, ah, fleshy tower of manhood, [and god, the snort he lets out for that is so immature.]
[The music is loud. Not in that tinny, eardrum scratching way that rattles along the backteeth at five meters away from a set of blown out speakers, but bassy. Deep. A caged sense of having one's marrow stirred up like a thick, cheap drink— scarcely any melody or tune to speak of, just that pounding, low, pervasive growl lurking underneath a booth partially flocked by sheer curtains. Someone's piss poor idea of taste.
And speaking of....
From the corner of Fenris' isolated vision comes a swirling mixture of neon curacao muddled with pale ice and the faintest hint of sugared rum. Stringent mint. Attached to it is Petras, grinning around stunted canines that— like the rest of his teeth— run flat enough that Astarion would call him a fucking herbivore were he here to see it.
He isn't, though.
Only Petras. Only that drink and a too full dancefloor pulsing nearby, curtains doing their utter damndest to carve out a space where voices might carry.
'Here,' the blond boy chirps proudly, forcing the drink closer towards Fenris. Melted droplets of condensation streak in its wake. 'I thought you might need something to cool off with.'
'He doesn't want that swill,' asserts a hard-edged voice from the booth beside theirs, practically crawling over Fenris' shoulder. Violet, with her trademark sharpness, drops a glass of amber whiskey down in front of Petras' offering. A glass made of hand-carved ice, from the looks of it, enchanted with magic solely to keep it cool.
[The thing is: a drink would make this entire experience so much more pleasant.
Unprofessional, assuredly, but on the other hand: it isn't as if he has to be on his best behavior tonight. That's the benefit of going to a mid-tier club in Athkatla: no one knows who they are or would care even if they did. There's no paparazzi crowding at the door, eager to embarrass the heir to the Ancunín line, and even if anyone does recognizes Astarion (doubtful to the point of incredulity), so what? They'll either assume they're mistaken or they'll be too drugged up to give a damn. The most work Fenris will have to do tonight is make sure Astarion staggers back to his hotel instead of falling asleep in some gutter. And if he gets tipsy, he can still outfight damn near anyone in this city, muggers or what have you.
Still . . .]
Why are you attempting to be nice to me?
[He says it bluntly, his expression wooden in that way it always gets around Violet. Petras is harmlessly annoying and, admittedly, sort of amusing in small doses, but she reminds him too much of Hadriana. Sometimes to the point where it makes him unfair, perhaps.
'Do we really need a reason?' Petras asks, and laughs when Fenris bluntly answers:]
You always have before.
[Violet takes a moment to roll her eyes at her friend, then turns her attention back to Fenris. 'You clearly aren't going anywhere,' she says with matter-of-fact sharpness. 'Astarion's fond of you, and that means you're— well. Not one of us, but something close to it. So why shouldn't we throw you a bone or two?
'Besides,' she continues, and lays a hand on his shoulder so she can lean in close, 'we've already bought it. But if you aren't going to . . .'
Hells.]
If this is laced with something . . .
[He says it as he picks up the whiskey, ignoring the way his tattoos flare eagerly in reaction to the magic. In one swift motion he knocks the entire glass back, ignoring (and secretly flattered with) the somewhat sardonic whistles of admiration from the other two.
'Good,' Violet praises cooingly, and he scowls at her.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cracks into a fresh one with a cold boi
Or it should have been.
Granted, a healthy dose of caution would’ve done Astarion good long before now in regards to scouting out his prey before he has his gloved hands perched just at their hip— but in his defense, so few creatures in Kirkwall are sharp enough to even notice when they’re being robbed blind, let alone turn the entire thing into an ambush of sorts. That pitching little moment when the man he'd been hunting turned almost immediately on his heel the very second that distance between them became nominal, and Astarion realized they weren't at all alone in that ratty little corner of Lowtown.
Which...all right, yes, fine. An albinic elf with sharp teeth admittedly stands out in just about any crowd, but this time he was certain he was the one doing the stalking, not the other way around.
Still, he knows where he’s going in his present flight from looming disaster. These streets are like a second home, now, and if he can just cut through this alleyway unscathed, keeping that cluster of pursuers at a distance, he’ll reach the docks and all its bustling signs of life. The perfect place to disappear, even with his face.
Footsteps heavy over stone. Heart pounding in his ears. Easy. Done a thousand times before. One last corner before—
He skids so hard to a halt he very nearly topples over to avoid colliding with yet another pack of waiting silhouettes, cutting off the exact route he’d meant to take.]
Shit—
[This? This is less good.]
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But sometimes, even slavers are smart. Sometimes, they manage a proper ambush, a two-pronged attack that had sent Fenris running. Three dead at the site of the ambush, four on his tail— if he can just find an alley somewhere, some chokehold where they'll be forced to come at him two at a time, he can plant his feet and sweep through them, he knows he can.
Duck down the alleyway, one sharp turn, and thank the Maker for quick reflexes, for he nearly murders the poor elf he all but runs headon into. Silver-haired and chased by, oh, too many others . . . they must have mistaken him for Fenris. They must have seen someone with pointed ears and silver hair and decided to take their chances. Why not? At worst, they get even the ordinary payout for a slave.
This does not make the elf Fenris' problem, not really. But it sort of does, all at once.]
If you cannot fight, stay behind me. Back to the wall.
[He says it distractedly, trying to keep track of too many opponents at once. Everyone's gone terribly still, waiting to see who will strike first— but though the odds are against them, not impossibly so. The new group of men doesn't even have armor (and that, later, will strike at Fenris; these aren't slavers, not all of them, but it's hard to think when you're caught up in the moment). They can survive this.
He waits, tense— but there, one slaver from Fenris' group growing impatient and darting forward, blade flashing through the air, and oh, how swiftly Fenris' sword rises to meet him in response. Three stabs to kill him, his body crumpling before Fenris— but while an alley had its tactical advantages, it also means Fenris hasn't any room to swing, not really. He won't be able to kill quite so fast as he ordinarily does, and oh, doesn't everyone seem to realize it all at once. The other three slavers rush forward, yelling loudly, and oh, fuck it—
It happens very quickly; later, he'll remember it broken up into moments. One: Fenris goes invisible, his lyrium bursting into a bright brilliant blue glow before fading, the scent of ozone thick in the air and everyone shouting. Two: screams, the scent of ozone overpowered by copper, blood spraying wildly as one man, two, three, clutches at their chests, their torsos, hearts and lungs torn halfway out of their bodies, evisercated but not necessarily dead just yet. Three: his bloody fingers wrapping tight around the other elf's wrist, yanking him invisibly forward, urging him through the stumbling bodies—]
Run!
[Sometimes a tactical retreat is best. Away, down the streets, and he reappears as they move, heading not for the docks but up, up on the rooftops, where it's easier to leap from roof to roof in a frantic dash away.]
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The problem is, Astarion bleeds too.
And now that he’s as tentatively mortal as anyone else in Thedas, shadows don’t exactly wreath him in glorious strength.
All right. Fine. Middling strength. The strength of a spawn, rather than a lord, but it’d still be more than what he has now in seemingly living form. In other words, he knows when he’s dangerously outnumbered and at risk for a thousand nagging— potentially unraveling— cuts. He knows when he’s in danger. And he knows the second someone comes rushing his way, a blur against a darkened backdrop, white hair and pale lines—
He—
He doesn’t move.
'Stay behind me', and utterly dumbstruck, Astarion simply does, in fact, stay. Watches the outpouring of lyrium-bursts as stupidly as he’d ever done in their first meeting, crimson stare wide and bewildered, and the name Fenris on his lips— lost completely to the fray itself.
And pulled in the next second.
Right.
Hells, right. Run first. Disbelief later.
To the rooftops he follows, and rapidly the two of them descend into the fluid simplicity of survival: avoiding the rusted metal lining stony structures each time they leap deftly from ledge to ledge in retreat.
And whether their adversaries are doggedly tailing still, or whether nimbleness gives them an advantage, it won’t be worth half as much as a clean getaway: nearer to the foundry than the docks, it’s Astarion that grabs for Fenris this time (he knows better, something to be said for pain, but necessity’s necessity), twisting him off course towards the edge of a roof with no connections.]
This way— trust me, darling.
[Breathless. Quick. One hard yank before they’re careening wildly over the edge.
Before they land in a spare heap of ruined sheeting left behind from the last inward influx of seafaring vessels still slithering down from Val Chevin. Rough, not particularly soft, but still preferable to broken bones or a knife to the ribs or— if particularly unlucky— a set of binding shackles.
And when Astarion spurs himself to his feet in the very next breath, he pulls Fenris with him one last time, shoving him flat against the wall beneath a tattered awning, his eyes cast high to try and ensure they haven’t been successfully spotted.]
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crystal
[Dante does keep his ear to the ground, but he's also heard a lot of things and he's passed by the dilapidated manor enough times to know it's a fixer-upper.]
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Well, it doesn't matter what he'd thought.]
I do, yes. Astarion tipped you off?
[He assumes. Although, really, it isn't that hard a guess, the manor is in such a state of disrepair.]
Do you know much about building things?
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[meaning he has seen it and he's seen Fenris in connection to it a boy howdy]
I fronted my business as a handyman, so yeah, I'm pretty good at fixing and building things. You already have a foundation, mind if I have a look?
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crystal;
—are you home, that is.
[He sounds tense. Unhappy, to say the very least.]
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Come to my place in Lowtown. I need your help.
[And, if (or perhaps when) Fenris makes that trek, he’ll find the door to Astarion’s home unlocked, the former vampire perched in clear dismay somewhere near a half-lit hearth—
And one hulking shade of a wolf perched atop the bed, almost buckling its frame— its eyes blazing a sickly shade of Fade Touched green— massive head whipping around to face the sound of an intrusion, fur bristling in alert.]
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2/3 just kidding
i'll just tell you when i'm done
okay yes now i'm done
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book;
[It'd be super cute if not for an arrow drawn just underneath it complete with regal looking writing that spells out the word 'YOU', and ends with ':)'.]
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chocolates
flattering poetry about one's eyes
you flatter yourself undeservedly
[But like, does he, Fenris?]
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Call my masterpiece inaccurate all you want, but you certainly couldn't seem to stop yourself from greedily wolfing down my assets the last time you had me on your tongue. Always trying to take more than you could easily manage. Nearly gagging for the effort.
[Precious.]
Anyway I never took you for the flowers and chocolates sort compared to damp thighs, bruised skin.
...a sore throat.
So, in the interest of self-betterment and proving myself worthy of your affection: if I'm wrong, I'll happily adjust my present strategy in regards to all my declarations of adoration.
You only need to say the word.
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3/3 of the Illiad part 7: but make it sexy
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sneaks into your inbox with all the grace of a potted plant;
Which is a sundamned tragedy, Astarion'll tell you.
But then again, that's where stones of farspeech come in handy.]
....can I ask you something, my precious little cabochon?
[No 'hello'. No 'are you busy, darling?' —no. Just that nosy little sing-song tone signaling impending boredom.
Or jealousy.
One of the two, at least.]
FLAWLESS
Ah . . .]
Hello to you too.
[Oh, yes, he knows this tone.]
Tell me your question.
[He's overdue a break soon anyway.]
POINTS AT U
[Like: actually believe, though. Not just weekend Chantrycamp beaded bracelets that say what would Andras— ohp, that's too many letters to work.
But still, question stands.]
Re: POINTS AT U
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sometime during daylight hours;
How does one say the word 'desperate' in elvish, my love?
I've looked through all your dictionaries and the closest approximation that I'm getting is something along the lines of 'very hungry', which....
[Mn.
In a word:]
Whiff.
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[It's always a bit of a treat to hear Astarion during the day. Leto smiles faintly to himself.]
It's late. [Or, well, no, it isn't, but it is for Astarion.] Are you working on something, or merely could not get the question out of your mind?
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here (but not quite here), etched into their shared book sometime around 3am
Stop trying to read, or study, or whatever it is you're up to, little pup of mine, and get some sleep.
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sleep eludes me. i forgot how ataashi would kick in her sleep.
[And maybe some nights, when his fears get the better of him and there isn't a pair of cool arms to snuggle up into, he doesn't even bother trying.]
how did you know i was awake?
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*Any demon of your choice.
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elf jail;
Every shoddy pickup line, every horrible nickname or filthy word, pushed to the absolute limits of Astarion's rich-throated charisma, and weighed equally therein.
He takes a sip of brandy in an overcrowded Lower City dive, heat sticking to his lips (drawing out a flash-quick lick to clean the slate) before— (every syllable goes pantherine. Rumbling— )]
Come laced cockbin practically screaming to be filled up and slammed shut.... [Say nothing that he snorts in rakish amusement only a sound half-second later, breaking character to add:] darling.
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Five out of ten. You manage to deliver it well, but cockbin is, mm, a difficult combination of words. [And then, in the spirit of total honesty:] It might not completely wreck the mood if you whispered it in the heat of the moment— but don't. Of all the things I wish to be compared to, a bin is low on the list.
[Hm hm hm.]
At least you never named your cock. Or use euphemisms . . . Isabela told me a story once of a man who used to refer to his prick as his, ah, fleshy tower of manhood, [and god, the snort he lets out for that is so immature.]
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bodyguard au;
And speaking of....
From the corner of Fenris' isolated vision comes a swirling mixture of neon curacao muddled with pale ice and the faintest hint of sugared rum. Stringent mint. Attached to it is Petras, grinning around stunted canines that— like the rest of his teeth— run flat enough that Astarion would call him a fucking herbivore were he here to see it.
He isn't, though.
Only Petras. Only that drink and a too full dancefloor pulsing nearby, curtains doing their utter damndest to carve out a space where voices might carry.
'Here,' the blond boy chirps proudly, forcing the drink closer towards Fenris. Melted droplets of condensation streak in its wake. 'I thought you might need something to cool off with.'
'He doesn't want that swill,' asserts a hard-edged voice from the booth beside theirs, practically crawling over Fenris' shoulder. Violet, with her trademark sharpness, drops a glass of amber whiskey down in front of Petras' offering. A glass made of hand-carved ice, from the looks of it, enchanted with magic solely to keep it cool.
'A real man needs a real drink....right?']
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Unprofessional, assuredly, but on the other hand: it isn't as if he has to be on his best behavior tonight. That's the benefit of going to a mid-tier club in Athkatla: no one knows who they are or would care even if they did. There's no paparazzi crowding at the door, eager to embarrass the heir to the Ancunín line, and even if anyone does recognizes Astarion (doubtful to the point of incredulity), so what? They'll either assume they're mistaken or they'll be too drugged up to give a damn. The most work Fenris will have to do tonight is make sure Astarion staggers back to his hotel instead of falling asleep in some gutter. And if he gets tipsy, he can still outfight damn near anyone in this city, muggers or what have you.
Still . . .]
Why are you attempting to be nice to me?
[He says it bluntly, his expression wooden in that way it always gets around Violet. Petras is harmlessly annoying and, admittedly, sort of amusing in small doses, but she reminds him too much of Hadriana. Sometimes to the point where it makes him unfair, perhaps.
'Do we really need a reason?' Petras asks, and laughs when Fenris bluntly answers:]
You always have before.
[Violet takes a moment to roll her eyes at her friend, then turns her attention back to Fenris. 'You clearly aren't going anywhere,' she says with matter-of-fact sharpness. 'Astarion's fond of you, and that means you're— well. Not one of us, but something close to it. So why shouldn't we throw you a bone or two?
'Besides,' she continues, and lays a hand on his shoulder so she can lean in close, 'we've already bought it. But if you aren't going to . . .'
Hells.]
If this is laced with something . . .
[He says it as he picks up the whiskey, ignoring the way his tattoos flare eagerly in reaction to the magic. In one swift motion he knocks the entire glass back, ignoring (and secretly flattered with) the somewhat sardonic whistles of admiration from the other two.
'Good,' Violet praises cooingly, and he scowls at her.]
Do not push it. Is Astarion still out dancing?
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