[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.
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.]