The same place yours is. [Asserts Astarion when he wraps his fingers back around the offered glass like they've always belonged there, interlocking fingers winding tighter like a serpent's hungry coils— not particularly strong through force, nor rough the way a fighter's skin would run— but it's only eagerness that gives them a certain breed of tensile insistence despite every inborne shortcoming. The luxury of his birth meeting a desire for something more.

It's obvious to everyone by now that he's ignoring Petras.

And Violet.

He has to sit up a little in his seat to crane himself far enough across the table to drink from that same glass– mostly dregs— yet knowing what he does of context, they taste all the better slid along the back of his curled tongue.

'Rum isn't just sugar, anyway. It's the drink for bold hearts and voyagers and....'

'You forgot the rest, didn't you?' Idiot, is the unsung undertone in Violet's drawling question.

'No!']

Oh I'd say that's a yes, if ever I've heard one. [Slides his hand back. Slides himself back, sinking in his seat.]

Brandy still trumps your cheap rum, anyway. A rich cognac— aged with care and only the best of attentive craftsmanship—

[A click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.]

Nothing better.

['Whiskey,' Violet interjects with a hardened stubbornness. 'Whiskey's better.'

And, as if to prove her point, takes a lengthy sip of her second glass.

'What do you think, Fenris?' Petras asks, leaning on the syllables.]