Granted it's as thin as damp paper, true, but when his lips twist he gestures with now-ungloved fingertips towards the entirety of his minuscule kingdom— the assorment of various bottles tucked away within immediate sight as much as without. Glass edges peeking out from beneath paper and silk and shed jewels.
...and trash, too.]
I promise you I have more than enough to pleasantly numb, if that’s where we’re headed tonight. [Which...admittedly, yes, actually. Astarion suspects that’s exactly where this road leads: nowhere pleasing in the slightest, and everywhere necessary.] Elfroot, too, depending on whether or not you can tolerate the smoke.
[But that’s all less important than what else they were discussing, and as Astarion reaches to fish up yet another heavy bottle (a rich port, this one stolen from Hightown itself— which feels particularly apt, in a way), setting it between them with a little thunk, he returns to the rest of it.
Watching Fenris’ expression closely, hooded stare settling low.]
Eighteen years. I didn’t realize it was— that it was the markings that made it so you couldn’t remember.
[And then, with one last sip from his glass:]
Mm. But first things first, before you and I start confessing all the sordid facets of our own unhappy pasts.
[He holds out his hand— anchor shard gleaming brightly in low light— fingertips left loosely hanging in the short distance that divides them. A muted counter to Fenris’ justifiably unhappy tempest.]
no subject
Granted it's as thin as damp paper, true, but when his lips twist he gestures with now-ungloved fingertips towards the entirety of his minuscule kingdom— the assorment of various bottles tucked away within immediate sight as much as without. Glass edges peeking out from beneath paper and silk and shed jewels.
...and trash, too.]
I promise you I have more than enough to pleasantly numb, if that’s where we’re headed tonight. [Which...admittedly, yes, actually. Astarion suspects that’s exactly where this road leads: nowhere pleasing in the slightest, and everywhere necessary.] Elfroot, too, depending on whether or not you can tolerate the smoke.
[But that’s all less important than what else they were discussing, and as Astarion reaches to fish up yet another heavy bottle (a rich port, this one stolen from Hightown itself— which feels particularly apt, in a way), setting it between them with a little thunk, he returns to the rest of it.
Watching Fenris’ expression closely, hooded stare settling low.]
Eighteen years. I didn’t realize it was— that it was the markings that made it so you couldn’t remember.
[And then, with one last sip from his glass:]
Mm. But first things first, before you and I start confessing all the sordid facets of our own unhappy pasts.
[He holds out his hand— anchor shard gleaming brightly in low light— fingertips left loosely hanging in the short distance that divides them. A muted counter to Fenris’ justifiably unhappy tempest.]
Astarion.
My name, that is.
Good to meet you at last, darling.