[It does not quell his anger, not really, but the truth is that Fenris is nearly always angry anyway. It lives in him awfully, a twisted writhing mass of resentment and bitterness and fear, and some days he thinks he'll never be rid of it. It comes swiftly, but so too does it quickly blow out of him: not snuffed out entirely, but muffled, at least for now.
He takes his hand, gripping firmly (slightly worried about how his lyrium will interact with the mark, but no, nobody explodes or glows, so that's fine), jerking his head into a nod.]
Fenris.
[. . . which Astarion knows already. Fenris wrinkles his nose, annoyed and vaguely embarrassed, and reaches for the port, busying himself with pouring it.]
This is not a cheap vintage. Do they pay you so well?
[Like, yes, there's a thousand horrible questions he could ask. About Astarion's master, or what else he remembers of Fenris. He could quiz him endlessly, and perhaps later he will, once they're more numb. But let him ask something easier at first. Let them trade mundane facts instead of horrid ones, just for now.]
no subject
He takes his hand, gripping firmly (slightly worried about how his lyrium will interact with the mark, but no, nobody explodes or glows, so that's fine), jerking his head into a nod.]
Fenris.
[. . . which Astarion knows already. Fenris wrinkles his nose, annoyed and vaguely embarrassed, and reaches for the port, busying himself with pouring it.]
This is not a cheap vintage. Do they pay you so well?
[Like, yes, there's a thousand horrible questions he could ask. About Astarion's master, or what else he remembers of Fenris. He could quiz him endlessly, and perhaps later he will, once they're more numb. But let him ask something easier at first. Let them trade mundane facts instead of horrid ones, just for now.]