[Astarion agrees, approval living in the upturned corners of his lips.
(And no, he’s not immune to the outcome of his own goading: the heat of Fenris’ breath lurking so close to his own fingertips, the challenged determination blooming behind emerald eyes— but he knows, intimately, the difference between provocation met and true, unmistakable longing.
They’re only strangers now, the both of them.
He doesn't let himself forget.)
So he leans back, tucking the cigarette between his own fangs and gathering up a pack of dented cards from the edge of the table— beginning the nimble work of artfully shuffling them. Without asking whether or not Fenris wants to play, naturally.]
Well I didn’t exactly have time to ask. [He snorts offhandedly, ashing the joint over old flooring before setting it down between them for Fenris to practice with as he likes.
The cards snap as he flicks them into place.]
But... [Reluctant, his sigh. He never likes confronting this.] I’m not exactly unrecognizable as far as striking silhouettes go. And I haven’t always been careful about masking the anchor-shard before these last few months.
That is to say, I never knew I should’ve been.
Because as I so recently learned, Corypheus' forces are hunting down Rifters. Experimenting on them, as far as I’ve heard. And if he has his way, he’ll use them as the front lines of his own army, controlled against their will or enslaved, it doesn’t make any difference: he wants the Rifts themselves as a weapon in his fleshy little pocket.
But I don’t intend to be leashed again.
[Hence. Gloves.]
Of course the alternative is just my own...mm. Local notoriety, but that seems less likely. I take care not to overreach with my thefts.
[Well.]
And then there’s just the sort that hate a pair of ears prettier than their own.
So.
[He deals out a single hand for each of them, flashing the most acrid little smile.]
no subject
[Astarion agrees, approval living in the upturned corners of his lips.
(And no, he’s not immune to the outcome of his own goading: the heat of Fenris’ breath lurking so close to his own fingertips, the challenged determination blooming behind emerald eyes— but he knows, intimately, the difference between provocation met and true, unmistakable longing.
They’re only strangers now, the both of them.
He doesn't let himself forget.)
So he leans back, tucking the cigarette between his own fangs and gathering up a pack of dented cards from the edge of the table— beginning the nimble work of artfully shuffling them. Without asking whether or not Fenris wants to play, naturally.]
Well I didn’t exactly have time to ask. [He snorts offhandedly, ashing the joint over old flooring before setting it down between them for Fenris to practice with as he likes.
The cards snap as he flicks them into place.]
But... [Reluctant, his sigh. He never likes confronting this.] I’m not exactly unrecognizable as far as striking silhouettes go. And I haven’t always been careful about masking the anchor-shard before these last few months.
That is to say, I never knew I should’ve been.
Because as I so recently learned, Corypheus' forces are hunting down Rifters. Experimenting on them, as far as I’ve heard. And if he has his way, he’ll use them as the front lines of his own army, controlled against their will or enslaved, it doesn’t make any difference: he wants the Rifts themselves as a weapon in his fleshy little pocket.
But I don’t intend to be leashed again.
[Hence. Gloves.]
Of course the alternative is just my own...mm. Local notoriety, but that seems less likely. I take care not to overreach with my thefts.
[Well.]
And then there’s just the sort that hate a pair of ears prettier than their own.
So.
[He deals out a single hand for each of them, flashing the most acrid little smile.]
Take your pick.