['We did try to be thorough', Fenris says, and in an instant a thousand questions leap immediately to mind:
Did you really? What was it like? How did you even do it?
All of them stitched into the shock of his expression (crimson eyes gone overwide, the middling start of their game forgotten)— before he shakes loose of wonderment, lays out his own card (higher: riskier as far as moves go) and subsequently uses that opportunity of drawing yet another card to snatch up the cigarette once more. Another steady puff of smoke slithering serpentine and loose from between the dagger-sharp edges of his fangs.
Then he sets it back down again.
And smiles.
Because something stupid in his heart outright leaps at that offer. Or request. Or promise. A skipped beat sort of thing he can keenly feel, a shameful glint living behind unsettling red eyes that don’t blink half as often as they otherwise should. Like a pup asked if it wishes to walk.
Astarion barely masks it (if he manages to at all) beneath a longer sip of wine. Strewth.]
Hold a sword? Like the corpse-sized one you drag around, you mean?
Nothing wrong with size where it counts, but I’ve always preferred the viciousness of intimacy.
Closeness.
Daggers suit me just fine. And...not to brag, but it’s been a while since we parted ways— not a grand loss I suppose, those memories. Consider it all a gentle prelude before I go showing you just how much I truly am capable of.
no subject
Did you really? What was it like? How did you even do it?
All of them stitched into the shock of his expression (crimson eyes gone overwide, the middling start of their game forgotten)— before he shakes loose of wonderment, lays out his own card (higher: riskier as far as moves go) and subsequently uses that opportunity of drawing yet another card to snatch up the cigarette once more. Another steady puff of smoke slithering serpentine and loose from between the dagger-sharp edges of his fangs.
Then he sets it back down again.
And smiles.
Because something stupid in his heart outright leaps at that offer. Or request. Or promise. A skipped beat sort of thing he can keenly feel, a shameful glint living behind unsettling red eyes that don’t blink half as often as they otherwise should. Like a pup asked if it wishes to walk.
Astarion barely masks it (if he manages to at all) beneath a longer sip of wine. Strewth.]
Hold a sword? Like the corpse-sized one you drag around, you mean?
Nothing wrong with size where it counts, but I’ve always preferred the viciousness of intimacy.
Closeness.
Daggers suit me just fine. And...not to brag, but it’s been a while since we parted ways— not a grand loss I suppose, those memories. Consider it all a gentle prelude before I go showing you just how much I truly am capable of.
And just how much you’ve been surpassed, my dear.
[Skill, to answer your question, Fenris.]