[And oh, it’s not a line despite just how much it sounds like one when he grins. When he flexes the whole of his own sharpened smile, and those red eyes gleam in the dark.
Teasing and not. Suffering and not. Afraid and not.
What a pair of paradoxes they make tonight.
...and then Fenris mentions vampirism, and something changes. Slightly. The way air runs cold in a draft, driving him from settled comfort right into characteristic (haughty) stiffness. The little mannerisms that denote which aspects of his own self lie where, and exactly which ones are being presently dealt with.
For all that Astarion boasts about his spy work and subterfuge, his charm and endless charisma, he telegraphs so much more keenly than most.
Always.]
Hundreds of years, still. We tend to top off in the seven-hundred range provided nothing else nasty gets to us first— such as in my own case, for example.
[His exhale is...slow. Lips pursing thoughtfully, attention slithering back out to mark the distinctive scuffs in stonework overhead. Something distinctive to Kirkwall, he’s noticed.]
I’ve heard elves here didn’t use to age. Or...was it that they all just aged exceptionally slowly?
[Or did he fall for yet another Dalish myth, too?]
no subject
[And oh, it’s not a line despite just how much it sounds like one when he grins. When he flexes the whole of his own sharpened smile, and those red eyes gleam in the dark.
Teasing and not. Suffering and not. Afraid and not.
What a pair of paradoxes they make tonight.
...and then Fenris mentions vampirism, and something changes. Slightly. The way air runs cold in a draft, driving him from settled comfort right into characteristic (haughty) stiffness. The little mannerisms that denote which aspects of his own self lie where, and exactly which ones are being presently dealt with.
For all that Astarion boasts about his spy work and subterfuge, his charm and endless charisma, he telegraphs so much more keenly than most.
Always.]
Hundreds of years, still. We tend to top off in the seven-hundred range provided nothing else nasty gets to us first— such as in my own case, for example.
[His exhale is...slow. Lips pursing thoughtfully, attention slithering back out to mark the distinctive scuffs in stonework overhead. Something distinctive to Kirkwall, he’s noticed.]
I’ve heard elves here didn’t use to age. Or...was it that they all just aged exceptionally slowly?
[Or did he fall for yet another Dalish myth, too?]