[So it's settled, then: the first warm day he'll drag Astarion down to the coast, and perhaps by then the water will have warmed enough that he won't be an absolute bastard when he dumps Astarion in. Something to look forward to, and he smiles faintly, pleased at something so simple.
Though for that bit of teasing, Astarion earns a wry smirk and a falsely threatening sort of look. He's lucky, the look suggests, Fenris is trapped beneath Ataashi (and never mind the warmth he feels furling in his chest as he realizes Astarion truly is using his suggestion). But no, he gets his prize; with a little sigh he sips at it, resigning himself (for now) into being nothing more than pillow.
But ah, what a question . . . he drinks a little more, not because he strictly needs to, but because it's all a little easier when he's tipsy.]
Yes.
Fen, as I said, is the elven word for wolf, while ris is a masculine diminutive in Tevene. He took an elf and, with ancient Tevene magic, made him into something worthy of a magister. And so, too, he bastardized an elvish term, turning it from something— what was the word he used? ah, crude, that was what he deemed me— into something more suitable.
[A crude elf, and funny what the mind remembers decades later. So much of those first few weeks are lost in a haze, but he remembers his first party oh, so well.
He finishes his glass (he does go through them so quickly when they talk of the past).]
Leto is the name I was born with. Varania told me, right before she sold me out. I suppose it is my real name, although in truth, I have little connection to it. I cannot remember my past, and so it feels no more right or wrong than any other name.
[That's not necessarily true. It's just that he's deliberately avoided thinking about it.]
. . . I do not mind you knowing. [And then, the wine loosening his tongue, glancing over:] There is very little about me that I would mind you knowing, truthfully. But I would prefer Leto to stay between us. It is . . .
[Hm.]
Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.
no subject
Though for that bit of teasing, Astarion earns a wry smirk and a falsely threatening sort of look. He's lucky, the look suggests, Fenris is trapped beneath Ataashi (and never mind the warmth he feels furling in his chest as he realizes Astarion truly is using his suggestion). But no, he gets his prize; with a little sigh he sips at it, resigning himself (for now) into being nothing more than pillow.
But ah, what a question . . . he drinks a little more, not because he strictly needs to, but because it's all a little easier when he's tipsy.]
Yes.
Fen, as I said, is the elven word for wolf, while ris is a masculine diminutive in Tevene. He took an elf and, with ancient Tevene magic, made him into something worthy of a magister. And so, too, he bastardized an elvish term, turning it from something— what was the word he used? ah, crude, that was what he deemed me— into something more suitable.
[A crude elf, and funny what the mind remembers decades later. So much of those first few weeks are lost in a haze, but he remembers his first party oh, so well.
He finishes his glass (he does go through them so quickly when they talk of the past).]
Leto is the name I was born with. Varania told me, right before she sold me out. I suppose it is my real name, although in truth, I have little connection to it. I cannot remember my past, and so it feels no more right or wrong than any other name.
[That's not necessarily true. It's just that he's deliberately avoided thinking about it.]
. . . I do not mind you knowing. [And then, the wine loosening his tongue, glancing over:] There is very little about me that I would mind you knowing, truthfully. But I would prefer Leto to stay between us. It is . . .
[Hm.]
Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.