[The distance between them is a mercy (the distance between them is awful; what Astarion wouldn’t give to go rushing right back in and not break away from the feeling of Leto’s fingertips clinging gently to the loose silk of his shirt), if only so that he can breathe again. Find his footing again. Smile again, too, charmed by the sight of Leto’s flickering confusion— precious thing that he is.
(Oh, his heart skips a beat. Just a beat.)
And then he laughs.]
Mm. Well she did follow me all the way from Antiva. Can’t seem to shake her from my side, so the odds of pursuit are undeniably high— although [a click of his tongue, head tilting in delicately played-up amusement] she certainly likes you well enough, I've noticed. I imagine she’d be willing to chase after you instead. Or stay with you, if we split off from one another.
Of course that doesn’t help us right now, considering we're both going to the same place, so.
[Hm.]
Suppose we might just need to find out.
The city’s rife with mabari anyway. What if we— [He turns then, kneeling down to rifle through his own belongings until he tugs loose a thick silk scarf, slithering over and subsequently wrapping it around Ataashi’s neck where she rests warm by the fire, tying it off like a makeshift collar, complete with a demure little knot at its end.] There we go. Classy for a lady of her stature, if I do say so myself.
So long as we sort of... [err] shadow her distressingly glowy eyes with our bodies, I’m sure she can pass for a very large, very imposing, very heavily-fanged dog.
[At that, scarf rucking up the mane of dark fur around her face (making her cheeks look that much fluffier), she perks up to cast a tail-wagging little glance Leto’s way.
Still a horrifying unnatural wild animal, but it is pretty damn cute, okay.]
Right, then. That’s taken care of. Now come along then, my love. [My love, does he mean Leto, or the wolf?] I want to see my new home.
[It takes nothing more than that for him to whisk the both of them (ah, three of them— like clockwork Ataashi’s up on her heels and rushing after Leto and Astarion, phasing right through that locked front door, circling them with a quickly quieted whine that clearly communicates how much she refuses to be left alone), out into the cool night air and through quieter streets, careful each time they near the city guard or— once they clear Hightown’s outer borders— passing nobles that stare blatantly at them for far too long, disapproval lurking in their narrowed eyes.
Hm. Getting Ataashi properly trained to pad beside them unseen might be better off happening sooner rather than later. Here’s hoping Leto is as good with dogs as he seems to be.
And he can’t quite tell from outside at first glance if the mansion looks better this visit than it did before, but from the inside— well. Still dark, actually. Still smells of dust and winter's slowly fading chill, but there aren't any quips let out as they cross out into the foyer, no clever little remarks (intrigued by such a massive space, Ataashi immediately begins snuffling about, nosing her way into every nook and corner, overturning old bits and bobs, sticking her head into any open crates, suddenly forgetting the pair she'd come trotting along beside, her gait low, tail swishing back and forth).
In truth, he'd never considered just how big the manor is until just now. Just how empty and quiet it is. And as he follows behind Leto, wondering just which room might be his (is it on the upper floor? does it have a balcony? or the lower reaches, perhaps, opting for space over city views), he thinks it might be possible to change that last pair of observations.
That he might be able to give Leto more than just the luxury of company.]
....oh.
[Standing in the doorway to his room at last (his room, not a corner in a cellar that stinks of blood and fetid rot; not a formless memory of a warmer place in Baldur's Gate that could've been nothing but a dream for all he knows; not a hovel in Lowtown littered with the stubborn mess of his lofty designs), heels planted, reflective eyes sweeping over a bed larger than his own (larger than any he's ever possessed in memory), the nearby dresser and its glassy mirror (a mirror, intact enough to gaze into whenever he likes— a reminder that his reflection's been returned to him at last), a window capable of opening (not thick, warped glass that barely fits against its stony frame)...
Oh.
Oh.
Frozen where he stands, pale features locked in near-unreadable wonderment, Astarion doesn't move.]
someday I will write you less novels I swear
(Oh, his heart skips a beat. Just a beat.)
And then he laughs.]
Mm. Well she did follow me all the way from Antiva. Can’t seem to shake her from my side, so the odds of pursuit are undeniably high— although [a click of his tongue, head tilting in delicately played-up amusement] she certainly likes you well enough, I've noticed. I imagine she’d be willing to chase after you instead. Or stay with you, if we split off from one another.
Of course that doesn’t help us right now, considering we're both going to the same place, so.
[Hm.]
Suppose we might just need to find out.
The city’s rife with mabari anyway. What if we— [He turns then, kneeling down to rifle through his own belongings until he tugs loose a thick silk scarf, slithering over and subsequently wrapping it around Ataashi’s neck where she rests warm by the fire, tying it off like a makeshift collar, complete with a demure little knot at its end.] There we go. Classy for a lady of her stature, if I do say so myself.
So long as we sort of... [err] shadow her distressingly glowy eyes with our bodies, I’m sure she can pass for a very large, very imposing, very heavily-fanged dog.
[At that, scarf rucking up the mane of dark fur around her face (making her cheeks look that much fluffier), she perks up to cast a tail-wagging little glance Leto’s way.
Still a horrifying unnatural wild animal, but it is pretty damn cute, okay.]
Right, then. That’s taken care of. Now come along then, my love. [My love, does he mean Leto, or the wolf?] I want to see my new home.
[It takes nothing more than that for him to whisk the both of them (ah, three of them— like clockwork Ataashi’s up on her heels and rushing after Leto and Astarion, phasing right through that locked front door, circling them with a quickly quieted whine that clearly communicates how much she refuses to be left alone), out into the cool night air and through quieter streets, careful each time they near the city guard or— once they clear Hightown’s outer borders— passing nobles that stare blatantly at them for far too long, disapproval lurking in their narrowed eyes.
Hm. Getting Ataashi properly trained to pad beside them unseen might be better off happening sooner rather than later. Here’s hoping Leto is as good with dogs as he seems to be.
And he can’t quite tell from outside at first glance if the mansion looks better this visit than it did before, but from the inside— well. Still dark, actually. Still smells of dust and winter's slowly fading chill, but there aren't any quips let out as they cross out into the foyer, no clever little remarks (intrigued by such a massive space, Ataashi immediately begins snuffling about, nosing her way into every nook and corner, overturning old bits and bobs, sticking her head into any open crates, suddenly forgetting the pair she'd come trotting along beside, her gait low, tail swishing back and forth).
In truth, he'd never considered just how big the manor is until just now. Just how empty and quiet it is. And as he follows behind Leto, wondering just which room might be his (is it on the upper floor? does it have a balcony? or the lower reaches, perhaps, opting for space over city views), he thinks it might be possible to change that last pair of observations.
That he might be able to give Leto more than just the luxury of company.]
....oh.
[Standing in the doorway to his room at last (his room, not a corner in a cellar that stinks of blood and fetid rot; not a formless memory of a warmer place in Baldur's Gate that could've been nothing but a dream for all he knows; not a hovel in Lowtown littered with the stubborn mess of his lofty designs), heels planted, reflective eyes sweeping over a bed larger than his own (larger than any he's ever possessed in memory), the nearby dresser and its glassy mirror (a mirror, intact enough to gaze into whenever he likes— a reminder that his reflection's been returned to him at last), a window capable of opening (not thick, warped glass that barely fits against its stony frame)...
Oh.
Oh.
Frozen where he stands, pale features locked in near-unreadable wonderment, Astarion doesn't move.]