[That's a yes and a yes please, thank you very much.
They haven't fought since reaching Evereska. Not just each other— anything. All the wild birds and cats and dogs and stags and whatnot prowling through even the thickest foliage inside this odd safehaven are so often spoken for (or just straight up druids, honestly), that there's not anything to hunt for miles, and if there's some kind of seedy, filthy, corrupt and oozing underbelly to be found— well.
Astarion certainly hasn't found it yet.
Judging by those voices, though, maybe Leto has.]
They— like myself— whine every time you dare to leave them. But unlike my good self, they lack the ability to think up elaborate schemes involving public defamation just to make sure you can't focus on anything else other than them, and all the mischief you could be getting up to if only you were here at home.
And you're both so subtle in your machinations, too . . .
[But there's a smile in his low tone, flattered and pleased. And give Astarion's plan this, he thinks wryly: it's working. Now all he can think about is home and the welcome he'll get: fussy at first, surely, tutting over the cuts and bruises that have accumulated, his hands brisk and fond as they wander over him as they converse— and then, later, the filthier sort of welcome. The kind of fervent hunger that even two years hasn't been able to quell: ardent kisses and lingering touches, his legs slung around Astarion's hips as they make out like teenagers . . .
Which, Leto thinks with a twinge of amusement, one of them is.]
Tell them that I'll return in a few hours. I have, ah . . . that selfsame group I have told you about wishes to indulge again.
[Oh, gods, he sounds a little insane— or worse, like a recluse who hasn't made friends in years. But . . . well, that's exactly what he is. It's been so very long since Hawke enfolded him within her group, and from there, befriending the others was a matter of proxy. And then Astarion had come along, and— well. It's not that he didn't like the company of others in Riftwatch; it's not that he never had friendly words or companionable drinks with those elves he worked with while freeing slaves. It's just . . .
He's never done this before. Had a group of adolescents who were his age spot him (such a new, distinct face in a city that does not often get visitors) and drag him eagerly into their foolishness. At first it was just to drink and talk, boasting about accomplishments (and Leto has more than a few, things that awed and impressed his newfound cohort), but now . . .
The goal is, as nearly all rituals are, to see who's stupid enough to do them and who's smart enough to be a coward. And it's not that Leto cares about what other people think about him— he doesn't, truly. But he's a competitive thing, and so restless nowadays. And when his newfound friends are goading and daring him into leaping off a frankly too-high waterfall . . .
Well. He isn't a coward.]
The goal is to see who among us is bravest— and inevitably, once I prove that it's me, I will return to you.
I have to respect them [and: the unspoken addition of himself] for putting out only as much effort as we need to get the job done.
[Perhaps Leto can almost make out the rough shadow of the teasing words 'you make it easy, sweetheart' swimming playfully beneath the surface. Flicked out more casually than the claws that are no doubt wafting along the edge of Astarion's high-held jaw.]
[You can almost hear the air sucking itself into his lungs before it stops, held for a head-cocked beat by the very back of his tongue.]
Ahah, sorry. 'Bravest?'
[Undoubtedly it is Leto: the man's slain dragons and neophytic gods amongst scores of assassins, monsters, demons and miscellanea and lived to tell the tale— albeit all in another world, true, but the record still stands. Compared to a pack of infants in a glittering city like this one, it's not even a contest.
Or it shouldn't be.]
Not to be nosy, my sweet, but just how exactly are you planning on proving that abundant superiority to them?
[There's an edge of a laugh in Leto's voice, quiet but pleased. Those cries are growing louder, urging him forward, though he waves them off: rato, rato. Soon, soon.]
We are, ah, apparently leaping off the top of a waterfall to the pool down below. And after that . . . they heard of my exploits, and wish to see if I can steal a feather from an owl. Or something like that.
['Owlbear,' one of the voices corrects, and Leto hums in affirmation.]
Fine, then. A feather from an owlbear, and if I need to defend myself, I will. Though after Corypheus, I do not think it will prove much of a challenge.
[Around the bruising quality of his undue concern, Astarion can't help but laugh to himself at how absurd it must seem to those newfound friends (has Leto told them the truth of what he is? Where he's from? Do they believe him— or is it just the farfetched games of children growing long into their limbs, where one can swear for a month that they're Balduran reborn or Corellon's chosen or— say— even dating a godsdamned vampire, and what is that really but another farflung thought in a world that still feels more malleable than it is): an elf that doesn't speak elvish without occasionally slanting the accent wrong or forgetting which word means what. Who doesn't know what an owlbear is, or what the city streets should feel like underneath his soles.
It's not his place to fret.
Nor to be spiteful— petty— cloyingly protective or insufferably soft. Conversely: he doesn't want to. There are parts of himself he reviles for the way they try to bubble up, all fragile and afraid.
And he's had enough of fear ruling him.
....but still, a bloody owlbear though....???]
Mmph.
[That distinctive flare of breath when there's so much more he wants to say, but won't.]
For their sake I hope your friends are sturdier than they look at a very long, shadowed distance. You, I trust to know when to pull your hand out of the fire. [One nominal beat goes here.] Mostly.
Them?
[Eh.]
Is there one you like a great deal less than all the others? Maybe a soft, succulent, annoying-but-slow-moving one.
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no subject
[That's a yes and a yes please, thank you very much.
They haven't fought since reaching Evereska. Not just each other— anything. All the wild birds and cats and dogs and stags and whatnot prowling through even the thickest foliage inside this odd safehaven are so often spoken for (or just straight up druids, honestly), that there's not anything to hunt for miles, and if there's some kind of seedy, filthy, corrupt and oozing underbelly to be found— well.
Astarion certainly hasn't found it yet.
Judging by those voices, though, maybe Leto has.]
They— like myself— whine every time you dare to leave them. But unlike my good self, they lack the ability to think up elaborate schemes involving public defamation just to make sure you can't focus on anything else other than them, and all the mischief you could be getting up to if only you were here at home.
no subject
[But there's a smile in his low tone, flattered and pleased. And give Astarion's plan this, he thinks wryly: it's working. Now all he can think about is home and the welcome he'll get: fussy at first, surely, tutting over the cuts and bruises that have accumulated, his hands brisk and fond as they wander over him as they converse— and then, later, the filthier sort of welcome. The kind of fervent hunger that even two years hasn't been able to quell: ardent kisses and lingering touches, his legs slung around Astarion's hips as they make out like teenagers . . .
Which, Leto thinks with a twinge of amusement, one of them is.]
Tell them that I'll return in a few hours. I have, ah . . . that selfsame group I have told you about wishes to indulge again.
[Oh, gods, he sounds a little insane— or worse, like a recluse who hasn't made friends in years. But . . . well, that's exactly what he is. It's been so very long since Hawke enfolded him within her group, and from there, befriending the others was a matter of proxy. And then Astarion had come along, and— well. It's not that he didn't like the company of others in Riftwatch; it's not that he never had friendly words or companionable drinks with those elves he worked with while freeing slaves. It's just . . .
He's never done this before. Had a group of adolescents who were his age spot him (such a new, distinct face in a city that does not often get visitors) and drag him eagerly into their foolishness. At first it was just to drink and talk, boasting about accomplishments (and Leto has more than a few, things that awed and impressed his newfound cohort), but now . . .
The goal is, as nearly all rituals are, to see who's stupid enough to do them and who's smart enough to be a coward. And it's not that Leto cares about what other people think about him— he doesn't, truly. But he's a competitive thing, and so restless nowadays. And when his newfound friends are goading and daring him into leaping off a frankly too-high waterfall . . .
Well. He isn't a coward.]
The goal is to see who among us is bravest— and inevitably, once I prove that it's me, I will return to you.
1/2
I have to respect them [and: the unspoken addition of himself] for putting out only as much effort as we need to get the job done.
[Perhaps Leto can almost make out the rough shadow of the teasing words 'you make it easy, sweetheart' swimming playfully beneath the surface. Flicked out more casually than the claws that are no doubt wafting along the edge of Astarion's high-held jaw.]
2/2
I'm—
[You can almost hear the air sucking itself into his lungs before it stops, held for a head-cocked beat by the very back of his tongue.]
Ahah, sorry. 'Bravest?'
[Undoubtedly it is Leto: the man's slain dragons and neophytic gods amongst scores of assassins, monsters, demons and miscellanea and lived to tell the tale— albeit all in another world, true, but the record still stands. Compared to a pack of infants in a glittering city like this one, it's not even a contest.
Or it shouldn't be.]
Not to be nosy, my sweet, but just how exactly are you planning on proving that abundant superiority to them?
no subject
[There's an edge of a laugh in Leto's voice, quiet but pleased. Those cries are growing louder, urging him forward, though he waves them off: rato, rato. Soon, soon.]
We are, ah, apparently leaping off the top of a waterfall to the pool down below. And after that . . . they heard of my exploits, and wish to see if I can steal a feather from an owl. Or something like that.
['Owlbear,' one of the voices corrects, and Leto hums in affirmation.]
Fine, then. A feather from an owlbear, and if I need to defend myself, I will. Though after Corypheus, I do not think it will prove much of a challenge.
no subject
It's not his place to fret.
Nor to be spiteful— petty— cloyingly protective or insufferably soft. Conversely: he doesn't want to. There are parts of himself he reviles for the way they try to bubble up, all fragile and afraid.
And he's had enough of fear ruling him.
....but still, a bloody owlbear though....???]
Mmph.
[That distinctive flare of breath when there's so much more he wants to say, but won't.]
For their sake I hope your friends are sturdier than they look at a very long, shadowed distance. You, I trust to know when to pull your hand out of the fire. [One nominal beat goes here.] Mostly.
Them?
[Eh.]
Is there one you like a great deal less than all the others? Maybe a soft, succulent, annoying-but-slow-moving one.