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[It was such an easy mark.

Or it should have been.

Granted, a healthy dose of caution would’ve done Astarion good long before now in regards to scouting out his prey before he has his gloved hands perched just at their hip— but in his defense, so few creatures in Kirkwall are sharp enough to even notice when they’re being robbed blind, let alone turn the entire thing into an ambush of sorts. That pitching little moment when the man he'd been hunting turned almost immediately on his heel the very second that distance between them became nominal, and Astarion realized they weren't at all alone in that ratty little corner of Lowtown.

Which...all right, yes, fine. An albinic elf with sharp teeth admittedly stands out in just about any crowd, but this time he was certain he was the one doing the stalking, not the other way around.

Still, he knows where he’s going in his present flight from looming disaster. These streets are like a second home, now, and if he can just cut through this alleyway unscathed, keeping that cluster of pursuers at a distance, he’ll reach the docks and all its bustling signs of life. The perfect place to disappear, even with his face.

Footsteps heavy over stone. Heart pounding in his ears. Easy. Done a thousand times before. One last corner before—

He skids so hard to a halt he very nearly topples over to avoid colliding with yet another pack of waiting silhouettes, cutting off the exact route he’d meant to take.]

Shit—

[This? This is less good.]

I heard that you have a fixer-upper in need of fixing up.

[Dante does keep his ear to the ground, but he's also heard a lot of things and he's passed by the dilapidated manor enough times to know it's a fixer-upper.]

Are you back from your mission?

—are you home, that is.

[He sounds tense. Unhappy, to say the very least.]

[In the pages of Leto's book appears (1) entirely new scribble:]

[It'd be super cute if not for an arrow drawn just underneath it complete with regal looking writing that spells out the word 'YOU', and ends with ':)'.]

[It's late (read: just past noon). The bakery-flat curtains are drawn, his coffin lid tightly shut— though he isn't even close to tired, yet. And much to one local amatus' immense pain: Leto isn't home right now (because someone insists on paying rent via legally sanctioned murder, for some annoying reason). In fact, he's not even within reach—

Which is a sundamned tragedy, Astarion'll tell you.

But then again, that's where stones of farspeech come in handy.]

....can I ask you something, my precious little cabochon?

[No 'hello'. No 'are you busy, darling?' —no. Just that nosy little sing-song tone signaling impending boredom.

Or jealousy.

One of the two, at least.]

Ermmm....question.

How does one say the word 'desperate' in elvish, my love?

I've looked through all your dictionaries and the closest approximation that I'm getting is something along the lines of 'very hungry', which....

[Mn.

In a word:]

Whiff.

Darling I can practically hear you rummaging around from half a city away, what with restlessness like that on your plate.

Stop trying to read, or study, or whatever it is you're up to, little pup of mine, and get some sleep.

Pick one: vampirism, or demonic possession.

*Any demon of your choice.

[The game is simple.

Every shoddy pickup line, every horrible nickname or filthy word, pushed to the absolute limits of Astarion's rich-throated charisma, and weighed equally therein.

He takes a sip of brandy in an overcrowded Lower City dive, heat sticking to his lips (drawing out a flash-quick lick to clean the slate) before— (every syllable goes pantherine. Rumbling— )]

Come laced cockbin practically screaming to be filled up and slammed shut.... [Say nothing that he snorts in rakish amusement only a sound half-second later, breaking character to add:] darling.

[The music is loud. Not in that tinny, eardrum scratching way that rattles along the backteeth at five meters away from a set of blown out speakers, but bassy. Deep. A caged sense of having one's marrow stirred up like a thick, cheap drink— scarcely any melody or tune to speak of, just that pounding, low, pervasive growl lurking underneath a booth partially flocked by sheer curtains. Someone's piss poor idea of taste.

And speaking of....

From the corner of Fenris' isolated vision comes a swirling mixture of neon curacao muddled with pale ice and the faintest hint of sugared rum. Stringent mint. Attached to it is Petras, grinning around stunted canines that— like the rest of his teeth— run flat enough that Astarion would call him a fucking herbivore were he here to see it.

He isn't, though.

Only Petras. Only that drink and a too full dancefloor pulsing nearby, curtains doing their utter damndest to carve out a space where voices might carry.

'Here,' the blond boy chirps proudly, forcing the drink closer towards Fenris. Melted droplets of condensation streak in its wake. 'I thought you might need something to cool off with.'

'He doesn't want that swill,' asserts a hard-edged voice from the booth beside theirs, practically crawling over Fenris' shoulder. Violet, with her trademark sharpness, drops a glass of amber whiskey down in front of Petras' offering. A glass made of hand-carved ice, from the looks of it, enchanted with magic solely to keep it cool.

'A real man needs a real drink....right?']

cracks into a fresh one with a cold boi

crystal

crystal;