illithidnapped

Not to worry, [Spoken as he takes his own seat almost elbow-to-elbow with his compatriot, head cocked sidelong for good, comfortable measure.] I’ve got the palate of a king and the coin purse of a destitute pauper: together we’ll manage.

[Says Astarion, as though he’s brought any money with him at all.

Spoilers: he hasn’t.

Still, after selecting something near the high end of all provided offerings (read: slightly better than swill), and plucking up one of those cold little sandwiches between his fingers, he rests his weight a little more loosely in his own shoulders.] What’s all this business about missing the ferry? Call me a poor judge of character, but it doesn’t seem like you to be careless.

You are a poor judge of character.

[ His tone is purely obedient. He doesn't mean it. ]

I was trying to convince an Antivan to sell us leather for less than all of our arms and legs, [ is half of the real answer, ] and it went long, and I didn't feel like running.

[ The other half: it's one of Alexandrie's regular evenings with Byerly, and Bastien is almost never jealous and only rarely lonely about all of that, but tonight he turned down the opportunity to negotiate those leather prices naked—he told her he was taken, of all things, even though the concept is very un-Orlesian and Byerly's never asked him to—and it left him feeling a bit something about the prospect of rushing back to the Gallows to have a quiet and solitary night in.

But he didn't make Astarion come out to talk about that. He made him come out because he's fun and seems like a night owl anyway.

He sips the wine and peers into his cup approvingly, like he can see the quality as well as taste it. ]

Has anyone given you any trouble, living out here?

[Long could imply a lot of things. Arduous success or tiresome defeat— familiarity at a cost, either in coin or secrets or touch itself— and Astarion's keen enough to the concept of business not to pry outright, having recognized something of a flicker of weariness to be found in the directness of a confession that ends in the words 'I didn't feel like'.

He's been there before, after all. Everyone like them has.

So. Wine first. Maybe the rest of it later.]

They certainly try, bless their wretched little hearts. [A breath, before:] Oh, but it’s not a bad thing. Keeps me on my toes. Sharpened senses, reflexes like a cat, clever as a fox, etcetera etcetera.

[Never mind the fact that Astarion is as much of a Lowtown antagonist as the creatures he incites, but that's hardly important.]

In fact without the nightly thrill of resentful, localized, ale-soaked mischief I suspect I’d be of very little use to Riftwatch for having grown comfortable and soft.

I might even have to join Diplomacy.

[ Bastien—unabashedly soft and comfortable—laughs with his mouth shut, because there’s a miniature sandwich inside of it, and wings his elbow out to vengefully (gently) prod Astarion in the arm.

After he’s swallowed: ] Maybe we don’t want you anymore, after you passed us over. Diplomats hate to be spurned. You would have to join Research.

Oof, that stings.

Luckily for me I happen to have friends in Diplomacy that might at least rescue me from an eternity of clerical work out of the goodness of their hearts.

[Yes?]

After all, I like to think I’ve been quite kind to them.

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