[It's a bright burst of an exclamation, a shocked cry as he reaches to take Ataashi's present from her jaws with hands that can't quite believe what they're holding. For a moment his bewildered mind struggles to reassign it: a sword she'd stolen from someone in the tavern, maybe, or in the marketplace, only to realize that such a thing would be impossible. Lyrium does not exist in this world, not even within him— and even if it did, there's no mistaking that uniquely familiar pattern. The inlay blazes blue as he pulls the sword from her sheathe slowly, delighted to discover the edge is just as sharp as it was in Thedas.]
How did you—
[But she must have brought it with her. Or perhaps . . . oh, but he cannot think about if she has just gone back to Thedas, for the implications there are staggering. On a whim, he leans forward, sniffing at her fur as one hand scrubs insistently against her neck, but no, she only smells of herself, not the damp wood of their mansion in Thedas. Later, he promises himself. Later he and Astarion will talk about this, but for now:]
Good girl, [he rumbles in Tevene over and over, the sword falling in his lap as he devotes both hands to scrubbing her at her cheeks and neck and body. With a pleased wuff she careens forward, paws bracing on his thighs as she leaps up and licks at him joyfully, chuffing all the while.
And as for the little sausages in his lap— oh, they don't like this sudden intrusion at all. With a fearful little yip they race to the other side of his body, cowering behind his back with distressed little whines. He'll pay them mind soon, soothing them softly, but gods, he can't not right now.
It's his sword.
Never tested. Never used, for Astarion had wanted that gift to special— and oh, it is, it is. His hands keep up their frantic praise, scrubbing and scritching, even as Leto dodges that lapping tongue so he can peer around Ataashi's bulk and catch his darling's eye.]
Come here.
Come here so that I can offer you all the gratitude I was never able to before. I have mourned—
[He hesitates. Mourned the loss of this gift sounds silly and childish, but he truly had. It wasn't just about the blade, but the loss of such a magnificently thoughtful gift, and all the time and effort and coin Astarion had spent on his behalf.]
I have mourned its loss. The loss of something you gave me, and so therefore the loss of something I treasured.
[Oh, it's so hard to say, especially when so many other emotions are ricocheting through him. Joy and elation and shock and adoration, and none of it helped by the overly affectionate wolf determined to try and fit his face in her mouth. With a little aht he dodges her mouth and adds, a little more exasperatedly:]
Come here and save me from one of these beasts, at least— and so that I might tell you how grateful I am for this. For you.
no subject
[It's a bright burst of an exclamation, a shocked cry as he reaches to take Ataashi's present from her jaws with hands that can't quite believe what they're holding. For a moment his bewildered mind struggles to reassign it: a sword she'd stolen from someone in the tavern, maybe, or in the marketplace, only to realize that such a thing would be impossible. Lyrium does not exist in this world, not even within him— and even if it did, there's no mistaking that uniquely familiar pattern. The inlay blazes blue as he pulls the sword from her sheathe slowly, delighted to discover the edge is just as sharp as it was in Thedas.]
How did you—
[But she must have brought it with her. Or perhaps . . . oh, but he cannot think about if she has just gone back to Thedas, for the implications there are staggering. On a whim, he leans forward, sniffing at her fur as one hand scrubs insistently against her neck, but no, she only smells of herself, not the damp wood of their mansion in Thedas. Later, he promises himself. Later he and Astarion will talk about this, but for now:]
Good girl, [he rumbles in Tevene over and over, the sword falling in his lap as he devotes both hands to scrubbing her at her cheeks and neck and body. With a pleased wuff she careens forward, paws bracing on his thighs as she leaps up and licks at him joyfully, chuffing all the while.
And as for the little sausages in his lap— oh, they don't like this sudden intrusion at all. With a fearful little yip they race to the other side of his body, cowering behind his back with distressed little whines. He'll pay them mind soon, soothing them softly, but gods, he can't not right now.
It's his sword.
Never tested. Never used, for Astarion had wanted that gift to special— and oh, it is, it is. His hands keep up their frantic praise, scrubbing and scritching, even as Leto dodges that lapping tongue so he can peer around Ataashi's bulk and catch his darling's eye.]
Come here.
Come here so that I can offer you all the gratitude I was never able to before. I have mourned—
[He hesitates. Mourned the loss of this gift sounds silly and childish, but he truly had. It wasn't just about the blade, but the loss of such a magnificently thoughtful gift, and all the time and effort and coin Astarion had spent on his behalf.]
I have mourned its loss. The loss of something you gave me, and so therefore the loss of something I treasured.
[Oh, it's so hard to say, especially when so many other emotions are ricocheting through him. Joy and elation and shock and adoration, and none of it helped by the overly affectionate wolf determined to try and fit his face in her mouth. With a little aht he dodges her mouth and adds, a little more exasperatedly:]
Come here and save me from one of these beasts, at least— and so that I might tell you how grateful I am for this. For you.