He's seen his fair share of loot before, gold heaped in little piles or jewels carefully laid out on pillows, but nothing like this. Nothing so vast, so utterly in excess that it would be impossible to begin to calculate its worth. So much so that it's a wonder to Leto's mind that no one has made off with any of it before— but perhaps no one is foolish enough to risk Umberlee's wrath.
Or perhaps they have, and it hasn't made much of a difference at all.
Astarion's right. There's no way they're leaving with anything less than what they can bodily carry, for this will set them up for . . . oh, gods, who even knows? At least a year or two, but likely so much further. They could get a better apartment, start to splurge on things— gods, Astarion can get the shopping trip in the Upper City he's always wanted. Leto can picture it now: his mate preening as he spends an obscene amount of gold on tailored silks and fine dyed linens for no other reason than he can . . . and you know, it's that thought above all that motivates him. Leto's eyes flick up, lingering fondly on the little dictator himself, his fur smoothed down and his ruby eyes gleaming in the dark.
He deserves this. And so long as they have no plans to travel by sea anytime soon, it's well worth the risk.]
You certainly didn't . . . gods, Astarion, this is incredible.
[There's such awe in his voice as, eyes wide and nose raised high, he snuffles his way in deeper. For a time there's nothing but the sharp iron scent of metal overloading his system, but soon he learns to distinguish between gold and silver, incense and fabric and jewels. The hand drifts behind him, slow and dutiful— though it does take a moment to playfully tweak one of those battish ears.
Adorable.
Then it's off to begin its duty: gently lifting a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires and drifting over to Astarion.]
I will not argue over carrying my fair share, not when it comes to this. But if Baldur's Mouth runs a story soon on a naked warrior dressed in naught but gold necklaces and a single bat suddenly appearing midway through the city, you are taking the blame.
Hold still, now— hold still, this is not easy—
[It's like trying to work while staring in a mirror, and do all that to a bat besides. He wants to try and drape it around his head like a miniature necklace, but whether or not he can get it past his ears is, hm, debatable, and not helped by the jerky motions of the hand.]
no subject
He's seen his fair share of loot before, gold heaped in little piles or jewels carefully laid out on pillows, but nothing like this. Nothing so vast, so utterly in excess that it would be impossible to begin to calculate its worth. So much so that it's a wonder to Leto's mind that no one has made off with any of it before— but perhaps no one is foolish enough to risk Umberlee's wrath.
Or perhaps they have, and it hasn't made much of a difference at all.
Astarion's right. There's no way they're leaving with anything less than what they can bodily carry, for this will set them up for . . . oh, gods, who even knows? At least a year or two, but likely so much further. They could get a better apartment, start to splurge on things— gods, Astarion can get the shopping trip in the Upper City he's always wanted. Leto can picture it now: his mate preening as he spends an obscene amount of gold on tailored silks and fine dyed linens for no other reason than he can . . . and you know, it's that thought above all that motivates him. Leto's eyes flick up, lingering fondly on the little dictator himself, his fur smoothed down and his ruby eyes gleaming in the dark.
He deserves this. And so long as they have no plans to travel by sea anytime soon, it's well worth the risk.]
You certainly didn't . . . gods, Astarion, this is incredible.
[There's such awe in his voice as, eyes wide and nose raised high, he snuffles his way in deeper. For a time there's nothing but the sharp iron scent of metal overloading his system, but soon he learns to distinguish between gold and silver, incense and fabric and jewels. The hand drifts behind him, slow and dutiful— though it does take a moment to playfully tweak one of those battish ears.
Adorable.
Then it's off to begin its duty: gently lifting a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires and drifting over to Astarion.]
I will not argue over carrying my fair share, not when it comes to this. But if Baldur's Mouth runs a story soon on a naked warrior dressed in naught but gold necklaces and a single bat suddenly appearing midway through the city, you are taking the blame.
Hold still, now— hold still, this is not easy—
[It's like trying to work while staring in a mirror, and do all that to a bat besides. He wants to try and drape it around his head like a miniature necklace, but whether or not he can get it past his ears is, hm, debatable, and not helped by the jerky motions of the hand.]