[There's such a lengthy pause there, that for a time Fenris might be forgiven for thinking Astarion ran off and disappeared— his quill instead loitering above wax-skinned parchment, chancing the start of an inkblot once. Twice. Never quite connecting.
Ever? Is the question he can't ask, because he knows— or at the very least suspects there was another at the front of the line before her. Part and parcel for any slave with a pretty face (and sometimes not even that: what rough features fail to offer, youth, or a strong set of arms, or warmth alone might do for those with power on their mind).
But it digs in his craw like a splinter between set teeth.]
In freedom? [Writes itself before he can stop it.]
no subject
Ever? Is the question he can't ask, because he knows— or at the very least suspects there was another at the front of the line before her. Part and parcel for any slave with a pretty face (and sometimes not even that: what rough features fail to offer, youth, or a strong set of arms, or warmth alone might do for those with power on their mind).
But it digs in his craw like a splinter between set teeth.]
In freedom? [Writes itself before he can stop it.]