[He can almost sense that discomfort coming off the page in ripples, starting from the dead center of that inkblot. Funny, that his own trepidation left no trace where it could, and yet Fenris' is right there, front and center and precious enough to rot out every last one of Astarion's viperish fangs.
He's already hopelessly done for as it stands.]
Do you imagine I haven't yet?
Precious pup, it's fine. You can ask anything you like of me.
no subject
He's already hopelessly done for as it stands.]
Do you imagine I haven't yet?
Precious pup, it's fine. You can ask anything you like of me.