What does it look like? [Carries no bite, only a playfulness at odds with the speed at which Astarion both primps and tugs things free of his provisions— (I've only you, he said, although admittedly he'd only acquired the bulk of his assets in their Faderift-given shopping trip, either with coin or agile fingers:) perfumed oil daubbed across his throat and along the backs of his ears, dipped down into decolletage beneath layered silks; gilded jewelry gleaming in waning afternoon light, though all he'd managed to pilfer were a few delicate bangles and elven-(ish? -looking) necklaces, and a couple of pretty cuffs; kohl, black as night, streaked on across his eyes so that the mask's gaps don't come across as unseemly— and a hairbrush, oddly enough, though his hair's already woven into braids. Courtesy of asking one of the only Orlesians on their team for help, which begs the question as to why he's dug it up in the first place, shifting in his seat just so. Prelude to a fuller turn—
—which subsequently answers said question almost immediately, given the way he's eyeing his companion. (Made additionally ominous by the pitch-dark smears of makeup lining crimson eyes.)
Hello, Fenris.]
Getting ready for our debut.
[Our debut. As if they're not from two completely separate divisions, likely selected for two completely separate sets of skills.]
no subject
—which subsequently answers said question almost immediately, given the way he's eyeing his companion. (Made additionally ominous by the pitch-dark smears of makeup lining crimson eyes.)
Hello, Fenris.]
Getting ready for our debut.
[Our debut. As if they're not from two completely separate divisions, likely selected for two completely separate sets of skills.]