[All the things that it could be— all the possibilities that Fenris (fairly) thinks of—
Astarion's expression locks itself abruptly. He blinks too many times. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out aside from breath (true breath, not its lifeless imitation); just a narrow exhalation cut through parted teeth, no voice.
What does one call compulsion without compulsion? (Reflex.) A pale chin dipped towards his shoulder, a pair of eyes squinting through the darkest smears of kohl around them. Like he doesn't understand the question. Like it's been asked in Rivani or Tevene.]
I'm—
[Sounds as stunted as it did in hollow palace chambers. Again, a puff of air squeezes from his throat, a shallow mask to cover up his shame.]
unhappy to think that I might lose you.
[And then, after hanging for a beat too long, as if only just realizing that it was the truth let loose from its cage, Astarion stiffly rises without another word— footsteps ferrying him across the room to his belongings. There's a glimpse of sunset crawling through the border of a plaster-lined window, cutting across the buckles of his pack, and it's one more apt reminder of where he needs to be. What he should be doing.
There's little said after that.
If Fenris responds, Astarion won't hear it— cuts short any attempt at continuation with a liar's sly wit, grinning all the while. But the pinnacle of Astarion's efforts isn't the tailored silk that fit Fenris' measurements like a scandalous glove, or the bangles in braided hair, glinting against the back of his long, lean neck. It's the pair of masks that he procures before they depart: a gilded pair— one gold, one silver— fashioned with fine features, and themed after the moon and sun.
And because of their importance, unlike the jewelry he'd plucked up on arrival, they're real. True precious metals, the sort nobility would only entrust to those assets they most want to show off.
Astarion's fanged grin is lost in shadow underneath blinding bright gold filigree; one reflects light beautifully, the other veils intent, and if nothing else he's certain that the latter will keep Fenris safe tonight no matter what comes next.]
Remember, you know exactly how to play this, darling. [Arm in arm, the grand chandelier strung above the foyer flaunts thousands of strands of cut glass by bouncing scattered rays off of the pale planes of their twin masks when Astarion leans in, a rumble in his throat.
Ordinary: for a pair of precious starlings to swan about together independent of their masters. Ordinary: that in the style of Orlesian theater and song, one of those twins is sweet while the other is dour. Not ordinary: for one of the two to be branded with strange markings when the other isn't— but it wouldn't be the first time a baron or baroness made due in that regard, and Orlesians are resourceful people to the last.
Or at least, that's the story they're going with.]
Find yourself a nice, secluded spot with a good view. Better, if you can manage to snag a little gossip.
no subject
Astarion's expression locks itself abruptly. He blinks too many times. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out aside from breath (true breath, not its lifeless imitation); just a narrow exhalation cut through parted teeth, no voice.
What does one call compulsion without compulsion? (Reflex.) A pale chin dipped towards his shoulder, a pair of eyes squinting through the darkest smears of kohl around them. Like he doesn't understand the question. Like it's been asked in Rivani or Tevene.]
I'm—
[Sounds as stunted as it did in hollow palace chambers. Again, a puff of air squeezes from his throat, a shallow mask to cover up his shame.]
unhappy to think that I might lose you.
[And then, after hanging for a beat too long, as if only just realizing that it was the truth let loose from its cage, Astarion stiffly rises without another word— footsteps ferrying him across the room to his belongings. There's a glimpse of sunset crawling through the border of a plaster-lined window, cutting across the buckles of his pack, and it's one more apt reminder of where he needs to be. What he should be doing.
There's little said after that.
If Fenris responds, Astarion won't hear it— cuts short any attempt at continuation with a liar's sly wit, grinning all the while. But the pinnacle of Astarion's efforts isn't the tailored silk that fit Fenris' measurements like a scandalous glove, or the bangles in braided hair, glinting against the back of his long, lean neck. It's the pair of masks that he procures before they depart: a gilded pair— one gold, one silver— fashioned with fine features, and themed after the moon and sun.
And because of their importance, unlike the jewelry he'd plucked up on arrival, they're real. True precious metals, the sort nobility would only entrust to those assets they most want to show off.
Astarion's fanged grin is lost in shadow underneath blinding bright gold filigree; one reflects light beautifully, the other veils intent, and if nothing else he's certain that the latter will keep Fenris safe tonight no matter what comes next.]
Remember, you know exactly how to play this, darling. [Arm in arm, the grand chandelier strung above the foyer flaunts thousands of strands of cut glass by bouncing scattered rays off of the pale planes of their twin masks when Astarion leans in, a rumble in his throat.
Ordinary: for a pair of precious starlings to swan about together independent of their masters. Ordinary: that in the style of Orlesian theater and song, one of those twins is sweet while the other is dour. Not ordinary: for one of the two to be branded with strange markings when the other isn't— but it wouldn't be the first time a baron or baroness made due in that regard, and Orlesians are resourceful people to the last.
Or at least, that's the story they're going with.]
Find yourself a nice, secluded spot with a good view. Better, if you can manage to snag a little gossip.
I won't be long.