[Astarion was never bad at this, understand. He always had a knack for it, with or without memory intact. Worked his way through gilded halls or taphouse rooms with the very same deftness of a needle pushed through gauzy silk, erasing any marred spots, any weaknesses, and instead driving them to shine. The conversations lasted. The charm was easy to inspire. So what made him seem piss poor at it in the crosshairs of his master's stare and that of all his divine lackeys, was that inevitably, he cared. That he held no desire to stop caring when left to his own devices— and worser still how that ill habit always seemed to rear its head and infect everything around it, rather than buckling to correction and obeisance. It affected his hunts. It poisoned his siblings. It was never one botched night when it set in, but rather weeks of fractious mourning, or failure or defiance, tumultuously clinging to the shores of whatever fondness had inspired, until finally uprooted. Pulled loose. Hewn clean.
A smart creature would learn from that. Astarion did eventually, after all.
But a smarter creature would've learned it sooner.
Then again, a smarter creature wouldn't be standing here smiling through gold features without blinking. (A smarter creature wouldn't be dwelling on the nagging feeling of distance growing stronger; antithetical to Orpheus, yet no less desperate at heart.) A smarter creature wouldn't be able to handle autonomy with a familiar purpose. (And a smarter creature wouldn't be smothering a prickling sensation risen along the back of his own neck, turning over the measure of his plans and wondering— )]
Does it matter?
[Is a question turned away from Fenris' observation, low-throated and etheric. The fact that it preys on all things preconceived regarding elves— let alone servants and their masters— at affairs like these does more than its fair share in masking what lies underneath.
Instinct. Inculcation.
White noise.
The man he's speaking to can't quite qualify as handsome when there's the matter of masked features here in play, but if nothing else, he has a very pleasant voice. Gods swear it's almost familiar.]
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A smart creature would learn from that. Astarion did eventually, after all.
But a smarter creature would've learned it sooner.
Then again, a smarter creature wouldn't be standing here smiling through gold features without blinking. (A smarter creature wouldn't be dwelling on the nagging feeling of distance growing stronger; antithetical to Orpheus, yet no less desperate at heart.) A smarter creature wouldn't be able to handle autonomy with a familiar purpose. (And a smarter creature wouldn't be smothering a prickling sensation risen along the back of his own neck, turning over the measure of his plans and wondering— )]
Does it matter?
[Is a question turned away from Fenris' observation, low-throated and etheric. The fact that it preys on all things preconceived regarding elves— let alone servants and their masters— at affairs like these does more than its fair share in masking what lies underneath.
Instinct. Inculcation.
White noise.
The man he's speaking to can't quite qualify as handsome when there's the matter of masked features here in play, but if nothing else, he has a very pleasant voice. Gods swear it's almost familiar.]