[It's more honest than sentimental. He isn't a simpering romantic looking to lose himself in this elf; rather, there's something almost amusingly stark about how he says it.]
Do not take it as mere nosiness. In all honesty, if you are not from here— and I suspect you are not, at least not originally— I would hear how you see these things compared to what you are used to. Else all I will have to go on is impressions.
[He nods out to the marble floor, where countless pairs glide in sweet synchronization, every step perfect, every beat kept— at least in theory. And yet the longer one looks, the easier it is to spot the disparities: little mistakes here and there. Little slips born of too much alcohol or unfamiliarity with the latest dances in Orlais, but oh, there isn't a soul alive who isn't taking notice.]
My former countrymen give themselves away with their tempo . . . they expect the music to be faster, I suspect.
[There's no hint of an Antivan accent in Vakares' voice, but it's an Antivan pair he nods to: the woman slightly yanking the man along as he attempts to temper her, her eagerness to move faster outpacing the tempo every few beats.]
They find the food too light for their tastes and overcompensate with drinking wine . . . but they, at least, know how to play the game better than some of the Southerners.
[The Free Marchers who attend, standing out as too crass, too loud, too different: the ones who don't know it's impolite to take more than one canapé or that you can't enter a dance halfway through. It isn't all of them, of course. Some of the Fereldens blend in perfectly well, trading secrets with a smirk behind their fans; it's just that it's interesting to see the ones that don't— and deduce why.]
But I will not press you for secrets you wish to keep. If you want to stay an alluring mystery, by all means. You're good at it— certainly you've caught the attention of most here.
no subject
[It's more honest than sentimental. He isn't a simpering romantic looking to lose himself in this elf; rather, there's something almost amusingly stark about how he says it.]
Do not take it as mere nosiness. In all honesty, if you are not from here— and I suspect you are not, at least not originally— I would hear how you see these things compared to what you are used to. Else all I will have to go on is impressions.
[He nods out to the marble floor, where countless pairs glide in sweet synchronization, every step perfect, every beat kept— at least in theory. And yet the longer one looks, the easier it is to spot the disparities: little mistakes here and there. Little slips born of too much alcohol or unfamiliarity with the latest dances in Orlais, but oh, there isn't a soul alive who isn't taking notice.]
My former countrymen give themselves away with their tempo . . . they expect the music to be faster, I suspect.
[There's no hint of an Antivan accent in Vakares' voice, but it's an Antivan pair he nods to: the woman slightly yanking the man along as he attempts to temper her, her eagerness to move faster outpacing the tempo every few beats.]
They find the food too light for their tastes and overcompensate with drinking wine . . . but they, at least, know how to play the game better than some of the Southerners.
[The Free Marchers who attend, standing out as too crass, too loud, too different: the ones who don't know it's impolite to take more than one canapé or that you can't enter a dance halfway through. It isn't all of them, of course. Some of the Fereldens blend in perfectly well, trading secrets with a smirk behind their fans; it's just that it's interesting to see the ones that don't— and deduce why.]
But I will not press you for secrets you wish to keep. If you want to stay an alluring mystery, by all means. You're good at it— certainly you've caught the attention of most here.
What will you do with it?