[Were he home, it would be the constellatory endpoint of one brilliant trap. Here, the moment he would've spent a whole night chasing after like a bloodhound, that same breed of openness and honesty that would've netted him nothing more than the humiliating tang of fetid rat blood rather than so much worse. It was the rotting carrot rather than the inevitably risen stick, and yet still he feels the ingrained thrill of its success on instinct.
The Duke's eyes on him, the Duke's latent sense of yearning, tanginle where it oughtn't be. Made even better by the fact that elves merit hardly anything in this world outside derision, and yet—
(What would a meretrix ask of a Duke in the labyrinthine heart of Orlais?
Everything, answers something back.
Dangerous. Dark as the pleasant thought only a vampire— former or otherwise— could nurse along inside its frigid chest. He doesn't even want to. Not really. But despite his neophytic first flight on the heels of someone better, the graveyard still has him. It's there in pallid skin and knifing fangs. Beneath the mild, inexplicable bond (and the pity for palpable loneliness lapping at his heels by proxy), pacing like a tiger in its cage, his first thought is a flash of vibrant cruelty.
Put away.)]
Surely you understand that my altus would be greatly displeased if I were out here spreading all their secrets for fondness' sake.
[Yet the question was what would he ask— not what could he ask.]
But if I were in the business of dealing my own downfall, [As Astarion Ancunín always was.] I'd start by asking for your name, so that I could remember it. Something to take home with me.
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The Duke's eyes on him, the Duke's latent sense of yearning, tanginle where it oughtn't be. Made even better by the fact that elves merit hardly anything in this world outside derision, and yet—
(What would a meretrix ask of a Duke in the labyrinthine heart of Orlais?
Everything, answers something back.
Dangerous. Dark as the pleasant thought only a vampire— former or otherwise— could nurse along inside its frigid chest. He doesn't even want to. Not really. But despite his neophytic first flight on the heels of someone better, the graveyard still has him. It's there in pallid skin and knifing fangs. Beneath the mild, inexplicable bond (and the pity for palpable loneliness lapping at his heels by proxy), pacing like a tiger in its cage, his first thought is a flash of vibrant cruelty.
Put away.)]
Surely you understand that my altus would be greatly displeased if I were out here spreading all their secrets for fondness' sake.
[Yet the question was what would he ask— not what could he ask.]
But if I were in the business of dealing my own downfall, [As Astarion Ancunín always was.] I'd start by asking for your name, so that I could remember it. Something to take home with me.
A souvenir.