[How regal Duke Vakares is. Even tucked away amongst his peers he stands out for that, lionish and striking. In a way that's beautiful. In a way that invokes a teething sort of jealousy— this is what you were, once. This is what you were born to be— no longer.
But that's nothing new. Two centuries spent wearing a different sort of mask always made him feel this way; at least here he can't feel a collar round his throat, choking out the thought of self-sufficiency or pride.
At least here, he has a choice.
And with the luxury of freedom in his corner, Astarion returns that bow. Graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce. Not a mockery or mimicry of it, nor something made to entertain the fickle whims of nobility that couldn't care less about him past his service. A truth revealed— if only through sleight of hand.]
Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, [smooth as butter on the tongue, that recitation, his red eyes lifted just before the rest of his body follows suit. As it is with all things: the repetition helps it stick.]
Having my mouth less full of sweetness isn't my idea of a good time.
[Ah, but then there's the question of a name, isn't there? Telling the truth would jeopardize the assignment. Moreover it would jeopardize him, something he can neither ignore nor abide. Yet if anonymity is the point, he can make the trade more fair, at least, by offering a name he's used before— even if it wasn't right.
Viniquessë, is what I remember being called.
With that, he takes his prize in turn: an evening spent soaking in the tidbits of proxied information, more than enough to bring back to Riftwatch for the mission in totality despite this having been the first night of scouting on its own. So well done, in fact, that he stays beside the Duke a little longer to bid farewell to the second kindest man he's ever known, returning to the first holding a bottle of stolen wine plucked up from the Marquis' cellar. After all, in Orlais elves go where they're needed. And isn't it funny how that translates to everywhere?
Speaking of which—
Hm.
A gentle turning of his head this way and that through the milling of the party reveals nothing. He'd thought his companion would be easy to spot, but....
no subject
But that's nothing new. Two centuries spent wearing a different sort of mask always made him feel this way; at least here he can't feel a collar round his throat, choking out the thought of self-sufficiency or pride.
At least here, he has a choice.
And with the luxury of freedom in his corner, Astarion returns that bow. Graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce. Not a mockery or mimicry of it, nor something made to entertain the fickle whims of nobility that couldn't care less about him past his service. A truth revealed— if only through sleight of hand.]
Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, [smooth as butter on the tongue, that recitation, his red eyes lifted just before the rest of his body follows suit. As it is with all things: the repetition helps it stick.]
Having my mouth less full of sweetness isn't my idea of a good time.
[Ah, but then there's the question of a name, isn't there? Telling the truth would jeopardize the assignment. Moreover it would jeopardize him, something he can neither ignore nor abide. Yet if anonymity is the point, he can make the trade more fair, at least, by offering a name he's used before— even if it wasn't right.
Viniquessë, is what I remember being called.
With that, he takes his prize in turn: an evening spent soaking in the tidbits of proxied information, more than enough to bring back to Riftwatch for the mission in totality despite this having been the first night of scouting on its own. So well done, in fact, that he stays beside the Duke a little longer to bid farewell to the second kindest man he's ever known, returning to the first holding a bottle of stolen wine plucked up from the Marquis' cellar. After all, in Orlais elves go where they're needed. And isn't it funny how that translates to everywhere?
Speaking of which—
Hm.
A gentle turning of his head this way and that through the milling of the party reveals nothing. He'd thought his companion would be easy to spot, but....
Where is he?]