Much like languages, I suppose. [Fenrir and Fenris, he hasn't forgotten, though a few hours has sweetened the comparison.] Though so few possess a fraction of the flexibility we do: it makes for a limited pool indeed.

[It's not meant to be as judgemental as it comes out, but Fenris can't find it within himself to care. One song drifts into another, the tempo shifting from slow to lively and back again, and some part of Fenris hopes that it will never end. That they'll linger here, talking and dancing with the world kept so far at bay, until at last dawn comes and they'll squirrel away to their shared room.

And it won't happen like that, of course. He knows that. Nothing good ever lasts— so best to make this count.]

So show me.

[His head cocks, a challenging little smirk on his lips.]

Sex and fighting both also require an ability to read the other person's body, anticipating their moves and mood, and then improvise as needed . . . show me the differences in your dances and mine. I want to learn more of you.

[And it's true. He's eternally fascinated by languages and culture: how one affects the other affects the one, an endless ouroboros of society; how the differences between each arise, and what marks them. Orlais and Tevinter and the Free Marches, yes, but . . . what of another world? They're so similar in so many ways, but there's still so much that Fenris doesn't know about.]

And we'll see just how well I can keep up.