[The syllables electrify themselves. Spark life at the corners of his mouth. Inspire him as so little else ever manages, weaving in and out between shared rapidfire steps. The little reverberations traveling upwards from the edges of his soles that bristle like perked whiskers, telling him just how close they are to clipping one another— to touching— through the rhythms of a song he doesn't know. Never heard before. (Sunlight on his skin; kind words; outstretched fingers that don't grab for him before he's ready.)
A song he wants to hear again and again and again before the lights go out.
There's a flourish. The flow of weight along his forearm when he yanks his grip backwards just to change direction and invoke the heady rise of excitement without warning. There's more— so much more— for combinations unexplored as his mind races like an animal in practiced pursuit of swifter prey, and the music builds to a crescendo—
'Leave.'
Is all the guard says to them in the meager silence of uncaught breath, once the music stops abruptly. A full dance floor, but he's there beside them like a damned iron post, clearly wearing someone else's (a noble or two or more, perhaps) ire: arms folded, mask colder than the ballroom's overarching sentiment.]
—I really thought we were going to be jailed for that. [Astarion laughs dryly, quenching it with a slow pull from (one last) stolen bottle, invisibly plucked up on his way out regardless of the eyes that watched to make certain they took their leave. Two unmonitored companions with no altus in sight? Tsk tsk. Like letting a greyhound have at the empress' table, apparently.
They won't be getting back in any time soon, but at least the gardens are cool and quiet, and feel pleasant against the sweat-kissed gaps between lacelined clothes.]
no subject
[The syllables electrify themselves. Spark life at the corners of his mouth. Inspire him as so little else ever manages, weaving in and out between shared rapidfire steps. The little reverberations traveling upwards from the edges of his soles that bristle like perked whiskers, telling him just how close they are to clipping one another— to touching— through the rhythms of a song he doesn't know. Never heard before. (Sunlight on his skin; kind words; outstretched fingers that don't grab for him before he's ready.)
A song he wants to hear again and again and again before the lights go out.
There's a flourish. The flow of weight along his forearm when he yanks his grip backwards just to change direction and invoke the heady rise of excitement without warning. There's more— so much more— for combinations unexplored as his mind races like an animal in practiced pursuit of swifter prey, and the music builds to a crescendo—
'Leave.'
Is all the guard says to them in the meager silence of uncaught breath, once the music stops abruptly. A full dance floor, but he's there beside them like a damned iron post, clearly wearing someone else's (a noble or two or more, perhaps) ire: arms folded, mask colder than the ballroom's overarching sentiment.]
—I really thought we were going to be jailed for that. [Astarion laughs dryly, quenching it with a slow pull from (one last) stolen bottle, invisibly plucked up on his way out regardless of the eyes that watched to make certain they took their leave. Two unmonitored companions with no altus in sight? Tsk tsk. Like letting a greyhound have at the empress' table, apparently.
They won't be getting back in any time soon, but at least the gardens are cool and quiet, and feel pleasant against the sweat-kissed gaps between lacelined clothes.]
Do they send assassins after slaves here?