illithidnapped | INBOX II

[Someday, he will. And if nothing else, for now it's Fenris that catches Astarion wholly off his guard, surprise brimming in an expression that's only partway obscured for the scantest of seconds— segue brief before his own mask comes off, shadow flitting over the bemused curl of his lips.

A child of all things. A single, unimportant, no doubt truthful-to-his-own child. While Astarion was off hunting coattails and causerie, Fenris went right to the genuine source. What a beautiful beast you are, the white flash of his jagged fangs seems to say. What a clever, -clever- thing.

This is why he wanted him here, that stark difference in perspective.]

That....[Astarion starts, red eyes glittering to watch Fenris slake his thirst whilst his mind crawls back towards remembering those rubies. Even the Andrastisn guise standing opposite to it, begging a question he can't yet answer.] ....or someone close to him.

Someone with their finger to the pulse of his sovereignty, perhaps.

[Oh, and it's startlingly sweet, the sudden appearance of Astarion's face. A little unexpected and all the more pleasurable for it, and for a brief moment Fenris feels something like preening pride fill his chest. Perhaps there's something to be said for a masquerade, for though he's seen Astarion's face a hundred times before, still, here, now, it feels like an earned prize.]

That does seem more likely . . .

[Heat washes through him, the wine already making him pleasantly tipsy.]

And I would bet almost anything you have an idea just who that might be, hm?

Will you tell me? Or must I earn it?

[Time and tide already prove— punctuated by an electric sparkle in those eyes— that there is nothing Astarion would not lay willingly at Fenris' feet if prompted to, dropping everything from gossip to agonizing truth on the ground like a guttering, half-dead bird sporting puncture wounds in its neck.

His love language is service. It's the only one he ever learned with any sincerity. It's the language he most wants to speak now.

Still it's Fenris that's been pushing him to think before he reacts on thready instinct, and it manifests first in a vibrant twist of amusement channeled high throughout his face— tipped back along with him as he tucks both arms behind him, chin canting low across his throat, head tilted.]

If I demand the latter, I wonder....would you let curiosity lead you....?

[Or would you turn away, and let it lie.]

[Oh, and something in the pit of his stomach flutters pleasantly. Suddenly he isn't so certain of where the world is taking him, but it isn't a worrying feeling. He trusts Astarion, after all, and whatever he asks of him, Fenris is certain, it won't be anything egregious.

Besides: he's never been a coward.]

If it were you at the helm? Yes . . . I think I would agree to most anything.

[He doesn't know what he's saying (he does know what he's saying, the wine making his tongue loose and his face flushed hot). He angles a little closer to Astarion, drawn in by the coy way he positions himself, all rapid movement and eager swoops.]

But only if you'll indulge me in return, once all this is said and done.

[He's never heard that from a friend. Never heard it from anything beyond his many marks, and it smelled so pungently of longing when it came that he can't help pausing just to hunt for that old, familiar whiff of expectation buried deep—

(Foolish. Foolish and overwhelming all in a single moment, when he finds it isn't there.)

He knows what he's saying, and it's far from wine or heady tannins making his tongue loose and his face warm when he cranes closer in tight quarters: grinning whilst his fingertips ghost near to Fenris' chin— playfully passing by.

Wanting nothing than to touch.]

Indulge you how?

I don't doubt the party would be improved by a pair of scantily dressed escorts tussling for victory if you're so restless, but I'll warn you, it's hardly discreet....

[He doesn't recoil from that touch, though he would have with anyone else. Astarion's fingers glide over him so carefully, though, weaving between his marks and leaving only a pleasant tingling warmth in their aftermath. It quietly thrills him, just as the way they're talking does, and he does not linger on just why that is; only grins a little recklessly, his head tipping toward the party.]

Nothing so brutish, [his voice briefly affected, morphing in Astarion's own.] But we have been on our best behavior tonight, when all is said and done. Played the part of consorts perfectly— or at least, [he adds more honestly,] you have, and I have done well enough not marring it.

But consorts are meant to be noticed, are they not? Be daringly memorable?

[Another grin.]

Come dance with me, and let us scandalize every human in there.

[Because he's tired of how small this organization makes him feel, and this will piss off their superiors. Because he hates this country, and this party, and these humans; because he's so tired of ducking his head down and keeping himself safe and nonthreatening for no other reason than he has pointed ears. Because he's drunk and happy for the first time tonight, and he sees no reason not to keep that going.]

But only after you tell me your desire.

[His desire is a bitten tongue and an even broader grin— not Fenris', his own— because he'd been more than ready to beg, petition or steal his way into having such a handsome creature in his arms where everyone might pay witness, dancing as though they belong and aren't somehow sullying the landscape with their very pointy ears. He'd wanted to ask for the same thing, in other words, and instead walked facefirst into his own aspirations.

The borders of his ears are burning, though he shows nothing of his hand elsewise when Fenris stands so close. Like a practiced poker player, he knows better than to let true feelings enter into this, lest he lean too hard, want too much— turn their playful banter into the forthright transcipt of his desires and send the only elf that matters slinking back towards their room in want of distance. So there's an art to the way he lays his focus: sets his profile to the side whilst lifting the level of his gaze, smeared kohl glittering in faint slivers of caught light.]

Nothing that isn't iniquitous by design.

[A fair way to save grace when one's only other real response would be to answer 'same', with the height of all those wasted charms. Grant him some credit, he has more decorum than that.]

So I'll settle for your suggestion, and think it fair pay for my conjecture. [His hand moves like a snake's coils just to fit between them where there's little room, extended in genteel offering.]

....shall we?

Edited 2025-01-10 00:10 (UTC)

We shall.

[Astarion's hand is so soft compared to his own. Not in actuality any smaller or more delicate than Fenris' own, and yet the mind plays tricks on perception, for as he runs a calloused thumb idly over the back of his hand, Fenris marvels at it. Soft and cold, for his fingers are like ice as they thread through Fenris' own.

He draws their joined hands up, his other settling on the jut of one sharp hip. He takes the leading position by default; there's a certain mechanical way he settles himself, stiff and yet not unyielding. He knows how to dance. He even knows how to formally dance, albeit in a somewhat old-fashioned style. But knowing and practicing are two different things; right now, Fenris moves like a man mentally checking off boxes, making sure all his bits are in place, so unlike the way he fluidly slides into battle positions.

One hand here. Weight evenly distributed and leaned forward into the balls of his feet (pinching in the hated shoes). He steps a little closer to his partner, bridging the gap between them until there's only the barest sliver of space. And then—]

Follow my lead.

[It's such a simple little waltz. Most of the Orlesians around them are addicted to complexity: drawing apart and walking forward with only their fingers linked, or thread through one another, trading partners in a complicated weave. But there are others, much like the two of them, who make do with nothing more than a steady set of motions, steady and pleasingly simple.

That isn't what sets everyone's tongue wagging.

'Are they actually—'

'Do you think their Altus knows?'

'Are they even allowed to do that?'

Whispers whip through the room in a swift susurrus, soft giggles and uncertain grins echoing each one. Is it a joke? A game whose purpose they haven't yet deduced? More than once couriers glance up at the Marquis, trying to gauge his reaction, only to find him utterly preoccupied with speaking animatedly to his mistress. And no one is saying anything . . . perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps this is some sort of backwards ball, or a play on nobility.

And Fenris doesn't care. The whispers drift to his ears, and he's more than aware of how many people are staring at them, but somehow, it all comes at a distance. He'll chalk it up later to focusing on not stepping on Astarion's feet, and indeed, that's a concern— but truly, it's that he can't take his eyes away from Astarion. He can't stop noticing the softness of his hand or the span of his hip beneath Fenris' palm. He searches for scarlet eyes behind a golden mask and smiles when he sees them glittering in amusement; he dares to add an extra turn and grins when Astarion effortlessly keeps up.]

Stay close, lest they swoop in and attempt to steal you from me in a spirited effort to get you to join in some inane group dance.

[An answering hum as the tail of that spin brings them closer than they were before. The soft lay of his fingers where they rejoin the smooth dimples along Fenris' lower spine, stronger once they've found their marks. Everything where it belongs— save them, if the swirl of restless whispers flocking them holds any meaning. Any merit whatsoever.

To Astarion, it doesn't.

The noise might wax and wane, and the words themselves might register well enough, but the buzzing in his skull rings louder; the mantra circling its tail that swears in awe as often as it can that this is real.]

Then I'll hold you that much tighter, and dare them all to try. [Is a murmur inlaid near the borders of a lunar mask, blowing back with his own exhale— warmer on its second pass. He can still smell that bottled wine, still taste it in recounted memory. Where there hands fit together— smooth faultlines over rough (and the pulse of his anchor, aching like his own raised pulse)— he palms that grip like he did the bottle: stealing everything he can without crossing into crassness. A subtle, conscious effort for a hungry thing like him.]

....You know, I didn't take you for much of a dancer.

[I was wrong, insists his tone.]

Dexterity, adaptability, flexibility . . . fighting and dancing require many of the same skills.

[The scent of lilac fills his senses as his nose bumps against the edge of Astarion's mask. It's sweet and light, and a welcome contrast to the heavy perfumes the Orelesians tend to favor. He likes it, Fenris thinks, and wishes there was a way to say that without coming across as creepy. I like your scent; I like the way you feel as I hold you like this, small and warm and close; I like how fluidly we move together— there's so many sensations right now he can't tell Astarion about, for fear of it all being ruined.

I like how this feels, he thinks as they move together, right to right, left to left. I like having you near me, and he can't— won't— think about what that means. He won't connect his own relief that Astarion isn't squirreled away with some oafish count with the simple pleasure that pulses through him now. He won't even linger on the way his body is so aware of every place they touch: Astarion's fingers leaving ghostly echoes against the small of his back, and gods, he wouldn't mind if those hands drifted even further—

No.

Too dangerous, that line of thought. Too terrifying for a man still steeling for the inevitable loss.

Focus on the here and now. On the intimacy of whispering things to one another, and all the jealousies they spark by not sharing. On the joy of having Astarion (selfishly, possessively in a way he has no right to be), even in some small way, even if it's only for now.]

Indeed: there have been times when I have contemplated taking up ballet as a hobby. Then again: considering the demographic that usually populates those classes, perhaps not. There are few things less merciless to one's ego than children.

[Is he joking? There's no giveaway in the rumble of his voice, but this close, Astarion might be able to see the amusement glittering in his gaze.]

I could say the same to you, though. Are dances so similar where you're from, or are you simply good at adapting?

[Light, airy: better to say that than in your world.]

Mhmm, so do fucking and dancing, for that matter.

[When all was knife-sharp palatability in the dark, crass humor remains a heady thrill he's still not truly normalized quite yet— and to that extent, it's exactly why there's nothing wicked loitering beneath the surface of that remark.

Well, not overtly, anyway.

Any dedication to packbound levity initially leaned on suddenly recedes the second that his mask is nudged by a pretty nose. One that every last facet of himself is magnetized towards for just an instant, very nearly giving chase; all that saves him from the humiliation of taking things too far is a single, shifting step towards the left timed to the rhythm of the music (and a memory he can't quite place— deja vu— have they done this once before....?) wherein centimeters of empty air do the hard job that he can't: redraw the line between winebound fantasy and reality.

And it's effortless.]

I don't know which is worse: children or Orlesians, for criticism.

[Ah, but 'where you're from.' He likes that, he realizes. The way it makes him seem like he belongs here, rather than the great pretender that he is.

And it's far, far from effortless.]

Dances vary by the region, and much like....[well] pursuits of an undeniably different shade, one hardly needs to know every step to follow a keen rhythm. But shockingly I'm finding this particular dance almost exceedingly familiar.

Then again, there are only so many ways the mortal body can move.

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.

[Does he trust Fenris not to make a fool of himself in front of a court that'd spurn them both for the sake of a fine challenge?

Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.

He'll be fine.

So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]

I think I should warn you....

[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]

....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.

[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]

[Fenris gasps.

One short, swift inhale that he won't ever admit to anyone, Astarion least of all. It's there and gone, evidence for it only living on in the way he's breathless as he's bent backwards: held by hands that don't waver and whispered to with a voice that overwhelms in the most alluring way. His heart thunders as heat floods his cheeks, and he doesn't know why, save perhaps that no one has ever done this before.

But there's no time for reflection. In the next instant they rise up out of the dip and move: Astarion driving them forward and Fenris walking back, his eyes gleaming as he remembers how this goes. It's all about letting go, in fighting or fucking or dancing: how to stop worrying about how you don't know what to do and simply let yourself do it, trusting in your own instincts to be your guide. Don't glance down at your feet, for they don't know any better than you what's happening next; instead, watch his eyes. He grips Astarion's hand and feels the tension there, guiding him into turning left or right; he surrenders the urge to lead and instead focuses on following, grinning all the while.]

I see that.

[Muttered wryly as they twist, turn— dip again, Fenris parting his thighs as Astarion leans in deep, their breath hot against one another's mouths. Like this, like this, and without realizing it he's shifted his own body, arching his back as his hips remember what it is to act separately from his torso.

They drift apart deliberately, hands still connected, and Fenris uses the momentum to add a twist, his feet moving in a complex pattern before he's drawn back close once more. Astarion's hand is warmer now, soft and yet with enough power in those wiry fingers to guide Fenris along as they draw back together.]

Is that the best you can do?

[More, show me more, as if they aren't electrified already— but now he feels as though he's in sync with Astarion. He knows the press of his body and the tension in his muscles; he knows how to anticipate, angle, move with him instead of against him, reading his body and relying on him to know just how to catch him when Fenris falls. Even their breathing feels as though it's in sync, ragged exhales and sharp inhales as they move together.]

Don't hold back.

You think I'm holding back?

[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?

As if a slave was ever worth something so important.

[Drawled rather than growled, a testament to his lingering good mood. He sits sprawled on the ground, his back resting against the bench and Astarion's leg not an inch away. It's a childish pose and he doesn't care, not when he's tipsy bordering on drunk and still so exhilarated about tonight.]

No, they would hire common thugs, if anything, and half the time they wouldn't even find the right slave.

[Everything feels warm and out of focus right now, pleasant in a way that Fenris hasn't felt in a long time. His head rolls to the side, his smile a little wide as he peers up at his companion.]

You still owe me a dance, though. We did not finish ours, and you never proved yourself to me. You cannot count that as a victory just yet.

Now give me that bottle. And tell me what that dance was, anyway, for it was nothing like anything I have seen before.

[Astarion twists himself to look down, one leg dangling over the side of the bench closest to Fenris, only slightly in the way when he passes the bottle back on demand.]

Seriously?

That wasn't enough to impress you? [Tch.] Such a demanding young lad.

[There's such a resounding click when the bottle leaves his grip— deliberate— jewelry caught against its twin.]

....or maybe you just couldn't get enough? The tango is quite addictive.

[An amused scoff slips past his lips for young lad, for he still hasn't had time to think about the reality of their age difference. But he must be young to someone two centuries old, he thinks muzzily as he stares up at Astarion. He must seem little more than a child. And what is it like, to age so much? Do they grow wiser with every decade, or does it plateau after a certain point? Does an elf with five centuries upon him scoff at the folly of someone who's only a hundred? It's equal parts baffling and amusing, and his thoughts linger there for a time . . .

Until he realizes he's been simply staring up dazedly at Astarion, his gaze unfocused. Ah . . .]

Tango . . .

[He rolls the word around in his mouth, pinning the word to deed. Then, as he grins around the bottle's mouth:]

Let me amend my words, then: I was impressed, for you are an excellent dancer . . .

[He really is, and he lets that linger in the air as he drinks a mouthful.]

. . . but that doesn't negate the fact we didn't finish. And that I would like to learn the rest of it someday— though somewhere where we won't be interrupted, I think.

[But perhaps not here and now. He adds curiously:]

Are all dances like that where you're from? So . . .

[He gestures vaguely with his hands, trying to indicate a general sense of heat and passion, not to mention closeness.]

. . . intense.

[A simple reiteration slides its way in as gloved fingers pull a gilded mask fully free, discarding it in lush grass off to one side (they won't need it now, will they? If he turns up here tomorrow it'll only bring about a swift kick in the ass— or as Fenris so aptly surmised: thugs— let alone a deeper inquiry as to who at all invited them, and he'd rather not bring suspicion down around the Duke's ears either for having spent the evening at his side, an inevitable consequence of investigation. No, he'll cash his check and find another way to ferret a few tidbits of information without being seen, or endure the consequences; Riftwatch can't even begin to compare with Cazador's admonishments, after all), white curls slightly damp from dancing and the blowback of his breath behind that mask, leaving them splayed wildly in all directions.

In sore need of combing down, which he does with his fingertips thereafter, exhaling.]

Keep flattering me and I might actually commit myself to teaching you. You weren't a terrible study, as it so happens. [Is a tease, and an admission, and it comes with a far more praising wink for good measure before he leans back.

Squints up at what few stars can be seen over city lights as they continue on.]

Hah! Goodness no.

Despite the way it is both well-known and perfectly acceptable as an art in higher hallways, you certainly won't catch the Duchal Grandmatron hiking her skirts with both hands at the start of every ball. [Spares one delighted half-snort of delight at the imagined thought.]

Most are either rowdy enough to warrant warnings depending on the establishment, or remain about as stuffy as your typical exchange back there. The usual step-pause-step-step-pauseeee~ [a bored half-sweep of his hand runs long] ~wait for your partner to imagine the whole of your lives together, the children you might rear, growing old together whilst battling the scars of the past through tearfelt romantic readings of old memories plucked from a notebook, something-something kissing in the rain- anddddd step.

Edited 2025-01-21 23:50 (UTC)

[He laughs at that descriptor. His cheeks are aching, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he smiled so much around someone— a real smile, too, not just a mean smirk or sardonic grimace. And as for laughing, Maker, he's rusty at it. The sound startles him even now, a full-throated laugh as he tosses his mask atop Astarion's, quietly gleeful at the wastefulness.]

Come, now.

[As truly chiding as Astarion's own words, his tongue thick and a little clumsy as he speaks.]

You can do better than that for a compliment. Or did I not keep up with your every step and move?

[His hand lifts, his wrist rolling with surprising flexability as he offers it.]

Must I prove myself again? Though you may not find me quite as nimble after so much wine.

[Spontaneous, the laughter he breaks into without thinking; angles his attention low across the bench towards the backs of pretty ears.]

If it means watching you dance again, I'll tell you you're the worst in Faerûn though it'd be a lie—

[Ah.

Ah, that's right. Silly to forget a thing like that when his own palm's aching like it's been stung, but....

His inhale's clipped. His smile thinned down to something sober where he isn't, and it makes it hard to keep up with what he feels before it up and speaks for him.]

You make it easy to think of better days I can't remember.

[Oh.

Something like astonishment crosses his expression as he turns to face Astarion, soft and light in a way that eases the years in his face. For just a moment he isn't the jaded and cynical elf that had crossed the border three days ago; instead, he's something less roughened. Doe-eyed and a little awed by this wondrous, impossible companion who speaks from the heart instead of the head.]

You make it easy to simply be.

[The words are soft, but genuinely meant. And though some part of him balks at such honesty, he doesn't take it back. The moons shine so bright tonight, making Astarion's hair look like starlight; his eyes glimmer in the darkness, twin rubies that Fenris wouldn't look away from for anything.]

And I think it is fair to say I have never met anyone like you before. Not in all my years.

Good. [Sounds more confident than it is— ] because if there was someone else, I'd certainly hate to have to kill the unlucky bastard just to secure my rightful place. [ —Less weak in the knees than he feels, and it's nothing to do with the hiss of spiced static between his ears from too much wine. Too much comfort. The moonlight's blinding at this angle, as is everything else, frankly, and at the fringe edge of that recognition as he leans on all his skills, is the realization that this kind of fondness could be fatal.

That he could make all the wrong choices for someone who looks at him the way that Fenris looks at him, speaks to him as Fenris speaks to him; all strange, enduring brilliance, and a pair of hands roughened by too-familiar scars. Worn down in all the right ways. Made stronger in ways he'd never dreamed of.

Gods help him, he's a fool, that Astarion.]

His mistress is pulling the strings, I think.

[The bottle fits into his hands when he takes it again; he's lost track of the back and forth.] That's what I owed you for your dancing, after all. My assessment. My 'best guess'— which might now be my only guess, considering our graceful exit from the court's envious gaze.

[Something was lost in those breathless seconds. Something that Leto can't quite name, but his heart mourns all the same. Wait, wait, and he doesn't know how to beg to go back, nor even what he would say if they could. He's breathless as Astarion's words weave around him, his mind caught in that endless undertow—

Before he moves on, for there's no other choice.

(Hours later, when Astarion is asleep, he'll allow himself to wonder about that moment. And years from now, curled up in the circle of his arms, his memories half-restored to him, he'll pity his younger self, and be grateful for the way it inexplicably still managed to work out).]

It's enough to satisfy Riftwatch, in any case.

[His voice is a little distant, his mind still caught on before.]

I suspect you're right, but even if you aren't, they will not ask for confirmation.

[It's funny: nothing has changed, and yet all at once, everything has. The air smells a little less sweet; the noises around them are a little too sharp, vulgar laughter and the endless drone of violins now offensive to his ears. His legs are restless, and without thinking he stands, his hands pushing into his pockets as he glances down at Astarion.]

Come on. We can finish the bottle in our rooms. But it will be a long journey back to Kirkwall tomorrow, and a lack of sleep will not help it.

INBOX II

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject