[From Laira to Astarion to Fenris: what was once rumor becomes ingrained fact, easily accepted in a baffling sort of way. He barely knows what giving good cock means, beyond a vague understanding that it's to do with fucking, but what does it matter? He nods in agreement because he likes hearing Astarion talk, and the education he gets in carnal matters is a bonus.

As for where Bah-li is: Fenris shrugs one skinny shoulder, eyes narrowed in concentration as he focuses on the bottle. One of the other servants had taught him this: the trick isn't to yank it out all at once, but wiggle it free slowly and methodically . . .

Though one bit of gossip slips through the cracks in his concentration, and he glances up.]

He's the only dancer who— who does that?

[His tongue falters at the last minute, but no matter. It isn't that he's shy, exactly, but he doesn't have the same casual confidence Astarion does when it comes to uttering such phrases.]

In the whole company? That seems . . .

[Ill-advised, he would say if he was grown. Instead, his nose wrinkled:]

Stupid. Shouldn't everyone know how to do that?

[After all: how hard can it possibly be? And he has other thoughts on that, but—

Pop! goes the cork, and Fenris glances down in mingled surprise and pleasure at the opened bottle of sherry. He grin at Astarion, proud and pleased to succeed in front of him, and flips the cork over to him before sniffing experimentally at the bottle.

It's . . . alcoholic, mostly, and he fights the urge to wrinkle his nose in instinctive distaste.]

It smells like almonds . . .

[Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.]

Do we just drink it?

[There was a whole lesson last week on how to decant wine, which he only vaguely remembers.]