[Well of course it makes it worse— it's all Astarion ever does as a rule of thumb, which is why if not for the lingering feel of dampness on his palm (half wiped away, half held there by the imprint of his opposite thumb, pushed just against its midline), he'd be vexed by the notion of staying silent.
Instead he's red. Warm around the backs of his tucked ears, staring wide-eyed at the back of Fenris' head as they slither from the rafters and return to the land of the acknowledged and the living, which— between his distraction and Fenris' slow march, embodies something of the deliverance of Eurydice from Tartarus.
Small, and preemptively unsure, and decidedly deserving of soft mercy.
Zevlor's brow arches on approach, waiting for the silence to break. It always does, after all. And therefore when it doesn't, and he can't so much as level an interrogating stare towards the tuft of white, curl-laden hair sticking out behind Fenris' silhouette (no face, no expression, barely even the tips of those sharp ears), he clears his throat and offers up a dry:
'Am I to address the council first or will Astarion be joining us?']
no subject
Instead he's red. Warm around the backs of his tucked ears, staring wide-eyed at the back of Fenris' head as they slither from the rafters and return to the land of the acknowledged and the living, which— between his distraction and Fenris' slow march, embodies something of the deliverance of Eurydice from Tartarus.
Small, and preemptively unsure, and decidedly deserving of soft mercy.
Zevlor's brow arches on approach, waiting for the silence to break. It always does, after all. And therefore when it doesn't, and he can't so much as level an interrogating stare towards the tuft of white, curl-laden hair sticking out behind Fenris' silhouette (no face, no expression, barely even the tips of those sharp ears), he clears his throat and offers up a dry:
'Am I to address the council first or will Astarion be joining us?']