[Oh, there's not a hint of hesitation. Perhaps they had the idea only minutes ago, but something about it feels so right— and who cares what others think of it? He's good at fighting already, better than almost anyone in the entire Moulin Rouge, probably, so let them talk. Let them laugh, if they're so foolish as to underestimate him. He'll show them all.
Zevlor doesn't laugh. He looks surprised for a few seconds before his expression softens once more.
'Is that right,' he says, quietly amused by Fenris' fervent nod. 'And when did you decide this, hm?'
A few minutes ago is not that impressive an answer, and Fenris shrugs awkwardly.]
We— I— just did.
['I see,' he says again. From behind them, a voice drifts through the air, the words indistinct but the tone light; it's followed by peels of laughter. Kanon is busy with some of the girls, ostensibly measuring them for their newest costumes, but more than likely teasing them for whatever fuss occurred earlier. Zevlor glances towards backstage with a little smile, rubs one hand over his mouth, and then returns his attention to his two unruly children.
'Then perhaps the first thing you should learn is that a bodyguard is not a whipping boy— and taking the blame for Astarion's crimes won't do either of you any favors.']
I wasn't—
['Yes, you were.' It isn't a question. Zevlor kneels down, then, and tips his head at Fenris. 'And if you truly wish for such a thing, you'll need training. We can arrange for that— after you both finish making up for what you did. No,' he says, holding up one clawed hand to stave off the inevitable protest from Astarion. 'You weren't trying to stop me from being ripped off, don't try to sell that. You tried that lie last month with the wine, and it was no truer then than it is now.'
He rises to his feet, glancing between the two of them. 'Astarion, you'll be helping Laira for the next two weeks when she cleans after the guests— don't argue. And as for you, Fenris: Kanon needs someone to hold his pins and scissors while he designs the costumes. You'll give him a hand in what he needs, and serve as model if you must.'
Two tasks that they both hate; two chores that they'd probably be happier to exchange, which is why they both serve well as punishments. Fenris, who had grown brighter at the thought of training, visibly deflates, pulling a little face.]
Ugh.
[The noise slips out of him before he can help it, and for a long moment Fenris stares up at Zevlor in shock. It's the first time he's ever expressed such annoyance, never mind in response to a punishment, and the consequences . . . you aren't supposed to do that. You aren't ever supposed to do that, and despite himself, Fenris tenses. Kindly or not, surely Zevlor won't take to such sass, not from him—
And yet all the tiefling does is chuckle softly. 'Go on,' he urges, and nods at Astarion. 'You too. I'm not changing my mind.']
no subject
[Oh, there's not a hint of hesitation. Perhaps they had the idea only minutes ago, but something about it feels so right— and who cares what others think of it? He's good at fighting already, better than almost anyone in the entire Moulin Rouge, probably, so let them talk. Let them laugh, if they're so foolish as to underestimate him. He'll show them all.
Zevlor doesn't laugh. He looks surprised for a few seconds before his expression softens once more.
'Is that right,' he says, quietly amused by Fenris' fervent nod. 'And when did you decide this, hm?'
A few minutes ago is not that impressive an answer, and Fenris shrugs awkwardly.]
We— I— just did.
['I see,' he says again. From behind them, a voice drifts through the air, the words indistinct but the tone light; it's followed by peels of laughter. Kanon is busy with some of the girls, ostensibly measuring them for their newest costumes, but more than likely teasing them for whatever fuss occurred earlier. Zevlor glances towards backstage with a little smile, rubs one hand over his mouth, and then returns his attention to his two unruly children.
'Then perhaps the first thing you should learn is that a bodyguard is not a whipping boy— and taking the blame for Astarion's crimes won't do either of you any favors.']
I wasn't—
['Yes, you were.' It isn't a question. Zevlor kneels down, then, and tips his head at Fenris. 'And if you truly wish for such a thing, you'll need training. We can arrange for that— after you both finish making up for what you did. No,' he says, holding up one clawed hand to stave off the inevitable protest from Astarion. 'You weren't trying to stop me from being ripped off, don't try to sell that. You tried that lie last month with the wine, and it was no truer then than it is now.'
He rises to his feet, glancing between the two of them. 'Astarion, you'll be helping Laira for the next two weeks when she cleans after the guests— don't argue. And as for you, Fenris: Kanon needs someone to hold his pins and scissors while he designs the costumes. You'll give him a hand in what he needs, and serve as model if you must.'
Two tasks that they both hate; two chores that they'd probably be happier to exchange, which is why they both serve well as punishments. Fenris, who had grown brighter at the thought of training, visibly deflates, pulling a little face.]
Ugh.
[The noise slips out of him before he can help it, and for a long moment Fenris stares up at Zevlor in shock. It's the first time he's ever expressed such annoyance, never mind in response to a punishment, and the consequences . . . you aren't supposed to do that. You aren't ever supposed to do that, and despite himself, Fenris tenses. Kindly or not, surely Zevlor won't take to such sass, not from him—
And yet all the tiefling does is chuckle softly. 'Go on,' he urges, and nods at Astarion. 'You too. I'm not changing my mind.']