[Astarion's grip on the bottle of sherry— tucked between his knees for support as he fiddles around with the cap— slips again a second time, condensation slicking the bottom of his hand like sweat, and making the paper label so brittle that it threatens to tear off completely via force. It's already pilling, and with a noise of disgust Astarion wipes it all off on the side of his trousers, little nose wrinkling in contempt.]
Ugh [comes out loud enough to cut through the noise of rehearsals in the background. Main stage, while they're here, tucked behind the bar on stools taller than either of them.] I hate the stupid magic iceboxes they keep these in. Everything just goes wet the second that it comes out.
[Which would be a problem if Astarion was tasked with unpacking the shipments early.
Astarion was not tasked with unpacking the shipments early.]
[But someone surely was, and who knows where that someone might be? It's the fifth time he's glanced around in about as many minutes, but Leto can't help it. A bit of mischief now and then he can tolerate, but stealing sherry? Stealing it and prying it open where anyone might catch them? Mm . . . Astarion's assured him that no one will care, but Leto isn't so sure. There's an awful lot you can do to get in trouble. Sometimes you don't even have to be doing anything. Sometimes standing is bad enough.
But this is not his home, and Mas— no, it's Zevlor, just Zevlor, but the thought of using his first name without a title makes Leto cringe— Master Zevlor has said before that it's fine. He hadn't looked particularly pleased about it, mind you, but still: he seems inclined to turn a blind eye to their antics.
(So far, some eternally wary part of him murmurs, but never mind that).]
You'd complain if it was warm. You did last time. Just don't drop it.
[Skeptically said, for he's half-sure Astarion is going to drop it anyway.]
What is it, anyway? Wine again?
[He had not liked the wine very much the last time they tried it— or, no, he had, right up until they'd ended up throwing up all night.]
Sherry— [Astarion puffs out, still swiping his hand against fabric. A few balled-up curls of soaked paper fall to the floor like tiny leaves from a tree in the process, gold around their edges— same as the bottle's signature scrawl.
Evidence, later. But not right now.
Right now, he can hear the rhythmic thudding of footwork against hollow wood (a low, shuddering sound not so different from a drum in play, only there's a percussive crispness to it), broken by the occasional correction from Zevlor or from one of the performers calling out. Today, Etudíe is furious at Brienne. That means there's more pauses than usual between sets, and when it happens, it comes coupled with a few arguments. Short ones, sure, but heated.
It works in Astarion and Fenris' favor.
And gives Astarion enough confidence to push his stare up and away from his battle, setting its attention on the other elf instead while he goes on.] —is what all the best people drink.
It's not the same as wine. [Declared with the unflinching confidence of someone who's never known nor asked what sherry actually is.
And this time there's a reason for it.]
Look. [He hefts his arm up behind him— the same one he'd been pawing with— grabbing a slim cocktail menu off the edge of the counter, almost twisting his shoulder around for how high up it is, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to mind; he's more focused on the end goal here:] See?
[He hasn't forgotten Fenris is still learning his letters, so he taps the ink with his index finger. Second row down from the top.]
They wouldn't write it separate if it was just regular wine. And it wouldn't cost twice as much either.
[Numbers are so much teasier than letters, and oh, that price is rather high, all things considering. Dark eyebrows raise as his eyes flick down, trying to compare it to the other prices, but ah: that's a bit too difficult.]
And you're certain no one will miss this?
[Said with all the dubious air of someone searching for the catch. Nothing ever comes for free, and surely there has to be a point where Zevlor's patience runs out.
On the other hand . . . it's not as if he's the one stealing it. He won't abandon Astarion if they get caught, but the ire certainly won't be wholly directed his way. And he's curious now, hesitance or not. It sounds exotic, or at the very least fancy, and when else will he ever be able to try it? Fenris grabs the edge of the bar and yanks himself forward, scooting boy and stool all at once so he can crowd in.]
Give it to me. You're pretty weak, you are not going to be able to get that cork off.
[Not an insult, or at least not really intended as one. Just the blunt utterances of a child. Above them, the song winds down. Zevlor's even tone rings through the air, offering indistinct corrections. Of course she missed the last shift, she's too busy sucking on Mallius' tongue all day, Etudíe drawls, and oh, there starts up the bickering again.]
Now what are they fighting about?
[He's getting better at learning names and faces, but that's a very different beast than understanding all the drama and details that come with each performer. Everyone's slept with someone, or has some grudge, or has a soft spot, or resents someone because they got a favored role . . . it seems exhausting to Fenris, in truth. But he likes hearing about it secondhand. Astarion is a good storyteller, and seems to have a knack for knowing all the dirty details. Being friends with him has been quite the education.]
[The look Astarion gives him is constricted by criticism at first: the urge to argue that he's not weak is only outstripped by the desire to see Fenris actually open the bottle he's well over fiddling with— huffing out a scoff of disagreement as he pries the bottle out of his own lap and foists it into Fenris' arms instead.
And with his hands now free, he gives himself one last dusting before setting his chin in his hands on the bar, menu steepled right beside him.]
Mallius. [Is the only definitive answer to all prior lines of questioning. His chasing grin proves it's not the end of it, either.] Brienne and Etudíe both like him because he's the only dancer that gives good cock, and they both think he should want them— and it's worse because Etudíe 'stole' one of Brienne's clients two months ago, only we all know she was just camping outside Brienne's room so she could catch him and convince him to try her instead.
[He doesn't know that— it's just the exact same gossip regurgitated the exact same way he heard Laira say it whilst wiping down the bar, and like anything a child hears, it stuck.
His eyes are on the cork; he doesn't quite know why, but he likes watching Fenris' hands work.]
Buuut I overheard Mallius saying that he was only sticking around until this next show run ends so he can meet up with boyfriend in Bah-li.
[Bali, actually. But points for trying, Astarion.]
[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.]
It smells expensive. [Is really the point. They're a real pair of merchant princes now— or just as good as them— as Astarion makes a show of sniffing that cork first, then crawls down from his seat to fish up two crystal glasses from the underside of the bar and slide them both over to Fenris for pouring.
That's his job.]
He's the only dancer who they like, so i guess he's the only one that's good at it.
It's like being a diamond: everyone wants to be, but not everyone is. Besides, he's not a courtesan, only a dancer, so that has to make it extra special or something.
[He considers this as he grasps the bottle in two hands and begins to pour. There's a little frown on his face as he focuses on pouring slowly enough so it doesn't spill. Except that's too slow, a trickle rather than a steady pour, and so he nudges the bottle higher— except then that's too fast, a surge of sherry suddenly filling the glass all at once, and that's too much even when he rushes to fill the second glass—
And look: it could be worse. In the end, there's a sticky puddle of sherry on the bartop, but no more than a thimbleful, if that. And it's not as if it's gone totally to waste: Fenris drags his fingers against the counter, gathering up the liquid and popping it into his mouth.
It tastes . . . he wrinkles his nose, his mouth working once or twice, but that's no way to try it.]
What makes for a diamond, anyway? Being very good at, [and there's only the slightest hesitation now,] giving cock?
[His mother would box his ears for speaking so crudely, but she isn't here now, is she? He picks up one slick glass, waiting for Astarion to do the same. Together or not at all.]
A diamond always gives good cock, and conversation, and p— [What would've been the word performances is turned into a scattered cough as Astarion's attempt to sip his sherry with sophistication turns instead into him inhaling its drier vapors. Condensation, too, and it's a good thing the music's started up again because he has to slap his hand against his chest to clear his throat and lungs. Throat burning when he delivers his assessment of:]
[He laughs, which is a little mean, but he doesn't mean it that way. It's just that Astarion sounds so much like an indignant pup, sputtering and gagging all over the place; it's just that he looks precious like that, and there's something to be said for seeing your friend so undignified.]
You barely even drank it! You just got a few drops, that doesn't count.
[And then, with a goading little grin:]
Go on. Try it properly. Don't back out now. You aren't a coward, are you?
[SEEMS SUS TO HIM, but you know what, he's not the one in charge of money. Like, maybe someone should tell Zevlor that's bad business practice— but on the other hand, it's not Fenris' problem. But maybe he will tell him later, just in case.
For now: they're veering off track.]
Your whole paycheck for the week, you said.
[Don't you back out on him now. Fenris takes the glass, eying it dubiously, but . . . well, how bad can it be? He knocks the glass back, gulping it in one fell swoop—]
[—and it's not that he means to spit it all out and spray it everywhere, it's just that it's so GROSS. So dry and disgusting and it stings his tongue and gets up in his nose, and yes, he swallowed some of it, but most of it ended up on the bar, and all over his clothes, and all over—
Ah.
All over Astarion, too.]
Blech— it's worse than fish!
[And Fenris just does not care. Sorry, Astarion, but he's too busy scrambling to hunt for some water, or wine, or literally anything to get this off his tongue.]
[Astarion can't help it now that it's his turn— he laughs, slapping his tiny hand against the countertop, delighted not to be alone in suffering.]
I told you! [He barks— ] I told you!! [ —cut short by the next pause in the music, somehow worried his yelling is the reason for it (like any child tends to assume), and when the next round of bickering starts, he whispers: ]
Well what are we supposed to do with the rest of this stuff now?
[BLECH . . . he's still looking around for something to drink, but everything is alcoholic (shocking behind a bar). And by now the taste has faded, sort of, or at least become mildly less distressing— so with a huff, Fenris returns to his stool, frowning all the while.]
Can't you give it to someone else?
[He glances up reflexively as Zevlor's voice raises in exasperation; then, with a little grimace:]
No . . .
[There's no trusting anyone else with a secret like this. Hmm . . . ]
We could fill it back up with some water and put the cork back in. That might work.
[That's so smart, that's so smart— with a little hum of approval (and no small measure of relief) Fenris grabs the rag, sopping up every little droplet he can. And hey, turns out spilling while pouring paid off, because now they have even more liquid to funnel back into the bottle. So it all works out, sort of.
There is a thought for how gross all this is, but . . . eh! Rich people aren't really people, at least in Fenris' mind, and if the worst hardship they suffer is a bit of backwash, well. They'll cope. They can afford to cope.]
So what are you going to do when you get older?
[A callback to their earlier conversation, asked as skinny fingers wring out as much liquid as he can.]
[Midway through tugging out the funnel and reaching for their plan's penultimate component, oh Astarion lets out such a haughty little— hah!]
Anybody could run this place, and Zevlor likes it besides. [His chin lifts higher, and he puts the bottle's cork back in before clasping both of Fenris' hands over it (because he's strong), and his own atop them after that, ready to cooperatively bear down without— hopefully— sending the mangled bottle of sherry skyrocketing out into the belly of the cabaret itself at full, unhinged throttle.
[The cork first, and it's easier than it seems to adjust his weight and bear down from straight above, so that nothing goes flying. It doesn't want to go back in, but shove anything hard enough and soon it won't have a choice— and honestly, he's a little pleased for that. It's quietly pleasing to feel Astarion's hands brace above his own.]
Why?
[He glances up as he says it, his head cocking. And then, because he's grown to know Astarion a little:]
The attention might be pleasing, and the outfits are pretty. [More than just pretty: Astarion had taken him on a whirlwind tour of some of the dressing rooms, dazzling Fenris with endless supplies of glittering fabric and jeweled costumes.] But it seems like a lot of work . . . and don't you have to talk to people all the time?
[He makes a little face. He loves hanging out with Astarion, but only Astarion. The others in the Moulin Rouge have been welcoming (for the most part, though there are always one or two nasty comments), but Fenris finds them overwhelming as a group. Everyone's always talking, or singing, or gossiping, or trying to get attention . . . it's exhausting.]
[They call it a birdcage sometimes because it is like one, full of beautiful, lively creatures chattering away. Lots of singing, performing— feathers.
Fenris might not always like being around that much energy, but for Astarion? It's dazzling. It's thrilling.
It's everything.]
That's why there's only one at a time: it's supposed to be....[Like impossible isn't distinguished enough. He needs to work on that. It's a good reminder.] Nearly unattainable.
And Zevlor adopted me [he says, pulling back his still-warm hands with a very proud smile,] but I'm still a noble even if my parents are dead— who else would be better suited for it than me?
[Who better indeed? Astarion does seem to thrive in the spotlight. It's why they work well together: when Fenris shies away from the cacophony, Astarion is there to take it all instead, deflecting it and absorbing it happily. And— Fenris thinks this fondly— he's such a peacock, too. They've been caught pawing through the wardrobes more than once, but it's Astarion who suggests they go, not Fenris; it's Astarion who dresses them both up, thrilling in play-acting out imaginary scenes and snippets of dialogue from whatever play is in season.
He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]
I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.
[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]
Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.
[Ah, but:]
What about the current diamond?
[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]
She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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Ugh [comes out loud enough to cut through the noise of rehearsals in the background. Main stage, while they're here, tucked behind the bar on stools taller than either of them.] I hate the stupid magic iceboxes they keep these in. Everything just goes wet the second that it comes out.
[Which would be a problem if Astarion was tasked with unpacking the shipments early.
Astarion was not tasked with unpacking the shipments early.]
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But this is not his home, and Mas— no, it's Zevlor, just Zevlor, but the thought of using his first name without a title makes Leto cringe— Master Zevlor has said before that it's fine. He hadn't looked particularly pleased about it, mind you, but still: he seems inclined to turn a blind eye to their antics.
(So far, some eternally wary part of him murmurs, but never mind that).]
You'd complain if it was warm. You did last time. Just don't drop it.
[Skeptically said, for he's half-sure Astarion is going to drop it anyway.]
What is it, anyway? Wine again?
[He had not liked the wine very much the last time they tried it— or, no, he had, right up until they'd ended up throwing up all night.]
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Evidence, later. But not right now.
Right now, he can hear the rhythmic thudding of footwork against hollow wood (a low, shuddering sound not so different from a drum in play, only there's a percussive crispness to it), broken by the occasional correction from Zevlor or from one of the performers calling out. Today, Etudíe is furious at Brienne. That means there's more pauses than usual between sets, and when it happens, it comes coupled with a few arguments. Short ones, sure, but heated.
It works in Astarion and Fenris' favor.
And gives Astarion enough confidence to push his stare up and away from his battle, setting its attention on the other elf instead while he goes on.] —is what all the best people drink.
It's not the same as wine. [Declared with the unflinching confidence of someone who's never known nor asked what sherry actually is.
And this time there's a reason for it.]
Look. [He hefts his arm up behind him— the same one he'd been pawing with— grabbing a slim cocktail menu off the edge of the counter, almost twisting his shoulder around for how high up it is, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to mind; he's more focused on the end goal here:] See?
[He hasn't forgotten Fenris is still learning his letters, so he taps the ink with his index finger. Second row down from the top.]
They wouldn't write it separate if it was just regular wine. And it wouldn't cost twice as much either.
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And you're certain no one will miss this?
[Said with all the dubious air of someone searching for the catch. Nothing ever comes for free, and surely there has to be a point where Zevlor's patience runs out.
On the other hand . . . it's not as if he's the one stealing it. He won't abandon Astarion if they get caught, but the ire certainly won't be wholly directed his way. And he's curious now, hesitance or not. It sounds exotic, or at the very least fancy, and when else will he ever be able to try it? Fenris grabs the edge of the bar and yanks himself forward, scooting boy and stool all at once so he can crowd in.]
Give it to me. You're pretty weak, you are not going to be able to get that cork off.
[Not an insult, or at least not really intended as one. Just the blunt utterances of a child. Above them, the song winds down. Zevlor's even tone rings through the air, offering indistinct corrections. Of course she missed the last shift, she's too busy sucking on Mallius' tongue all day, Etudíe drawls, and oh, there starts up the bickering again.]
Now what are they fighting about?
[He's getting better at learning names and faces, but that's a very different beast than understanding all the drama and details that come with each performer. Everyone's slept with someone, or has some grudge, or has a soft spot, or resents someone because they got a favored role . . . it seems exhausting to Fenris, in truth. But he likes hearing about it secondhand. Astarion is a good storyteller, and seems to have a knack for knowing all the dirty details. Being friends with him has been quite the education.]
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And with his hands now free, he gives himself one last dusting before setting his chin in his hands on the bar, menu steepled right beside him.]
Mallius. [Is the only definitive answer to all prior lines of questioning. His chasing grin proves it's not the end of it, either.] Brienne and Etudíe both like him because he's the only dancer that gives good cock, and they both think he should want them— and it's worse because Etudíe 'stole' one of Brienne's clients two months ago, only we all know she was just camping outside Brienne's room so she could catch him and convince him to try her instead.
[He doesn't know that— it's just the exact same gossip regurgitated the exact same way he heard Laira say it whilst wiping down the bar, and like anything a child hears, it stuck.
His eyes are on the cork; he doesn't quite know why, but he likes watching Fenris' hands work.]
Buuut I overheard Mallius saying that he was only sticking around until this next show run ends so he can meet up with boyfriend in Bah-li.
[Bali, actually. But points for trying, Astarion.]
Wherever that is.
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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.]
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That's his job.]
He's the only dancer who they like, so i guess he's the only one that's good at it.
It's like being a diamond: everyone wants to be, but not everyone is. Besides, he's not a courtesan, only a dancer, so that has to make it extra special or something.
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[He considers this as he grasps the bottle in two hands and begins to pour. There's a little frown on his face as he focuses on pouring slowly enough so it doesn't spill. Except that's too slow, a trickle rather than a steady pour, and so he nudges the bottle higher— except then that's too fast, a surge of sherry suddenly filling the glass all at once, and that's too much even when he rushes to fill the second glass—
And look: it could be worse. In the end, there's a sticky puddle of sherry on the bartop, but no more than a thimbleful, if that. And it's not as if it's gone totally to waste: Fenris drags his fingers against the counter, gathering up the liquid and popping it into his mouth.
It tastes . . . he wrinkles his nose, his mouth working once or twice, but that's no way to try it.]
What makes for a diamond, anyway? Being very good at, [and there's only the slightest hesitation now,] giving cock?
[His mother would box his ears for speaking so crudely, but she isn't here now, is she? He picks up one slick glass, waiting for Astarion to do the same. Together or not at all.]
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A diamond always gives good cock, and conversation, and p— [What would've been the word performances is turned into a scattered cough as Astarion's attempt to sip his sherry with sophistication turns instead into him inhaling its drier vapors. Condensation, too, and it's a good thing the music's started up again because he has to slap his hand against his chest to clear his throat and lungs. Throat burning when he delivers his assessment of:]
Ugh!!
[It's not sweet at all.]
That's bloody awful.
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You barely even drank it! You just got a few drops, that doesn't count.
[And then, with a goading little grin:]
Go on. Try it properly. Don't back out now. You aren't a coward, are you?
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If you take a good long drink of it and don't flinch I'll give you all my paycheck for this week.
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[Does he?]
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Do you actually do all your work every week?
[It is, honestly, a real question.]
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[................
...
..
....]
....no.
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[SEEMS SUS TO HIM, but you know what, he's not the one in charge of money. Like, maybe someone should tell Zevlor that's bad business practice— but on the other hand, it's not Fenris' problem. But maybe he will tell him later, just in case.
For now: they're veering off track.]
Your whole paycheck for the week, you said.
[Don't you back out on him now. Fenris takes the glass, eying it dubiously, but . . . well, how bad can it be? He knocks the glass back, gulping it in one fell swoop—]
2/2
Ah.
All over Astarion, too.]
Blech— it's worse than fish!
[And Fenris just does not care. Sorry, Astarion, but he's too busy scrambling to hunt for some water, or wine, or literally anything to get this off his tongue.]
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I told you! [He barks— ] I told you!! [ —cut short by the next pause in the music, somehow worried his yelling is the reason for it (like any child tends to assume), and when the next round of bickering starts, he whispers: ]
Well what are we supposed to do with the rest of this stuff now?
We can't drink it.
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Can't you give it to someone else?
[He glances up reflexively as Zevlor's voice raises in exasperation; then, with a little grimace:]
No . . .
[There's no trusting anyone else with a secret like this. Hmm . . . ]
We could fill it back up with some water and put the cork back in. That might work.
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—oh!
He swipes at the air, gesturing at the dishrag next to Fenris.]
Here, get that and wipe up what you spit on the counter while I pour my glass back in.
[They've got a funnel, and one full glass, and a dishrag, and the makings of a perfect cover-up.]
We can wring it back into the bottle with any leftover water too.
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There is a thought for how gross all this is, but . . . eh! Rich people aren't really people, at least in Fenris' mind, and if the worst hardship they suffer is a bit of backwash, well. They'll cope. They can afford to cope.]
So what are you going to do when you get older?
[A callback to their earlier conversation, asked as skinny fingers wring out as much liquid as he can.]
Take over for Zevlor?
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Anybody could run this place, and Zevlor likes it besides. [His chin lifts higher, and he puts the bottle's cork back in before clasping both of Fenris' hands over it (because he's strong), and his own atop them after that, ready to cooperatively bear down without— hopefully— sending the mangled bottle of sherry skyrocketing out into the belly of the cabaret itself at full, unhinged throttle.
Wing and a prayer.
Moreover, however:]
I'm going to be a diamond.
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Why?
[He glances up as he says it, his head cocking. And then, because he's grown to know Astarion a little:]
The attention might be pleasing, and the outfits are pretty. [More than just pretty: Astarion had taken him on a whirlwind tour of some of the dressing rooms, dazzling Fenris with endless supplies of glittering fabric and jeweled costumes.] But it seems like a lot of work . . . and don't you have to talk to people all the time?
[He makes a little face. He loves hanging out with Astarion, but only Astarion. The others in the Moulin Rouge have been welcoming (for the most part, though there are always one or two nasty comments), but Fenris finds them overwhelming as a group. Everyone's always talking, or singing, or gossiping, or trying to get attention . . . it's exhausting.]
What would be the appeal?
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Fenris might not always like being around that much energy, but for Astarion? It's dazzling. It's thrilling.
It's everything.]
That's why there's only one at a time: it's supposed to be....[Like impossible isn't distinguished enough. He needs to work on that. It's a good reminder.] Nearly unattainable.
And Zevlor adopted me [he says, pulling back his still-warm hands with a very proud smile,] but I'm still a noble even if my parents are dead— who else would be better suited for it than me?
[No one, that's who.]
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He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]
I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.
[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]
Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.
[Ah, but:]
What about the current diamond?
[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]
She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?
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