[That doesn't answer a very basic biological question, but then again, it sort of does. Dalyria watches Kanan for a few seconds, studying the tiefling. He is a pretty thing, it's true, but it's the contrast to his husband that intrigues her the most. Both of them are commanding in their own ways, but whereas Zevlor is a loud figure, a beacon to whom everyone can flock, Kanan's energy is smaller. Softer. No less powerful, for that actor is hanging on to his every word as he stitches, but still: more subdued.]
Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
[Twists the border of his grin a little higher as his eyebrows knit themselves together. For someone so insistent on clarified stances, she doesn't seem to grasp the way things work up here— or maybe she just doesn't realize how she sounds. Either way, it's sort of precious. Sort of funny, he decides too, feeling Zevlor's eyes burning a hole into his skull without looking. These days his adopted father's irritation is a sixth sense, easily divined for how thoroughly it's woven through the air.
(In actuality, it's just constantly engaged now that he and Fenris make more trouble for him than ever; even a shot in the dark won't miss when the target takes up more than half the room.)
His touch peels off the railing, and he slips towards a nearby stairwell.]
Now I also know that drow don't believe in changing careers.
[At this hour, there's little noise beyond the belly of the Moulin Rouge: the stairway's narrow borders devour everything aside from the sounds of their voices. The creaking of their footsteps. Stepping into the foyer itself reveals a hollow whistling through the ventwork from outside, hushed and humming this time of year when winter threatens to spill over slatwork and even the tightest of shut doors: a single, lone attendant organizing key rings behind the polished desk that is their post, wiping each and every last one down before hanging it over its matching hook.
They don't look up as Astarion and Dalyria move past.]
Did you come in through the front entrance, or the back? I need to know where to start if I'm to show you around properly.
[Properly has a fussier edge to it, as if Zevlor somehow might've overlooked a vital portion of this task.]
[But before she can insist upon correcting him (or at least demanding he acknowledge what she'd really meant and not that cheeky bit of correction, fussily pedantic thing she can sometimes be), he's already heading down the stairs. With a short huff of disapproval she follows.
It's colder down here, but that doesn't bother her. The Underdark is very nearly always cold, after all. Far more interesting is the number of keys behind the attendant— gods, she hadn't realized just how many rooms there were. Suddenly having two doctors and an apprentice seems barely enough; if there are at least one worker per room (and make that more like two or three, for surely hedonism is the name of the game in this world), gods, she'll constantly have her hands full. It's a daunting prospect, but only a little.]
The front. It was impressive. There's an elegance to the ostentatiousness of it, both the windmill and the elephant. [For a moment she wonders if the boy knows what ostentatiousness means, but it will do her no favors if she assumes as such.]
[Flusterment bristles in her tone. Astarion marks it without glancing off sidelong, focus loitering around the grand doorway and its offshoot coat check, its contents only halfway cleared out despite the colder drift of daylight round the cracks in doors and windows.]
It means not doing a piss poor job of it. [He starts, only half a second prior to correcting himself with a (temporary) flick of his eyes below his lashes— that's the way he talks to Fenris, after all. That way the dancers talk backstage, whose heels he listened at for years. It is not, for the record, the way a courtesan of his desired caliber should be speaking at any point in time.
Apparently they're both getting the hang of decorum, then.]
You know, showing you what you've already seen, or not explaining how things work. If there's an incident in the grand foyer, we don't want you rushing to the atrium instead.
You're one of us, now. That means you'll need to learn your cues.
[You're one of us, now, and the casual inclusion is both baffling and oddly sweet. She certainly doesn't feel like one of them, and she doubts very much that she'll be counted as such for a long while, but . . . it's nice, Dalyria thinks. It's a kind thing to say, even if this boy is putting on an arrogant sort of front, and she takes note of that.
She peers into the coatroom, taking note of how large it is (enormous, and again she has a moment of dizzied awe over the thought of just how many customers must come), then follows him as he strides forward. There's a little wave from Fenris from the bar area, though he's quickly called back into work (you aren't being paid to socialize, a tiefling woman scolds mildly). The carpet beneath their feet is pleasingly soft, albeit a little threadbare here and there; it's the same with the utensils, almost of all of which gleam. She can't fault any establishment for not having endless revenue, but still, it's interesting to note the little details.]
What are yours? I mean—
[She glances over at him, purple eyes curious.]
Your father said you were training to be a courtesan. What does that mean, exactly?
[Pssh. Ironic, Astarion mutters to himself as his wave back is forced into assumed territory— Fenris already driven dutifully back to task (the differences between them never more apparent than in moments such as these), huffing out an unsurprised breath for the fact he'll need to wait until tonight to see his beau. Our entire purpose here -is- to socialize.
Speaking of, however:]
Entertainment.
[He shrugs lightly, watching her. Gives her time to get her curiosity in (wondering too how different a place like this might look in the Underdark, judging by the marvel in her expression).] Right now I'm 'too young' [said in the way of all teenagers: laden with disagreement] to go seeing customers, so I'm honing my skills thanks to lessons from our current Diamond— Satine. [A few fingers gesture to a painting on the wall, dramatic and full of divine splendor. A woman at the center of whirls and dips of paint lines, dressed in glittering diamond and little else. At her feet, countless tuxedoe-wearing suitors reach upwards in worship— like depictions of the Maker, he supposes, but with tits.]
So for there's been etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces, charm and poise and posture, and then we'll segue into sex— although I already know more than she or Zevlor suspect.
[Oh, that poster . . . for a long few seconds she doesn't respond, too taken by the sight to pay her companion mind. It's in part for the sheer beauty of the painting (the way the diamonds seem to gleam despite being nothing more than oil and canvas), but in part, too, for the woman in question. There's so much that glitters and shines around her, and yet it's her eyes that command the most attention: a brilliant blue gaze that seems to pierce right through to the viewer, inviting them in for a closer look. Little wonder Astarion was disappointed with his own; what could compare to the brilliance of this?
But oh, his answer is interesting too, and mentally Dal goes over what he'd just recited. Etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces . . . it makes sense that he'd need to know all of those things in order to be a courtesan (and maybe that's the difference between that and a common whore). Still, she'd never thought they underwent so much training . . . it's admirable, sort of.]
I— oh. Oh?
[Does he? She cocks her head, then glances over at Fenris. It's increasingly unlikely, she thinks, that Zevlor doesn't know what's happening between the two of them, but that's just one person's opinion.]
You and Fenris . . .? For how long, exactly?
[There's something expectant in her tone: not sharp, not by any means, but the tone of someone used to getting answers when she asks questions.]
Why do you need to know about etiquette? If they're slavering all over you, I should think that would be the last thing on their minds . . .
[His eyebrow quirks to see how long Dalyria stares and stares and....]
Hm? Oh, a few weeks or so....? [There's a lingering pause as he scratches his own cheek, tallying the sum as best he can.] Maybe a month, now? But we've been in love for ages [says the boy that'd been kicking, biting and screaming just one full calendar page prior, ] so it was only natural that we fell into physicality once we came of age.
[Gods above, he's cringe.]
Anyway, Zevlor says it's because there are royals and patrons with more money than there are stars that come here, and if you offend them—
[Astarion lifts his index finger, grimly dragging it across the front of his throat.]
[She makes a politely unimpressed face. It's a face that says, if anything, that she highly doubts anything that's only a month old can be all that deep, and incidentally the phrase we fell into physicality is a little gross to hear. She doesn't want to think about this boy (or the other one) naked or doing anything, but here they all are.]
When, exactly, did you fall in love? You can't be any older than I am— I'm seventeen. How long did it take you to fall in love with your brother?
[Again, adoptive brother, but she's starting to have some serious questions about the familial dynamics here.]
Then again Zevlor said he found him on the streets of fhe wealthiest Parisian quarter (that last bit never without mention even in his own mind), so there's no telling just how old he really is— it doesn't have to be a lie when no one's privy to the truth. He could be like, twenty, even.
He's definitely not twenty.]
Anyway what's that got to do with anything? [Scoffed insecurity taking him from courtesan to child in a single unpolished instant, his arms folded in the doorway as he looks back to see if he can catch a glimpse of white hair or strong arms behind the bar.
Instead, he sees the tiefling, and makes a point of glaring at her.]
If you're old enough to leave home and start working on your own, why doesn't that apply to us, too?
I'm not questioning your right to work. And I'm not saying you can't be in love. I'm simply noting that ages is a long time when you're our age.
[Spoken like the mature little thing she is, for being the youngest comes with its own burdens and talents. It means she can summon an air of wearied experience; it also means she's blatantly imitating one of her older sisters (but no one here knows that).
(In the distance, Laira scoffs and rolls her eyes right back at Astarion, unimpressed with his posturing. And just for that, Fenris is shooed away to go to the back of the kitchens instead, working on helping the delivery men instead of organizing the bar. It isn't really a punishment, not when Fenris doesn't much care what he does— but maybe it will stop them both from mooning over the other).]
Anyway, how do you know it's love? I'm not— I'm not trying to doubt you.
[Oh, he's such a defensive thing, and she wants to be sure she's coming across the right way. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she tips her head at him.]
But I've never been in love. How do you know?
[And maybe talking about his beloved-née-brother will settle those raised hackles a bit.]
[It's punishment for the boy still perched out front (godsdamn it, Laira), who now can't pin his focus on the possibility of Fenris, and instead has to turn himself once more back to task: motioning for Dalyria as his lips twist higher in mild thought— committed now to walking as he tries to think.
Because it's been weeks since he first felt it for the first, undeniable time. Because even in the moment it was almost impossible to define. All he really knows is that it's new, and wondrous, and blinding. All he really knows is that he's always felt it— except he hasn't, otherwise it wouldn't be new, would it?
....How does that even begin to make sense?]
I don't know. [He admits outright, forgetting either pretense or offense (again, he finds himself wondering after her life when it seems to be so different, but there'll be time enough to ask once they've gotten through all this: the front office, the smoking room and its stuffed game, the storeroom and cluttered sideways)— ] One day it was just....there. Like I couldn't stop looking at him, and didn't want him to stop looking at me, either. And once it was, it was like it'd always been there, too, right from the moment I saw him alone on the streets as a child.
[He pauses near the infirmary doorway, scuffing his knuckles and shoulder against wood.
[It's such a foreign feeling— neither good nor bad, but strange in a way that she doesn't quite understand. It sounds warm, though. Warm and comforting in a way she vaguely wishes she had for herself, but wishing rarely gets things done.]
It sounds wonderful . . .
[Said softly as she follows him. Her eyes flit over the rooms as they stride through them (none of it a shock, all of it worthy of going over in more detail later, for there's so much to drink in). It's going to take her a bit of time to learn this maze, but on the other hand, she has an excellent guide to help. Though— oh, and she almost tries to inch past him, eager to see her future domain, before he speaks.]
What? No.
[Wait, is she? She isn't poor, or at least her mother isn't, which is nearly the same thing. But nor are they like the families in the upper echelons, who swan about and have no duties save not pissing their money away.]
Not really. We never went hungry or wanted for much, but . . . we— they— we aren't even nobility, not really. Just sort of a step beneath it. Why? Are you?
[Evidence points towards no, but it seems polite to ask it in return.]
[There is no other answer; it glides from him before he knows it, softer than the exhale that it leaves on (warmer than the tips of Fenris' fingers after he's been practicing fighting), a presence in the room that's more weight than tangible attendance, but it wears Fenris' silhouette, and Astarion feels it just the same— unable to keep from smiling, albeit at nothing nearby whatsoever. Just some far-off, unfixed point.]
Hmm? Oh, I just thought— [He's pulled back into the present, redoubling his assessment of her while he cants his body sideways to grant her room enough to root about.] I mean, you're well educated if you're apprenticing here; you've been to the theater before— though not to any of the best ones, and Kanan says that anyone rich is likely due in time to be betrothed more often than not, so....
[A pause. He shrugs. Honestly? He doesn't quite know what he was thinking, other than wondering if she already belonged to someone, and hadn't been taken to meet them yet. (Or maybe she did meet them and didn't love them, and that's why she left to come here in the first place? It'd fit together, wouldn't it?
He's going to suggest it later to Fenris. See what he thinks.)]
Anyway, you've seen my home. It's all fake jewels and rented silk, here.
[Oh, she's rooting all right. The moment Astarion lets her pass she's slipped into the infirmary, glancing around at everything she can see, and it's . . .
. . . a little underwhelming, honestly. It isn't filled with the crisp white linens or state of the art, cutting-edge equipment that her heart longs for, but nor is it a cot and a bloodbucket either. Metal instruments gleam in the afternoon light as they lay in a neat row; a few electric bulbs hang in ornamental shades, a thrilling sign for a drow more used to candlelight and bioluminescent glow. A window open high up on the ceiling makes the space feel airy instead of stuffy. There's a few beds laid out in a single row, each one carefully made, and— she's delighted to see— a sink with a used bar of soap laid on the counter. Good. Too many in the Underdark don't wants to hear about things like germs or miasma; she's glad to see there's a little less ignorance here— gods, especially here.]
Rented silks it might be, but it must make some money. I can't imagine— you have real electric lights here, that must cost a fortune alone. [There's an admiring tone in her voice— then, a little more excitedly:] You even have them here, and more medical equipment than most of Paris bothers to employ. Certainly more than any other brothel does.
[She's smiling as she turns to face her companion, and then, remembering their conversation, adds:]
And no, no betrothals. Were you hoping I had some romantic past I was outracing? We aren't that interesting. Your home is far more interesting than mine ever was. What was it like, growing up in a brothel?
[If blunt questions are the name of the game, she can more than play.]
[She's right. Even he can't help admitting it that they do more than keep the lights on, otherwise even Satine couldn't shine brightly enough to lure in famous crown jewels night after countless night— but what does he know of rent in central Paris? No more than he knows a thing about ornamental bulbs or how fine a surgeon's tools might be.
(Still, he knows about the number of threads in a fine suit compared to a poor one, and that the glass jewels used on stage aren't half as pretty as the gifted stones pawned off from backstage boudoirs every now and then.) Compared to all that, it's her perspective that stands taller in the room, pursing his pale lips with renewed consideration.
And then he decides that's less interesting than her latter set of comments.]
Of course I was. [He grins, dimpling one cheek.] You're the first new face Fenris and I have seen in years that isn't paying— but if you don't want to fess up all the details of your past yet, I understand.
And can wait.
[Griffin Mcelroy voice: play with me.]
It's....certainly interesting? Everyone is friendly, like a family, I think. [Kanan is. Zevlor is. Fenris. Satine, maybe, and the others too, although they can be rough around the edges here and there.] Sharing everything from gossip to lingerie— unless they're pissed at you, and then you've got to either ask nicely or steal it. [Borrow it? Whatever, one of the two.]
[Oh, he's rather charming when he's smiling . . . mm, little wonder he has such a pert attitude. They must have melted for him in those early years, all those brothel workers . . . and they must bank on it working on the customers, too. She smiles a little uncertainly back, not quite certain as to what he means (for her past is her past, and no amount of wishing will make any skeletons magically appear).]
You share lingerie?
[Like, no judgement, except maybe a little judgement. Just a little. Bras are one thing, but undergarments . . . she wrinkles her nose for a few seconds, but whatever.]
How do they treat newcomers? How long before someone has to prove themselves in order to fit in?
[Again, he snorts out another peal of laughter, crinkling his own nose in turn.]
They share a lot more than that some nights, sweetheart. Don't judge.
[Mmm....turning his eyes up towards the ceiling spurs an estimate:] A few weeks for the transient hires? Depends on what they're like, or how full of themselves they are. [Orphaned kettle doesn't know what color he is, more news at eleven.]
[She's— well, not judging, per se, because it's not very nice and she's gone into this wanting to be open-minded, and anyway no one likes a doctor who's smug and self-assured. So she's not judging. She's just . . . having an opinion. A strong opinion. A strong opinion that happens to be about sharing underwear and the particular hygienic nature of it. But not in a judgemental way. Her nose isn't even crinkled anymore, look at how nonjudgemental she's trying to be.
(Especially when she's going to have to work to overcome so much already. She's new, she's educated, and she's a drow: three potential strikes against her).]
More that I know what it's like to try and work your way into a social group.
[Oh, yes. Noble or not, living in Menzobarazzan demands a certain grasp of socio-political comings and goings. She hesitates, and then:]
And I know how surfacedwellers look at drow. Most of them are going to be hesitant, at least at first. If you have any tips for how to fit in . . .
[How to dress, how to act, how to tease— save her, Astarion, you're her only hope.]
He's never been asked for such responsibility before. Never been tasked with such a precious burden as someone's yet-unsullied reputation, and for just the smallest of glancing seconds it shows in the bright red flush across pearl cheeks, his eyes wider than they've ever been before.]
[Astarion exclaims brightly from the dead center of his brother's rumpled bed, perched like a sexy-bishop at his equally sexy-pulpit (it was an experimental phase for the Moulin Rouge the year they debuted that gods-awful production, all right), dictating to the only two other people in the room— Dalyria and Fenris— exactly what need happen:]
We'll show her everything about how this place works, help her fit in like she was always here, and in no time whatsoever, it'll be as natural as breathing.
[It's a dubious rumble (which is a thing he can pull off without his voice breaking a solid 60 percent of the time). It's not the subject in question, who currently perches politely on the laundry chair, staring solemnly at the duo atop Fenris' bed. She seems pleasant enough and more than amenable to suggestion. But Fenris has lived here long enough to know that the only consistency among the courtesans and stagehands is that nothing is consistent. They're fickle to a fault, cooing over something one day and spurring it the next, and the only way to ever fit in is to follow whatever starling has managed to take the lead lately.
Still. With all that said . . . maybe they can help her a little. At least to calm down, for right now she looks stiff as a board and deeply uncomfortable.]
Have you ever even been in a brothel before?
['Not . . . as such,' she says with a grimace, and he nods. Vaguely he tries to recall his own first days, but childhood is a swiftly dimming memory, and most of his recollections center around Astarion: Astarion gawking at him as he'd wolfed down as much food as he could manage to take; Astarion curling up around him in bed that first night, and waking the next afternoon with their limbs all tangled together, pale fingers clenched tightly in his shirt. The cooing affection (and sharp hisses) from the courtesans, and how that had only made Fenris shy closer to his savior, overwhelmed by the noise and sights and vibrancy of the Moulin Rouge.]
Then that's the first thing you should get used to: what it's like here. Nudity is commonplace, and people flirt as easy as they breathe. They'll try and fluster you with it, [he says, wrinkling his nose, for he had not liked that portion of his early teenage years.] But beyond that . . . you should see a show tonight. We can take you to a place where you can watch it all from the rafters. It'll help you understand what we do here.
[We, Dalyria murmurs almost silently. Blinking twice, she tips her head and then nods.]
You're better at dressing and makeup and what's popular. Does she need something in regards to that?
[Fenris, himself, doesn't fuss so much about those kinds of things (or at least he thinks he doesn't), but, well, girls are different. And Astarion. Astarion and women and also the men who live in the Moulin Rouge too . . . maybe it's just Fenris that's different.]
[Maker, he's so alluring when he's cynical. That gravely quality to his voice sends shivers crawling up between Astarion's shoulders in the best of ways (he doesn't even notice when it breaks, he's so enamored), his lidded eyes and lazy smile so at ease until he's called to—
And then he's sitting upright just a measure or so taller, his own fingers brushed beneath his chin.]
If we want her to shine? I've just the thing. [Astarion gestures with those same fingertips before he's fully managed to get loose from his nesting place, motioning for Fenris to bring his makeup kit from just behind him, closer to the wall. Normally it lives in Astarion's own room, but ever since they've started sneaking in to sleep together each and every night he's started leaving his things here instead. Easier to look presentable for his lessons (a little less presentable for his chores).]
And honestly, if we're going to the theater together....
[Distracted by the process of disentangling one foot on the last stride forwards, he pauses, shaking covers loose just as he moves to take up his case, its metal latches clicking underneath his thumbs before either he or his belongings have settled down again.] You both should get worked over.
[Rafters or not, it's the way civilized things are done.]
You know no one is going to see us, not up in the rafters. They never do.
[He points it out because it's his job to point these things out, just as it's Astarion's job to push him into it anyway. But he still brings over the makeup case (for that's his job too, and acts of service are ever a personal favorite when it comes to showing love), and takes a seat next to his boyfriend once he's settled.]
You can pick my clothes, if it pleases you. But I am doing my eyeliner. You nearly blinded me last time.
[Ignoring all the far more successful times Astarion has put makeup on him, but what's a boyfriend for if not to archly tease? Already he's reaching for the black, ever a personal favorite; subtlety and color blending are for people who don't aim to look a mixture of dangerous and mysterious. As he grabs one of the many hand-mirrors stuffed in the case, he glances up at Dalyria.]
Sit. He does do good work, and you will be in good hands.
[It's just that those hands have more of a tendency to wander nowadays, and they both of them get distracted so easily . . . but ah, that won't be a problem with Dal. The drow still looks a little doubtful, but after a moment of deliberation she gets up and kneels before Astarion.
'It can't be anything too ostentatious. I still need to look professional.' She says it a little anxiously, as if she's afraid Astarion might make her up to look like one of the cheaper whores downstairs. Fenris snorts.]
I may have given her the wrong impression of your skills . . . prove yourself, sweetheart.
[The petname sounds a little clunky on his lips, but he's working on it. He's not sure if he's a person who uses petnames, but he does like the startled flush that splashes across Astarion's face each time he evokes them.]
[This time his expression only crumples round the edges of his cheeks, curling higher (he's tipped down to dig through his supplies, pawing through brushes and combs and glittering compacts from passed-down hands in various eras, all mashed together to form the foundation of his teenage arsenal), but there's such redness surging through the points of his ears that it glows underneath his curls.]
You were the one that moved. [He mouths out smartly in retort, already angling in towards Dalyria (and leaving Fenris to do his eyeliner, since he's so hellsbent on it)— never mind that the aforementioned last time also involved Astarion resting his knee between his bodyguard's legs to 'get a better angle.']
Darling Dal, you've nothing to fret about: I've been trained by the very best. [Or he will be; details, details.] Do you prefer your hair up or down?
—Fenris don't lose that compact.
[Fingers to Dalyria's chin, tipping it higher just to sweep something soft and powdery across her face.] That's the last bit of Kohl I have for the next month— I had to replace the drapes in the lobby with this next paycheck unless Kanan sneaks a little spending cash under the table out of pity.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
[A little shrug of her shoulders.]
Is that all you know of us? That we hate men?
no subject
[Lilts upwards for a moment.]
Well, no. That's not all of it.
[Twists the border of his grin a little higher as his eyebrows knit themselves together. For someone so insistent on clarified stances, she doesn't seem to grasp the way things work up here— or maybe she just doesn't realize how she sounds. Either way, it's sort of precious. Sort of funny, he decides too, feeling Zevlor's eyes burning a hole into his skull without looking. These days his adopted father's irritation is a sixth sense, easily divined for how thoroughly it's woven through the air.
(In actuality, it's just constantly engaged now that he and Fenris make more trouble for him than ever; even a shot in the dark won't miss when the target takes up more than half the room.)
His touch peels off the railing, and he slips towards a nearby stairwell.]
Now I also know that drow don't believe in changing careers.
[At this hour, there's little noise beyond the belly of the Moulin Rouge: the stairway's narrow borders devour everything aside from the sounds of their voices. The creaking of their footsteps. Stepping into the foyer itself reveals a hollow whistling through the ventwork from outside, hushed and humming this time of year when winter threatens to spill over slatwork and even the tightest of shut doors: a single, lone attendant organizing key rings behind the polished desk that is their post, wiping each and every last one down before hanging it over its matching hook.
They don't look up as Astarion and Dalyria move past.]
Did you come in through the front entrance, or the back? I need to know where to start if I'm to show you around properly.
[Properly has a fussier edge to it, as if Zevlor somehow might've overlooked a vital portion of this task.]
no subject
[But before she can insist upon correcting him (or at least demanding he acknowledge what she'd really meant and not that cheeky bit of correction, fussily pedantic thing she can sometimes be), he's already heading down the stairs. With a short huff of disapproval she follows.
It's colder down here, but that doesn't bother her. The Underdark is very nearly always cold, after all. Far more interesting is the number of keys behind the attendant— gods, she hadn't realized just how many rooms there were. Suddenly having two doctors and an apprentice seems barely enough; if there are at least one worker per room (and make that more like two or three, for surely hedonism is the name of the game in this world), gods, she'll constantly have her hands full. It's a daunting prospect, but only a little.]
The front. It was impressive. There's an elegance to the ostentatiousness of it, both the windmill and the elephant. [For a moment she wonders if the boy knows what ostentatiousness means, but it will do her no favors if she assumes as such.]
What does properly mean, exactly?
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It means not doing a piss poor job of it. [He starts, only half a second prior to correcting himself with a (temporary) flick of his eyes below his lashes— that's the way he talks to Fenris, after all. That way the dancers talk backstage, whose heels he listened at for years. It is not, for the record, the way a courtesan of his desired caliber should be speaking at any point in time.
Apparently they're both getting the hang of decorum, then.]
You know, showing you what you've already seen, or not explaining how things work. If there's an incident in the grand foyer, we don't want you rushing to the atrium instead.
You're one of us, now. That means you'll need to learn your cues.
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[You're one of us, now, and the casual inclusion is both baffling and oddly sweet. She certainly doesn't feel like one of them, and she doubts very much that she'll be counted as such for a long while, but . . . it's nice, Dalyria thinks. It's a kind thing to say, even if this boy is putting on an arrogant sort of front, and she takes note of that.
She peers into the coatroom, taking note of how large it is (enormous, and again she has a moment of dizzied awe over the thought of just how many customers must come), then follows him as he strides forward. There's a little wave from Fenris from the bar area, though he's quickly called back into work (you aren't being paid to socialize, a tiefling woman scolds mildly). The carpet beneath their feet is pleasingly soft, albeit a little threadbare here and there; it's the same with the utensils, almost of all of which gleam. She can't fault any establishment for not having endless revenue, but still, it's interesting to note the little details.]
What are yours? I mean—
[She glances over at him, purple eyes curious.]
Your father said you were training to be a courtesan. What does that mean, exactly?
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Speaking of, however:]
Entertainment.
[He shrugs lightly, watching her. Gives her time to get her curiosity in (wondering too how different a place like this might look in the Underdark, judging by the marvel in her expression).] Right now I'm 'too young' [said in the way of all teenagers: laden with disagreement] to go seeing customers, so I'm honing my skills thanks to lessons from our current Diamond— Satine. [A few fingers gesture to a painting on the wall, dramatic and full of divine splendor. A woman at the center of whirls and dips of paint lines, dressed in glittering diamond and little else. At her feet, countless tuxedoe-wearing suitors reach upwards in worship— like depictions of the Maker, he supposes, but with tits.]
So for there's been etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces, charm and poise and posture, and then we'll segue into sex— although I already know more than she or Zevlor suspect.
[He's something of an expert himself.]
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But oh, his answer is interesting too, and mentally Dal goes over what he'd just recited. Etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces . . . it makes sense that he'd need to know all of those things in order to be a courtesan (and maybe that's the difference between that and a common whore). Still, she'd never thought they underwent so much training . . . it's admirable, sort of.]
I— oh. Oh?
[Does he? She cocks her head, then glances over at Fenris. It's increasingly unlikely, she thinks, that Zevlor doesn't know what's happening between the two of them, but that's just one person's opinion.]
You and Fenris . . .? For how long, exactly?
[There's something expectant in her tone: not sharp, not by any means, but the tone of someone used to getting answers when she asks questions.]
Why do you need to know about etiquette? If they're slavering all over you, I should think that would be the last thing on their minds . . .
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Hm? Oh, a few weeks or so....? [There's a lingering pause as he scratches his own cheek, tallying the sum as best he can.] Maybe a month, now? But we've been in love for ages [says the boy that'd been kicking, biting and screaming just one full calendar page prior, ] so it was only natural that we fell into physicality once we came of age.
[
Gods above, he's cringe.]Anyway, Zevlor says it's because there are royals and patrons with more money than there are stars that come here, and if you offend them—
[Astarion lifts his index finger, grimly dragging it across the front of his throat.]
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When, exactly, did you fall in love? You can't be any older than I am— I'm seventeen. How long did it take you to fall in love with your brother?
[Again, adoptive brother, but she's starting to have some serious questions about the familial dynamics here.]
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Me too. Seventeen also. [He lied, lyingly.
Then again Zevlor said he found him on the streets of fhe wealthiest Parisian quarter (that last bit never without mention even in his own mind), so there's no telling just how old he really is— it doesn't have to be a lie when no one's privy to the truth. He could be like, twenty, even.
He's definitely not twenty.]Anyway what's that got to do with anything? [Scoffed insecurity taking him from courtesan to child in a single unpolished instant, his arms folded in the doorway as he looks back to see if he can catch a glimpse of white hair or strong arms behind the bar.
Instead, he sees the tiefling, and makes a point of glaring at her.]
If you're old enough to leave home and start working on your own, why doesn't that apply to us, too?
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[Spoken like the mature little thing she is, for being the youngest comes with its own burdens and talents. It means she can summon an air of wearied experience; it also means she's blatantly imitating one of her older sisters (but no one here knows that).
(In the distance, Laira scoffs and rolls her eyes right back at Astarion, unimpressed with his posturing. And just for that, Fenris is shooed away to go to the back of the kitchens instead, working on helping the delivery men instead of organizing the bar. It isn't really a punishment, not when Fenris doesn't much care what he does— but maybe it will stop them both from mooning over the other).]
Anyway, how do you know it's love? I'm not— I'm not trying to doubt you.
[Oh, he's such a defensive thing, and she wants to be sure she's coming across the right way. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she tips her head at him.]
But I've never been in love. How do you know?
[And maybe talking about his beloved-née-brother will settle those raised hackles a bit.]
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Because it's been weeks since he first felt it for the first, undeniable time. Because even in the moment it was almost impossible to define. All he really knows is that it's new, and wondrous, and blinding. All he really knows is that he's always felt it— except he hasn't, otherwise it wouldn't be new, would it?
....How does that even begin to make sense?]
I don't know. [He admits outright, forgetting either pretense or offense (again, he finds himself wondering after her life when it seems to be so different, but there'll be time enough to ask once they've gotten through all this: the front office, the smoking room and its stuffed game, the storeroom and cluttered sideways)— ] One day it was just....there. Like I couldn't stop looking at him, and didn't want him to stop looking at me, either. And once it was, it was like it'd always been there, too, right from the moment I saw him alone on the streets as a child.
[He pauses near the infirmary doorway, scuffing his knuckles and shoulder against wood.
Thinking.]
—Are you rich?
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It sounds wonderful . . .
[Said softly as she follows him. Her eyes flit over the rooms as they stride through them (none of it a shock, all of it worthy of going over in more detail later, for there's so much to drink in). It's going to take her a bit of time to learn this maze, but on the other hand, she has an excellent guide to help. Though— oh, and she almost tries to inch past him, eager to see her future domain, before he speaks.]
What? No.
[Wait, is she? She isn't poor, or at least her mother isn't, which is nearly the same thing. But nor are they like the families in the upper echelons, who swan about and have no duties save not pissing their money away.]
Not really. We never went hungry or wanted for much, but . . . we— they— we aren't even nobility, not really. Just sort of a step beneath it. Why? Are you?
[Evidence points towards no, but it seems polite to ask it in return.]
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[There is no other answer; it glides from him before he knows it, softer than the exhale that it leaves on (warmer than the tips of Fenris' fingers after he's been practicing fighting), a presence in the room that's more weight than tangible attendance, but it wears Fenris' silhouette, and Astarion feels it just the same— unable to keep from smiling, albeit at nothing nearby whatsoever. Just some far-off, unfixed point.]
Hmm? Oh, I just thought— [He's pulled back into the present, redoubling his assessment of her while he cants his body sideways to grant her room enough to root about.] I mean, you're well educated if you're apprenticing here; you've been to the theater before— though not to any of the best ones, and Kanan says that anyone rich is likely due in time to be betrothed more often than not, so....
[A pause. He shrugs. Honestly? He doesn't quite know what he was thinking, other than wondering if she already belonged to someone, and hadn't been taken to meet them yet. (Or maybe she did meet them and didn't love them, and that's why she left to come here in the first place? It'd fit together, wouldn't it?
He's going to suggest it later to Fenris. See what he thinks.)]
Anyway, you've seen my home. It's all fake jewels and rented silk, here.
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. . . a little underwhelming, honestly. It isn't filled with the crisp white linens or state of the art, cutting-edge equipment that her heart longs for, but nor is it a cot and a bloodbucket either. Metal instruments gleam in the afternoon light as they lay in a neat row; a few electric bulbs hang in ornamental shades, a thrilling sign for a drow more used to candlelight and bioluminescent glow. A window open high up on the ceiling makes the space feel airy instead of stuffy. There's a few beds laid out in a single row, each one carefully made, and— she's delighted to see— a sink with a used bar of soap laid on the counter. Good. Too many in the Underdark don't wants to hear about things like germs or miasma; she's glad to see there's a little less ignorance here— gods, especially here.]
Rented silks it might be, but it must make some money. I can't imagine— you have real electric lights here, that must cost a fortune alone. [There's an admiring tone in her voice— then, a little more excitedly:] You even have them here, and more medical equipment than most of Paris bothers to employ. Certainly more than any other brothel does.
[She's smiling as she turns to face her companion, and then, remembering their conversation, adds:]
And no, no betrothals. Were you hoping I had some romantic past I was outracing? We aren't that interesting. Your home is far more interesting than mine ever was. What was it like, growing up in a brothel?
[If blunt questions are the name of the game, she can more than play.]
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(Still, he knows about the number of threads in a fine suit compared to a poor one, and that the glass jewels used on stage aren't half as pretty as the gifted stones pawned off from backstage boudoirs every now and then.) Compared to all that, it's her perspective that stands taller in the room, pursing his pale lips with renewed consideration.
And then he decides that's less interesting than her latter set of comments.]
Of course I was. [He grins, dimpling one cheek.] You're the first new face Fenris and I have seen in years that isn't paying— but if you don't want to fess up all the details of your past yet, I understand.
And can wait.
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Griffin Mcelroy voice: play with me.]It's....certainly interesting? Everyone is friendly, like a family, I think. [Kanan is. Zevlor is. Fenris. Satine, maybe, and the others too, although they can be rough around the edges here and there.] Sharing everything from gossip to lingerie— unless they're pissed at you, and then you've got to either ask nicely or steal it. [Borrow it? Whatever, one of the two.]
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You share lingerie?
[Like, no judgement, except maybe a little judgement. Just a little. Bras are one thing, but undergarments . . . she wrinkles her nose for a few seconds, but whatever.]
How do they treat newcomers? How long before someone has to prove themselves in order to fit in?
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They share a lot more than that some nights, sweetheart. Don't judge.
[Mmm....turning his eyes up towards the ceiling spurs an estimate:] A few weeks for the transient hires? Depends on what they're like, or how full of themselves they are. [Orphaned kettle doesn't know what color he is, more news at eleven.]
Why? Worried you won't fit in with us?
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(Especially when she's going to have to work to overcome so much already. She's new, she's educated, and she's a drow: three potential strikes against her).]
More that I know what it's like to try and work your way into a social group.
[Oh, yes. Noble or not, living in Menzobarazzan demands a certain grasp of socio-political comings and goings. She hesitates, and then:]
And I know how surfacedwellers look at drow. Most of them are going to be hesitant, at least at first. If you have any tips for how to fit in . . .
[How to dress, how to act, how to tease— save her, Astarion, you're her only hope.]
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Oh a request for help? From him?
He's never been asked for such responsibility before. Never been tasked with such a precious burden as someone's yet-unsullied reputation, and for just the smallest of glancing seconds it shows in the bright red flush across pearl cheeks, his eyes wider than they've ever been before.]
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[Astarion exclaims brightly from the dead center of his brother's rumpled bed, perched like a sexy-bishop at his equally sexy-pulpit (it was an experimental phase for the Moulin Rouge the year they debuted that gods-awful production, all right), dictating to the only two other people in the room— Dalyria and Fenris— exactly what need happen:]
We'll show her everything about how this place works, help her fit in like she was always here, and in no time whatsoever, it'll be as natural as breathing.
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[It's a dubious rumble (which is a thing he can pull off without his voice breaking a solid 60 percent of the time). It's not the subject in question, who currently perches politely on the laundry chair, staring solemnly at the duo atop Fenris' bed. She seems pleasant enough and more than amenable to suggestion. But Fenris has lived here long enough to know that the only consistency among the courtesans and stagehands is that nothing is consistent. They're fickle to a fault, cooing over something one day and spurring it the next, and the only way to ever fit in is to follow whatever starling has managed to take the lead lately.
Still. With all that said . . . maybe they can help her a little. At least to calm down, for right now she looks stiff as a board and deeply uncomfortable.]
Have you ever even been in a brothel before?
['Not . . . as such,' she says with a grimace, and he nods. Vaguely he tries to recall his own first days, but childhood is a swiftly dimming memory, and most of his recollections center around Astarion: Astarion gawking at him as he'd wolfed down as much food as he could manage to take; Astarion curling up around him in bed that first night, and waking the next afternoon with their limbs all tangled together, pale fingers clenched tightly in his shirt. The cooing affection (and sharp hisses) from the courtesans, and how that had only made Fenris shy closer to his savior, overwhelmed by the noise and sights and vibrancy of the Moulin Rouge.]
Then that's the first thing you should get used to: what it's like here. Nudity is commonplace, and people flirt as easy as they breathe. They'll try and fluster you with it, [he says, wrinkling his nose, for he had not liked that portion of his early teenage years.] But beyond that . . . you should see a show tonight. We can take you to a place where you can watch it all from the rafters. It'll help you understand what we do here.
[We, Dalyria murmurs almost silently. Blinking twice, she tips her head and then nods.]
You're better at dressing and makeup and what's popular. Does she need something in regards to that?
[Fenris, himself, doesn't fuss so much about those kinds of things (or at least he thinks he doesn't), but, well, girls are different. And Astarion. Astarion and women and also the men who live in the Moulin Rouge too . . . maybe it's just Fenris that's different.]
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And then he's sitting upright just a measure or so taller, his own fingers brushed beneath his chin.]
If we want her to shine? I've just the thing. [Astarion gestures with those same fingertips before he's fully managed to get loose from his nesting place, motioning for Fenris to bring his makeup kit from just behind him, closer to the wall. Normally it lives in Astarion's own room, but ever since they've started sneaking in to sleep together each and every night he's started leaving his things here instead. Easier to look presentable for his lessons (a little less presentable for his chores).]
And honestly, if we're going to the theater together....
[Distracted by the process of disentangling one foot on the last stride forwards, he pauses, shaking covers loose just as he moves to take up his case, its metal latches clicking underneath his thumbs before either he or his belongings have settled down again.] You both should get worked over.
[Rafters or not, it's the way civilized things are done.]
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[He points it out because it's his job to point these things out, just as it's Astarion's job to push him into it anyway. But he still brings over the makeup case (for that's his job too, and acts of service are ever a personal favorite when it comes to showing love), and takes a seat next to his boyfriend once he's settled.]
You can pick my clothes, if it pleases you. But I am doing my eyeliner. You nearly blinded me last time.
[Ignoring all the far more successful times Astarion has put makeup on him, but what's a boyfriend for if not to archly tease? Already he's reaching for the black, ever a personal favorite; subtlety and color blending are for people who don't aim to look a mixture of dangerous and mysterious. As he grabs one of the many hand-mirrors stuffed in the case, he glances up at Dalyria.]
Sit. He does do good work, and you will be in good hands.
[It's just that those hands have more of a tendency to wander nowadays, and they both of them get distracted so easily . . . but ah, that won't be a problem with Dal. The drow still looks a little doubtful, but after a moment of deliberation she gets up and kneels before Astarion.
'It can't be anything too ostentatious. I still need to look professional.' She says it a little anxiously, as if she's afraid Astarion might make her up to look like one of the cheaper whores downstairs. Fenris snorts.]
I may have given her the wrong impression of your skills . . . prove yourself, sweetheart.
[The petname sounds a little clunky on his lips, but he's working on it. He's not sure if he's a person who uses petnames, but he does like the startled flush that splashes across Astarion's face each time he evokes them.]
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You were the one that moved. [He mouths out smartly in retort, already angling in towards Dalyria (and leaving Fenris to do his eyeliner, since he's so hellsbent on it)— never mind that the aforementioned last time also involved Astarion resting his knee between his bodyguard's legs to 'get a better angle.']
Darling Dal, you've nothing to fret about: I've been trained by the very best. [Or he will be; details, details.] Do you prefer your hair up or down?
—Fenris don't lose that compact.
[Fingers to Dalyria's chin, tipping it higher just to sweep something soft and powdery across her face.] That's the last bit of Kohl I have for the next month— I had to replace the drapes in the lobby with this next paycheck unless Kanan sneaks a little spending cash under the table out of pity.
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2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
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2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
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