It's been a long time since Fenris felt that uniquely nauseating combination of uncertainty and trepidation churning in the pit of his stomach. For all that the Moulin Rouge is ever-changing and never-still, the proprietor in question has always been a solid rock amongst all that. Someone whose reactions and expectations have been comfortably predictable from the moment Fenris arrived here— indeed, the bedrock from which he formed his initial trust in the establishment, and which has only deepened the more time passed. The only exceptions have ever been for serious matters (when he broke his arm; when Danarius' agents came sniffing at their door three months after they took him in; when he and Astarion had blown up a few weeks ago).
So what the hell is happening that they're sitting here side by side, swords in their laps and the awkward tension between them growing thicker by the minute. Fenris glances over at his father, his own growing agony made worse by the clear discomfort in every line of Zevlor's body.]
Er . . .
[How are things? What the hell kind of question is that to ask him?? He glances over at him in bewilderment, but there's no hint as to what Zevlor is hoping to hear.]
Fine . . .?
[No, that's clearly not the right answer. But what the fu—
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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It's been a long time since Fenris felt that uniquely nauseating combination of uncertainty and trepidation churning in the pit of his stomach. For all that the Moulin Rouge is ever-changing and never-still, the proprietor in question has always been a solid rock amongst all that. Someone whose reactions and expectations have been comfortably predictable from the moment Fenris arrived here— indeed, the bedrock from which he formed his initial trust in the establishment, and which has only deepened the more time passed. The only exceptions have ever been for serious matters (when he broke his arm; when Danarius' agents came sniffing at their door three months after they took him in; when he and Astarion had blown up a few weeks ago).
So what the hell is happening that they're sitting here side by side, swords in their laps and the awkward tension between them growing thicker by the minute. Fenris glances over at his father, his own growing agony made worse by the clear discomfort in every line of Zevlor's body.]
Er . . .
[How are things? What the hell kind of question is that to ask him?? He glances over at him in bewilderment, but there's no hint as to what Zevlor is hoping to hear.]
Fine . . .?
[No, that's clearly not the right answer. But what the fu—