little hands and quick work

[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

[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.]