WHO: Fenris, Jone, & YOU. WHAT: Fenris & Jone are back in Kirkwall. WHEN: When... people... are back in Kirkwall... waves hand. WHERE: KIRKWALL NOTES: None yet.
Fenris' lip twitches. He's proud of this man. It's absurd; he has no right to. He taught the man nothing, helped him with little, and yet... an elf with aspirations, and damn the consequences... usually, it would be worrisome. Yet Astarion's feckless pride engenders only confidence in Fenris.
"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
“To being procer.” Astarion agrees, lacking in linguistic comprehension, but not context.
Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
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"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
"To being procer."
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Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
“And to the Hells with Tevinter.”