[What a world they live in ( —oh, Astarion, worlds) that the mention of hunting slavers twists him into the very picture of a finebred buck at court for the first time— all spry and restlessly eager as he devours each and every word that drifts into his upturned ears, eyes glittering in their kohl-lined sockets. Grinning as though his heart might burst; face an unknowingly mimicked reflection of all the excitable, earnest little starlings he'd lured into fanged mouths over the years, proving that desire has a way of making everyone a little weak. A little blind. A little puppishly transparent.
Even the things that go bump in the night.
In other words: soundlessly slipping along in Leto's shadow, he is a tame thing, now. Soft-mouthed and sweet, bounding after the mortal that dominates his loyalty. Figurative tail wagging by way of tucking in every last one of his predatory edges—
Mm. Aside from the gore and viscera, anyways.
So thank the Maker they're in the lower reaches of the city, where anyone that just so happens to spot them trotting through the alleyways towards those shoddy wooden stairs would only write it off as the odd adventuring pair returning fresh from slaying wyverns or gnolls— or perhaps from clearing out the Undercity for a Patriar who pays his finest assets in pocket change and silken lint. Boots thunking heavily as they pace up over planks that feel as sturdy as loose teeth, still busy threading unincriminating subjects together (You know you did chase me from my home, even if it was indirectly. How much are they charging you for a room so close to the docks? Have you even fought anything since coming to the city? —tonight doesn't count: I did all the work for you.) until he hisses through the gaps of his fangs to hear Leto mention sunlight's telltale lethality before the door's been shut and locked—
And hisses again to instinctively follow his packmate across the threshold as he would've done in Thedas, only to feel his body stiffen and twinge in the kind of rejection that pushes rabid beasts away from water— stuck precisely where he stands. Able to turn and leave, or stay, but not lean forward. Not even by degrees.
It must look unsettling. Like his hackles are raised; a guard dog bristling even while its master calls it closer.]
I can't.
[He answers.
And for the same reason he can't just blurt out 'I'll never fit my fangs to another animal again' into the cold night air whilst standing outside a presumably occupied tavern with all its cracked walls and possibly open windows, he can't up and tell his darling to officially invite him in, either. Not without seeming suspicious enough to wake up with a stake through his heart.
So.
There he is.
Glazed in blood, wearing tattered leathers and a blouse so ruined its open collar almost shows off his entire left shoulder, booted heels planted firmly in place, barely an inch outside the doorway. Just.
no subject
Even the things that go bump in the night.
In other words: soundlessly slipping along in Leto's shadow, he is a tame thing, now. Soft-mouthed and sweet, bounding after the mortal that dominates his loyalty. Figurative tail wagging by way of tucking in every last one of his predatory edges—
Mm. Aside from the gore and viscera, anyways.
So thank the Maker they're in the lower reaches of the city, where anyone that just so happens to spot them trotting through the alleyways towards those shoddy wooden stairs would only write it off as the odd adventuring pair returning fresh from slaying wyverns or gnolls— or perhaps from clearing out the Undercity for a Patriar who pays his finest assets in pocket change and silken lint. Boots thunking heavily as they pace up over planks that feel as sturdy as loose teeth, still busy threading unincriminating subjects together (You know you did chase me from my home, even if it was indirectly. How much are they charging you for a room so close to the docks? Have you even fought anything since coming to the city? —tonight doesn't count: I did all the work for you.) until he hisses through the gaps of his fangs to hear Leto mention sunlight's telltale lethality before the door's been shut and locked—
And hisses again to instinctively follow his packmate across the threshold as he would've done in Thedas, only to feel his body stiffen and twinge in the kind of rejection that pushes rabid beasts away from water— stuck precisely where he stands. Able to turn and leave, or stay, but not lean forward. Not even by degrees.
It must look unsettling. Like his hackles are raised; a guard dog bristling even while its master calls it closer.]
I can't.
[He answers.
And for the same reason he can't just blurt out 'I'll never fit my fangs to another animal again' into the cold night air whilst standing outside a presumably occupied tavern with all its cracked walls and possibly open windows, he can't up and tell his darling to officially invite him in, either. Not without seeming suspicious enough to wake up with a stake through his heart.
So.
There he is.
Glazed in blood, wearing tattered leathers and a blouse so ruined its open collar almost shows off his entire left shoulder, booted heels planted firmly in place, barely an inch outside the doorway. Just.
Staring.
Like, really really hard.]
....I....wouldn't want to be rude.