[ It’s like an unlocking, the way Gale eases as Astarion’s touch lingers light, not pushing. The coolness only makes it more real, tangible in a way that little has been for him. It reminds him of the strange moment they shared at the edge of the bath, where Astarion looked almost wanting.
And it passes just the same. ]
As you like. [ In regards to his blood and any other requests. Gale props his elbow on the back of the sofa, hand curled at his jaw. He does wonder when Astarion might ask after his throat. There’s so little written on the nature of spawn, compared to their lords. Knowing Astarion will be educational, if nothing else. ]
As for the weekend, the Silvertors are hosting their annual ball. [ an exhale that’s almost a sigh, mouth smudging across his palm. ] It is a fixed point on the Waterdhavian social calendar, around which betrothals are made and broken. As such, my attendance is not only expected but assured, along with representatives from every other noble house.
[ His focus flashes to Astarion, as if confirming that means he’ll also be in attendance. Hope lifts his features, at the thought of not facing it alone this time. ]
If you’ve need of new attire for the event, I have an open tab at Faefolk’s Finery in the Trade Ward. [ He reaches out to where his shirt has slipped from Astarion’s shoulder, tugging the fabric up and over its slope, knuckles barely brushing his skin. ]
[ While Astarion does have some experience with balls - Cazador hosted his fair share, gruesome as they were - he's far more adept at navigating taverns full of drunk patrons, common folk who mostly won't be missed. The Elfsong was his staple, with enough turnover from travelers and adventurers looking for a night of passion, but seedier establishments would also do. For all that he managed to work the other night's affair, there is a difference between skulking through the shadows and being very visibly, very purposefully on display.
And the way Cazador liked to display his spawn for his guests was a different creature entirely. ]
What a gauntlet we'll have to run. [ More of a gauntlet for Gale, of course, but still. Astarion considers the sort of wealth that will be out that night, the things he could pocket without anyone noticing. Not something he's going to mention to his host, of course.
Gale's touch brings him out of his brief reverie, unused to such casual things; he tips his head like he wants to chase the warmth, until his mind catches up to his body and he offers Gale a soft blink instead, spreading his fingers across the velvet he pulled over his shoulder. ]
I didn't bring much with me from Baldur's Gate, so I certainly won't say no.
[ We, there’s safety in it, despite the uncertainty. Surely it will be easier to demure or evade with…not a partner, but an accomplice, maybe. Provided he can trust Astarion to stay at his side and out of the host’s treasury.
His eyes flit from Astarion’s splayed hand — the sunstone glittering in the light — to his face. Can’t help the smile that blooms, soft and sincere. ]
Then you can scandalise me all you like at the modiste this evening. [ wry, based on Astarion’s showing the prior night. ] In the meantime, my tower is yours, [ wagging a finger, ] though I should warn you things have been known to move around. It can be rather — in tune with its occupants.
[ The nature of a place so imbued with magic, perhaps. ]
Just so long as I won't find myself in a pocket dimension of the Shadowfell for opening the wrong cupboard. [ His curiosity is piqued, honestly, though it's clear Gale will notice sticky fingers around the tower. Waving a hand, ] My master just had an obnoxious penchant for hidden doors. We all knew where they were, so I don't know why he bothered.
[ Astarion rises from the sofa, stretching his arms overhead. ] I'll see you this evening, then. Don't miss me too much.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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And it passes just the same. ]
As you like. [ In regards to his blood and any other requests. Gale props his elbow on the back of the sofa, hand curled at his jaw. He does wonder when Astarion might ask after his throat. There’s so little written on the nature of spawn, compared to their lords. Knowing Astarion will be educational, if nothing else. ]
As for the weekend, the Silvertors are hosting their annual ball. [ an exhale that’s almost a sigh, mouth smudging across his palm. ] It is a fixed point on the Waterdhavian social calendar, around which betrothals are made and broken. As such, my attendance is not only expected but assured, along with representatives from every other noble house.
[ His focus flashes to Astarion, as if confirming that means he’ll also be in attendance. Hope lifts his features, at the thought of not facing it alone this time. ]
If you’ve need of new attire for the event, I have an open tab at Faefolk’s Finery in the Trade Ward. [ He reaches out to where his shirt has slipped from Astarion’s shoulder, tugging the fabric up and over its slope, knuckles barely brushing his skin. ]
no subject
And the way Cazador liked to display his spawn for his guests was a different creature entirely. ]
What a gauntlet we'll have to run. [ More of a gauntlet for Gale, of course, but still. Astarion considers the sort of wealth that will be out that night, the things he could pocket without anyone noticing. Not something he's going to mention to his host, of course.
Gale's touch brings him out of his brief reverie, unused to such casual things; he tips his head like he wants to chase the warmth, until his mind catches up to his body and he offers Gale a soft blink instead, spreading his fingers across the velvet he pulled over his shoulder. ]
I didn't bring much with me from Baldur's Gate, so I certainly won't say no.
no subject
His eyes flit from Astarion’s splayed hand — the sunstone glittering in the light — to his face. Can’t help the smile that blooms, soft and sincere. ]
Then you can scandalise me all you like at the modiste this evening. [ wry, based on Astarion’s showing the prior night. ] In the meantime, my tower is yours, [ wagging a finger, ] though I should warn you things have been known to move around. It can be rather — in tune with its occupants.
[ The nature of a place so imbued with magic, perhaps. ]
no subject
[ Astarion rises from the sofa, stretching his arms overhead. ] I'll see you this evening, then. Don't miss me too much.