[ The week passes uneventfully — as much as it can, at least, when Gale keeps encountering someone else in a space that has always been his alone. Astarion comes and goes as he likes, but Gale has noticed how he lingers by the fire, when he can, and it warms him more than the blaze ever could.
For reasons unknown, Astarion has yet to ask after his throat despite, well, looking. Watching him tie his hair back before he settles in to work. Following the bob of his throat as he tips his head into the sofa. And then there’s the touching. Brushing loose strands over his shoulder. Flicking his earring when he’s said something particularly annoying. He feels like a schoolboy, with the scattered blush to match.
His research provides an excellent distraction from the novelty of company, so he finesses his Infernal translation at odd hours. Tara stops by during a particularly studious session, fluttering over his shoulder with a gasp. Mr Dekarios! You’d best have a good reason for dabbling in that cursed tongue. It’s for a friend, Gale insists, hewing as close to the truth as he can manage. Predictably, it only half-mollifies her. Not the same friend that has my spot smelling like roses, instead of like you, I hope. An accusation, a question. He has no answer for her that she’ll like, so he feigns interest in the text until she settles on his lap, and scratches out inadequate attempts until they’re both dozing at his desk.
The date of the ball arrives — the first true test of their bargain — Gale dresses and redresses for the affair thrice, settling on dress robes in a deep indigo that someone (Clara, maybe) once said was a flattering complement to his olive complexion. The gold pattern-work signifies his status as a wizard of some renown, so the host will be pleased that he played his part for once, at any rate. The neckline sinks into a slight vee, and he pointedly avoids any consideration of where Astarion might look.
When they join the ball, it’s already in full swing: An affair that will run from sundown to sunrise, though Gale insists they needn’t stay long. A memorable appearance is all that matters. He greets a few familiar faces as they wind their way to the heart of the event, his hand steering at the small of Astarion’s back. Without fail, the flicker of surprise that Gale has brought company is smoothed into pleasantries. Only one courtier lays a hand on his arm, polite in her enquiry after a dance. For once, Gale demurs easily by saying he promised his first to his lovely guest and tosses a pleased little look at Astarion.
The Silvertors’ grounds and home are seemingly endless, with rooms enchanted to hold more space than even the manor’s grand exterior would suggest. Every room has its own entertainment, a gaggle of bards or troupe of wizards entertaining the masses, but the centrepiece of the event is the Neverwinter Orchestra, rarely glimpsed outside their home city. Gale catches a glimpse as they make their way down, the players stationed in between the two stairways leading to the ballroom. ]
Ah, how thrilling! [ uttered with sincere delight as he peers over the railing, one pointed shoe perched a step higher than the other. ] I suppose there’s something to be said for these affairs, when they’ve culture at the heart. [ glancing back over his shoulder. ]
Do you know the Waterdhavian waltz, Astarion? It’s in four/four time, unlike the traditional three/four of the Neverwinter and Baldurian varieties — in the interest of being contrarian to the norm, I suspect. [ brightly, ] We pride ourselves on quick wits and quicker steps.
[ Astarion is used to an over-crowded living space, sharing with the other spawn and the occasional human servants who grovel at Cazador's feet. It's strange to have space to himself at all, but to not feel lonely all the same; Gale's presence is evident even when they're taking up separate corners of the tower. Astarion has historically found the magic of wizards to be oppressive, and Gale's certainly isn't subtle, given his power, but Astarion also doesn't flinch from it. He is -- at least for the moment -- protected by it. The most novel of novelties.
Astarion would be content to just prowl around Gale's tower indefinitely, but they do have a bargain and this is the less-deadly part of Astarion's end of it. (He's not putting off going to Skullport, exactly, just...temporarily distracted by the splendor of freedom and safety and company he doesn't revile.) And honestly, for all that Astarion would prefer not to navigate the social niceties, he does enjoy getting dolled up. Gale has bought him a red and black number with gold embroidered accents, perfectly tailored and surprisingly comfortable, with black boots made of supple leather and gold at the toe.
They make quite the pair. Gale is handsome with his hair tied back, the dip of bare skin at his throat and collarbone. Astarion lived so long on infrequent feeding at the whims of his master, he's almost forgotten he has a willing throat to drink from. Perhaps when the night is done, as a reward for well-played deception.
And Gale had certainly not undersold how popular he is. Astarion pretends to drink from his flute of wine and offers his devastatingly handsome smile to each of the courtiers he's introduced to as he instantly forgets their names.
It's almost...cute to see his host so animated about the orchestra. Astarion hands his full flute of wine to a passing butler as he takes the stairs with Gale. ]
Well, I may not be Waterdhavian but I am a quick study. [ And then, not bothering to lower his voice given the volume of the orchestra and the people around them: ] Certainly more culture than the blood orgies I'm accustomed to, I'll give you that.
[ It’s a strange game, this pretending. Exhilarating in its newness. Odd, in its intimacy. Astarion observes and follows, at his side as promised — a gilded shadow. It’s not often that Gale has someone to air his passing thoughts with, let alone a partner listening with a measure of interest. He thinks the quirk at Astarion’s mouth might be genuine, different from the first flirtatious smiles and the sharp angles tossed at the other guests. Softer, like the look on his face when Gale gave him the warding ring, still perched on his finger.
As Astarion answers him, Gale’s gaze flickers back, catching on the warm red of his eyes. A shade in the same family as his stylish waistcoat, which happens to be one of the least scandalous items he tried at the modiste and no less distracting for it. A part of him wonders what people will make of their pairing: The bookish mage and the elegant outsider. It begs belief, he imagines, but then so does the idea of his eligibility at all.
He’s about to add something encouraging: An affirmation of Astarion’s keen intelligence, when he realises exactly what has been said. ]
The — [ Breath caught, brows at his hairline. ] Blood orgies. [ A scandalised echo that he immediately regrets, glancing around to ensure no one passing them on the stairs overheard. ] My, that’s — [ Two fingers slip into his collar, tugging the fabric from his neck and widening the vee of his shirt. Thinking again of how he’s offered Astarion his blood, which had seemed more practical than scintillating, initially. He clears his throat. ] — in keeping with certain literary genres, I suppose. [ The tawdry ones, in which lonesome travellers seek shelter at a vampire’s manor and lose far more than sleep. ]
While this won’t be quite as stimulating, [ A grimace suggests he immediately regrets that word choice. ] I’ll endeavour to keep you entertained.
[ Mustering what remains of his courage, Gale offers his arm, so they might descend the stairs and enter the ballroom floor together. ]
[ What a reaction. Astarion is learning that Gale is quick to fluster, when he hits the right trigger points, and it doesn't escape his notice that both vampires and sex are two of them. It's a fun little game to play, particularly around this many people and particularly when the pair of them are highly visible.
And they are being watched, as Astarion takes Gale's arm and they descend the ballroom stairs, heads beginning to turn on the floor below. There's a poised neutrality to most of the looks they're getting, though a few are openly wistful and some bleed resentment.
While Astarion could hold his own against the average puffed-up noble, perhaps it's a good thing he's only pretending to drink the wine tonight. ]
I’d invite you to one should you ever make it to Baldur’s Gate, but I suspect you’d be as popular there as you are here. [ Using Gale's proffered arm as leverage to lean into his space, voice low. ] And said popularity's a touch more harrowing when the ladies bite.
[ It’s nice, Gale realises, to have a companion at his side. Although he can feel the weight of eyes on him, someone or multiple someones in the crowd, he needn’t go beyond their world of two, instead watching Astarion’s mouth wrap around a tease. It’s only when he tips his head to allow Astarion closer that he unintentionally catches a familiar courtier’s eye. She watches him with obvious interest, eyes sparkling over the rim of her glass as the music swells.
Pink dusts his cheeks, either from the compliment or the implications. The attention at his side or up ahead. Blood orgies, ridiculous soirées, gods below. Perhaps he should marry and be done with it all. ]
Ah — I suspect your teeth will be more than enough for me. [ Gale turns his head inward to avoid the other woman’s gaze, nose brushing Astarion’s cheek. His pulse quickens. ] But I wouldn’t underestimate the sharpness of your present competition, even in these early stages. [ A member of said competition is already venturing towards them, so Gale tugs Astarion’s toward the floor. ] In fact, we’re overdue a dance.
[ And inviting challenge by delaying it any further. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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For reasons unknown, Astarion has yet to ask after his throat despite, well, looking. Watching him tie his hair back before he settles in to work. Following the bob of his throat as he tips his head into the sofa. And then there’s the touching. Brushing loose strands over his shoulder. Flicking his earring when he’s said something particularly annoying. He feels like a schoolboy, with the scattered blush to match.
His research provides an excellent distraction from the novelty of company, so he finesses his Infernal translation at odd hours. Tara stops by during a particularly studious session, fluttering over his shoulder with a gasp. Mr Dekarios! You’d best have a good reason for dabbling in that cursed tongue. It’s for a friend, Gale insists, hewing as close to the truth as he can manage. Predictably, it only half-mollifies her. Not the same friend that has my spot smelling like roses, instead of like you, I hope. An accusation, a question. He has no answer for her that she’ll like, so he feigns interest in the text until she settles on his lap, and scratches out inadequate attempts until they’re both dozing at his desk.
The date of the ball arrives — the first true test of their bargain — Gale dresses and redresses for the affair thrice, settling on dress robes in a deep indigo that someone (Clara, maybe) once said was a flattering complement to his olive complexion. The gold pattern-work signifies his status as a wizard of some renown, so the host will be pleased that he played his part for once, at any rate. The neckline sinks into a slight vee, and he pointedly avoids any consideration of where Astarion might look.
When they join the ball, it’s already in full swing: An affair that will run from sundown to sunrise, though Gale insists they needn’t stay long. A memorable appearance is all that matters. He greets a few familiar faces as they wind their way to the heart of the event, his hand steering at the small of Astarion’s back. Without fail, the flicker of surprise that Gale has brought company is smoothed into pleasantries. Only one courtier lays a hand on his arm, polite in her enquiry after a dance. For once, Gale demurs easily by saying he promised his first to his lovely guest and tosses a pleased little look at Astarion.
The Silvertors’ grounds and home are seemingly endless, with rooms enchanted to hold more space than even the manor’s grand exterior would suggest. Every room has its own entertainment, a gaggle of bards or troupe of wizards entertaining the masses, but the centrepiece of the event is the Neverwinter Orchestra, rarely glimpsed outside their home city. Gale catches a glimpse as they make their way down, the players stationed in between the two stairways leading to the ballroom. ]
Ah, how thrilling! [ uttered with sincere delight as he peers over the railing, one pointed shoe perched a step higher than the other. ] I suppose there’s something to be said for these affairs, when they’ve culture at the heart. [ glancing back over his shoulder. ]
Do you know the Waterdhavian waltz, Astarion? It’s in four/four time, unlike the traditional three/four of the Neverwinter and Baldurian varieties — in the interest of being contrarian to the norm, I suspect. [ brightly, ] We pride ourselves on quick wits and quicker steps.
no subject
Astarion would be content to just prowl around Gale's tower indefinitely, but they do have a bargain and this is the less-deadly part of Astarion's end of it. (He's not putting off going to Skullport, exactly, just...temporarily distracted by the splendor of freedom and safety and company he doesn't revile.) And honestly, for all that Astarion would prefer not to navigate the social niceties, he does enjoy getting dolled up. Gale has bought him a red and black number with gold embroidered accents, perfectly tailored and surprisingly comfortable, with black boots made of supple leather and gold at the toe.
They make quite the pair. Gale is handsome with his hair tied back, the dip of bare skin at his throat and collarbone. Astarion lived so long on infrequent feeding at the whims of his master, he's almost forgotten he has a willing throat to drink from. Perhaps when the night is done, as a reward for well-played deception.
And Gale had certainly not undersold how popular he is. Astarion pretends to drink from his flute of wine and offers his devastatingly handsome smile to each of the courtiers he's introduced to as he instantly forgets their names.
It's almost...cute to see his host so animated about the orchestra. Astarion hands his full flute of wine to a passing butler as he takes the stairs with Gale. ]
Well, I may not be Waterdhavian but I am a quick study. [ And then, not bothering to lower his voice given the volume of the orchestra and the people around them: ] Certainly more culture than the blood orgies I'm accustomed to, I'll give you that.
no subject
As Astarion answers him, Gale’s gaze flickers back, catching on the warm red of his eyes. A shade in the same family as his stylish waistcoat, which happens to be one of the least scandalous items he tried at the modiste and no less distracting for it. A part of him wonders what people will make of their pairing: The bookish mage and the elegant outsider. It begs belief, he imagines, but then so does the idea of his eligibility at all.
He’s about to add something encouraging: An affirmation of Astarion’s keen intelligence, when he realises exactly what has been said. ]
The — [ Breath caught, brows at his hairline. ] Blood orgies. [ A scandalised echo that he immediately regrets, glancing around to ensure no one passing them on the stairs overheard. ] My, that’s — [ Two fingers slip into his collar, tugging the fabric from his neck and widening the vee of his shirt. Thinking again of how he’s offered Astarion his blood, which had seemed more practical than scintillating, initially. He clears his throat. ] — in keeping with certain literary genres, I suppose. [ The tawdry ones, in which lonesome travellers seek shelter at a vampire’s manor and lose far more than sleep. ]
While this won’t be quite as stimulating, [ A grimace suggests he immediately regrets that word choice. ] I’ll endeavour to keep you entertained.
[ Mustering what remains of his courage, Gale offers his arm, so they might descend the stairs and enter the ballroom floor together. ]
no subject
And they are being watched, as Astarion takes Gale's arm and they descend the ballroom stairs, heads beginning to turn on the floor below. There's a poised neutrality to most of the looks they're getting, though a few are openly wistful and some bleed resentment.
While Astarion could hold his own against the average puffed-up noble, perhaps it's a good thing he's only pretending to drink the wine tonight. ]
I’d invite you to one should you ever make it to Baldur’s Gate, but I suspect you’d be as popular there as you are here. [ Using Gale's proffered arm as leverage to lean into his space, voice low. ] And said popularity's a touch more harrowing when the ladies bite.
no subject
Pink dusts his cheeks, either from the compliment or the implications. The attention at his side or up ahead. Blood orgies, ridiculous soirées, gods below. Perhaps he should marry and be done with it all. ]
Ah — I suspect your teeth will be more than enough for me. [ Gale turns his head inward to avoid the other woman’s gaze, nose brushing Astarion’s cheek. His pulse quickens. ] But I wouldn’t underestimate the sharpness of your present competition, even in these early stages. [ A member of said competition is already venturing towards them, so Gale tugs Astarion’s toward the floor. ] In fact, we’re overdue a dance.
[ And inviting challenge by delaying it any further. ]