[ Astarion does his best to adjust his clothing, tucking his shirt in tighter and tugging the cuffs of his pants down. He combs his bangs over the darkening bruise on his forehead. It's distracting in a way he doesn't want to be. ]
Who, me?
[ He presses a hand to his chest as if flattered, although in reality, being called 'pretty' by some baby Fist is hardly the height of flattery. It barely even sounded like a compliment, just a statement of fact. 'The pretty elf', same as 'the pale vampire' or 'the dagger-wielding rogue'. Incontrovertible.
Still: ] You flatterer!
[ He takes a step toward the Fist, careful to angle the bruised side of his face away. ]
I'm not sure what an important man like you could want with someone like me.
no subject
Who, me?
[ He presses a hand to his chest as if flattered, although in reality, being called 'pretty' by some baby Fist is hardly the height of flattery. It barely even sounded like a compliment, just a statement of fact. 'The pretty elf', same as 'the pale vampire' or 'the dagger-wielding rogue'. Incontrovertible.
Still: ] You flatterer!
[ He takes a step toward the Fist, careful to angle the bruised side of his face away. ]
I'm not sure what an important man like you could want with someone like me.