[ It's a sentence that would have been entirely offended at the beginning of their journey. Astarion requires no one's permission to do anything, not anymore. Now, though, with the knowledge that Iorveth has no intention of controlling him, it only sounds faintly teasing. Hells, if Astarion wanted to strip naked and dash through the crowd, Iorveth would probably say that he supports Astarion's freedom to make his own choices.
He releases Iorveth's hand and taps him on the chin instead. ]
What a relief. I'd hate to do something that isn't permitted.
[ Said, of course, with a tone that implies he very much likes to do things that aren't permitted.
Arm in arm with Iorveth, he walks them past the excessive greenery and tacky statues into the glittering light of the mansion. The foyer's walnut floors are shined to the point of gleaming, the light of the chandelier above reflecting off of it. Velvet armchairs—of course—line the entry hall leading up to a winding staircase that heads up to what must be the inhabitants' personal rooms. An intricate ornamental clock stands in the corner, and an opening in the wall leads to a hall on the side; that's where all of the action is, he assumes, judging by the sound of conversation and clinking glasses.
He tugs Iorveth along, down the hall and into the ballroom where the main festivities are being held. Instantly, he feels overwhelmed. A number of people in finery glance at them as they enter, and he's instantly transported back to the sort of parties Cazador threw at his manse. He wasn't an attendee then, nor were his siblings; they were the help at best, the entertainment at worst. He blinks the unpleasant memories away just in time for a woman to approach them, her eyes narrow and her smile wide.
"Now, I know I'd remember those faces if I'd seen them before," she coos. "You two must not be from around here." ]
no subject
[ It's a sentence that would have been entirely offended at the beginning of their journey. Astarion requires no one's permission to do anything, not anymore. Now, though, with the knowledge that Iorveth has no intention of controlling him, it only sounds faintly teasing. Hells, if Astarion wanted to strip naked and dash through the crowd, Iorveth would probably say that he supports Astarion's freedom to make his own choices.
He releases Iorveth's hand and taps him on the chin instead. ]
What a relief. I'd hate to do something that isn't permitted.
[ Said, of course, with a tone that implies he very much likes to do things that aren't permitted.
Arm in arm with Iorveth, he walks them past the excessive greenery and tacky statues into the glittering light of the mansion. The foyer's walnut floors are shined to the point of gleaming, the light of the chandelier above reflecting off of it. Velvet armchairs—of course—line the entry hall leading up to a winding staircase that heads up to what must be the inhabitants' personal rooms. An intricate ornamental clock stands in the corner, and an opening in the wall leads to a hall on the side; that's where all of the action is, he assumes, judging by the sound of conversation and clinking glasses.
He tugs Iorveth along, down the hall and into the ballroom where the main festivities are being held. Instantly, he feels overwhelmed. A number of people in finery glance at them as they enter, and he's instantly transported back to the sort of parties Cazador threw at his manse. He wasn't an attendee then, nor were his siblings; they were the help at best, the entertainment at worst. He blinks the unpleasant memories away just in time for a woman to approach them, her eyes narrow and her smile wide.
"Now, I know I'd remember those faces if I'd seen them before," she coos. "You two must not be from around here." ]