[ Astarion doesn't even bother telling himself not to be into being called 'milord', although a rational person probably would. Iorveth encourages all of his worst characteristics, so why should this be any different? He grins widely, pleased as the cat that ate the canary, as he steps in with his head held high. The overwhelming scent of roses fills his nose, the obvious culprit the quite frankly excessive amount of flowers dotting nearly every surface. He grabs Iorveth's hand, tugging him inside and letting the door swing shut behind him.
The night is young, but there's already a fair amount of patrons in the tavern, most of them dressed in the same sort of upscale, stylish clothing as Astarion and Iorveth. A few of them are clad in more understated outfits, perhaps dragged here by their more aesthete companions. The most glorious clothing of all is worn by the barkeep, although such a word seems crude to describe her. A human woman, tall, with long raven-black hair and exquisitely applied makeup. She glitters quite literally, every inch of her covered in jewelry.
"What beautiful new faces!" she coos, beaming as they enter. "And in such gorgeous attire!"
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The night is young, but there's already a fair amount of patrons in the tavern, most of them dressed in the same sort of upscale, stylish clothing as Astarion and Iorveth. A few of them are clad in more understated outfits, perhaps dragged here by their more aesthete companions. The most glorious clothing of all is worn by the barkeep, although such a word seems crude to describe her. A human woman, tall, with long raven-black hair and exquisitely applied makeup. She glitters quite literally, every inch of her covered in jewelry.
"What beautiful new faces!" she coos, beaming as they enter. "And in such gorgeous attire!"
Astarion, of course, preens. ]
Oh, this? I just threw it on, really.