[ The footman's breath reeks of stale booze and cigar smoke. Astarion wrinkles his nose, craning as far away from him as his position allows. (Thank the gods he doesn't need to breathe.) If he'd been a little nicer, Astarion might have taken pity on him; it must be thankless being some bigot's toady, but it seems he's just as rotten as the rest of them.
Oh, well. Hopefully, his work will be over soon.
Astarion would be lying if he said he didn't feel a jolt of fear at the threat. Perhaps Iorveth will get killed on his way here and Loredo really will throw Astarion's body in the river. Maybe he'll ruin Astarion's pretty face until his corpse is unrecognizable. Maybe everything up until this point will have been for nothing, and the gods decided to gift him with a brief stretch of happiness just to snatch it away.
He finds himself without a rebuttal. How could he possibly rebut what seems like a very real possibility? A long pause stretches out before he finally says, ] Perhaps you might consider a breath mint.
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Oh, well. Hopefully, his work will be over soon.
Astarion would be lying if he said he didn't feel a jolt of fear at the threat. Perhaps Iorveth will get killed on his way here and Loredo really will throw Astarion's body in the river. Maybe he'll ruin Astarion's pretty face until his corpse is unrecognizable. Maybe everything up until this point will have been for nothing, and the gods decided to gift him with a brief stretch of happiness just to snatch it away.
He finds himself without a rebuttal. How could he possibly rebut what seems like a very real possibility? A long pause stretches out before he finally says, ] Perhaps you might consider a breath mint.