[ The scent of leather is so thick in the air that Iorveth can swear he tastes it in the back of his throat, rich and bitter with a tang of polish. He nearly trips over a halfling hunched over her pair of loafers ("hey!", she barks at him, indignant), and instinctively reaches for Astarion at the same moment Astarion leans into him. ]
Maybe I don't need new shoes, [ Iorveth grumbles, navigating them between shelves full of heels in various shapes and heights. ] Let's make this quick.
[ His fingers twine around Astarion's, keeping hold while he looks for more practical footwear. There's an entire section devoted to samples of the store's famous thigh-high boots－ "at least nine business days from the day of order until completion"― that he bypasses, though not without an idle comment. ]
no subject
Maybe I don't need new shoes, [ Iorveth grumbles, navigating them between shelves full of heels in various shapes and heights. ] Let's make this quick.
[ His fingers twine around Astarion's, keeping hold while he looks for more practical footwear. There's an entire section devoted to samples of the store's famous thigh-high boots－ "at least nine business days from the day of order until completion"― that he bypasses, though not without an idle comment. ]
You've the legs for those, [ he notes. ]