[ Petras isn't particularly fearsome, but a hungry vampire is, and there's no telling whether he found himself another meal after their run-in at the circus. If he did, Astarion hopes he at least had the decency to eat his meal out of the public eye. A citywide panic over vampires won't do anyone any good, least of all him.
He heads out after Iorveth, unsure where he's going but certain he has to go somewhere. In the end, he finds himself sitting in the Flophouse, a mug of ale he has no intention of drinking in front of him. By pure habit alone, his eyes wander, looking for the drunkest, loneliest idiots in the tavern. The Flophouse was one of his favored hunting grounds, after all. It's hard not to feel like he's on the prowl again. How many of the spawn under the palace were the drunk, lonely idiots he met here?
Today's idiots get to survive another day, of course. A few people strike up idle conversations with him, but he has no interest in seduction anymore, so the dialogue is half-hearted at best. Exchanges about how awful the swill is here, gossip about a Fist who got thrown out of Sharess' Caress yesterday after a blow-up argument with his lady love. Nothing scandalous.
Sunset rolls around, and he's late arriving to their meeting. The walk from the Flophouse to the manse is one he's made many times before, but it's difficult to make his feet move. They should just ignore this problem and hope it goes away, he thinks. Then he imagines a city overrun with ravenous vampires, their fangs piercing Shadowheart's throat or Jaheira's wrist, and he knows he can't.
By the time he scurries toward the mansion, the evening sky is getting dark. A pang of anxiety hits him at the idea of Iorveth loitering around here alone after dark, and he picks up the pace. ]
There you are, [ he says when he reaches Iorveth, as if he isn't the one who's late. He winds his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, more out of a protective instinct than affection this time. ] I was hoping you hadn't gotten eaten yet.
no subject
He heads out after Iorveth, unsure where he's going but certain he has to go somewhere. In the end, he finds himself sitting in the Flophouse, a mug of ale he has no intention of drinking in front of him. By pure habit alone, his eyes wander, looking for the drunkest, loneliest idiots in the tavern. The Flophouse was one of his favored hunting grounds, after all. It's hard not to feel like he's on the prowl again. How many of the spawn under the palace were the drunk, lonely idiots he met here?
Today's idiots get to survive another day, of course. A few people strike up idle conversations with him, but he has no interest in seduction anymore, so the dialogue is half-hearted at best. Exchanges about how awful the swill is here, gossip about a Fist who got thrown out of Sharess' Caress yesterday after a blow-up argument with his lady love. Nothing scandalous.
Sunset rolls around, and he's late arriving to their meeting. The walk from the Flophouse to the manse is one he's made many times before, but it's difficult to make his feet move. They should just ignore this problem and hope it goes away, he thinks. Then he imagines a city overrun with ravenous vampires, their fangs piercing Shadowheart's throat or Jaheira's wrist, and he knows he can't.
By the time he scurries toward the mansion, the evening sky is getting dark. A pang of anxiety hits him at the idea of Iorveth loitering around here alone after dark, and he picks up the pace. ]
There you are, [ he says when he reaches Iorveth, as if he isn't the one who's late. He winds his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, more out of a protective instinct than affection this time. ] I was hoping you hadn't gotten eaten yet.