[ Astarion keeps a hand curled around the crook of Iorveth's elbow, the press of his fingers somewhere between possessive and protective. He doesn't know whether he wants to cower behind Iorveth or step out in front of him and tell the damn drow off for even daring to speak to Iorveth. Both, maybe. Instead, he keeps beside Iorveth, plastered against his side so that even their shoulders are touching. The warmth of Iorveth's body is soothing, comforting.
This workshop of Araj's is not. The furniture has burnt to ash, dark, foul-smelling smoke wafting from the rubble. The taste of acrid ash coats his tongue, and he makes the executive decision to stop breathing. The weakened wood planks creak beneath their weight as he stares down at Araj, lip curling. ]
Oh, I think I'm quite full, thank you, [ he snaps back, although it's more high-pitched and theatrical than he would like. ] My dignity isn't for sale. ...Anymore.
[ "Pity," she replies. "The offer, of course, always stands." Her ruby-red eyes flick to Iorveth's face. "Perhaps you'll be more amenable. The alchemical breakthroughs I've been making with your generous donation are unparalleled, but if House Oblodra is to return to its former glory, I need... more."
Astarion unconsciously tightens his grip around Iorveth's arm as Araj descends the staircase and returns with a murky bottle in her hands. The smell is even worse than the burning furniture, gods, even worse than her. It smells wrong in every way, pungent and sour.
"Formula Gruna," she says pleasantly. "Drink this, and you'll help usher in a new world of innovation." ]
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This workshop of Araj's is not. The furniture has burnt to ash, dark, foul-smelling smoke wafting from the rubble. The taste of acrid ash coats his tongue, and he makes the executive decision to stop breathing. The weakened wood planks creak beneath their weight as he stares down at Araj, lip curling. ]
Oh, I think I'm quite full, thank you, [ he snaps back, although it's more high-pitched and theatrical than he would like. ] My dignity isn't for sale. ...Anymore.
[ "Pity," she replies. "The offer, of course, always stands." Her ruby-red eyes flick to Iorveth's face. "Perhaps you'll be more amenable. The alchemical breakthroughs I've been making with your generous donation are unparalleled, but if House Oblodra is to return to its former glory, I need... more."
Astarion unconsciously tightens his grip around Iorveth's arm as Araj descends the staircase and returns with a murky bottle in her hands. The smell is even worse than the burning furniture, gods, even worse than her. It smells wrong in every way, pungent and sour.
"Formula Gruna," she says pleasantly. "Drink this, and you'll help usher in a new world of innovation." ]