[ Astarion giggles maliciously at the speculation; he does so love catty gossip, and all the better that it comes from his favorite person. He's not the praying type, not anymore, but he still takes a moment to pray to every god that exists and some that don't that Iorveth sees fit to gossip about his compatriots when they head north. He isn't sure he'll make it, if not.
The brothel has a tawdry, gaudy aesthetic, all ornate rugs and velvet drapes and slowly melting candles. He lets his eyes drift over it all, catching the eye of a scantily clad woman whispering in her client's ear. It's all fake, down to the teasing curl of her lips and the way she drags a hand down her paying customer's back. It feels strange to be the one watching the performance rather than starring in it. Their circumstances are entirely different, but he feels a strange sort of kinship with her regardless.
Turning his attention back to the proprietress, he leans an elbow on the counter, letting a hand dangle enough for the fluffy cat curled up on it to stick her chin atop his finger. He strokes the soft fur of her neck idly, like he doesn't really care. ]
Not that they aren't enticing, I'm sure, [ he says, although he has as much desire to tangle himself in some paladin's limbs as Iorveth seems to. ] But it'll be just a drink for us.
[ Mamzell seems surprised, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Just a drink? Here?" Then, the businesswoman in her takes over, and she says, "If a paladin isn't your cup of tea, I have plenty for you to choose from. You look like you could stand to be pampered." An assertion made on the basis of him being a foppish high elf and nothing else, but not entirely wrong. "And you—" She turns her gaze to Iorveth, squinting a little like even she can't decide what a freak like him would enjoy. "We have quite a few of our more spirited courtesans for your selection." ]
no subject
The brothel has a tawdry, gaudy aesthetic, all ornate rugs and velvet drapes and slowly melting candles. He lets his eyes drift over it all, catching the eye of a scantily clad woman whispering in her client's ear. It's all fake, down to the teasing curl of her lips and the way she drags a hand down her paying customer's back. It feels strange to be the one watching the performance rather than starring in it. Their circumstances are entirely different, but he feels a strange sort of kinship with her regardless.
Turning his attention back to the proprietress, he leans an elbow on the counter, letting a hand dangle enough for the fluffy cat curled up on it to stick her chin atop his finger. He strokes the soft fur of her neck idly, like he doesn't really care. ]
Not that they aren't enticing, I'm sure, [ he says, although he has as much desire to tangle himself in some paladin's limbs as Iorveth seems to. ] But it'll be just a drink for us.
[ Mamzell seems surprised, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Just a drink? Here?" Then, the businesswoman in her takes over, and she says, "If a paladin isn't your cup of tea, I have plenty for you to choose from. You look like you could stand to be pampered." An assertion made on the basis of him being a foppish high elf and nothing else, but not entirely wrong. "And you—" She turns her gaze to Iorveth, squinting a little like even she can't decide what a freak like him would enjoy. "We have quite a few of our more spirited courtesans for your selection." ]