𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐬

𝐢𝐢𝐢.

𝐢𝐢𝐢. | 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞

"Astarion," the name feels almost as heavy as the pailful of water she's brought when she slogs herself into her tent, arms crowded.

Astarion curls neatly against the only wooden support he could find between the pegs strapping the textiles down and her modestly arranged strongbox. The tint of the wood casts vermeil shadows onto his neck, and Elyra narrows her eyes against the low-light flooding her senses, receiving enough feedback to recognize how effortlessly smug he looks as he pretends to have not heard a note disarranged.

The world is layered in hues of gray, but he still looks all the more welcome to it, timeless, as though he could belong anywhere from a tenth-century painting sequestered from all but high society to a charming, young boy lost in her forest, looking to peddle commerce between a community of ancient elves and the group of high-brethren that have come to visit.

He's dressed in black leathers to his hip, a belt, and then a loose-fitting, ivory blouse—every detail flattened. His doublet falls loose on his shoulders.

What coasts off-kilter is how Astarion has seen to spreading himself on the bedroll she's brought in, hand wrapped around one of her books, leafing through it, soundless.

This man has no sense of privacy or possession unless he's the one benefitting from it.

"What are you doing on my bedroll?"

"Just some light reading, darling."

"How light?"

"I don't bloody well know," he sighs, a scratch in his throat coming out like sandpaper on stone. She feels whittled down as is, but it looks like Astarion might work towards some more chafing away if she's not careful. Something of a whetstone himself. "This may be something our sage would take profuse pleasure in deciphering—for I'm decidedly not. No killing. No betrayal. No burning sexual tension. It's all very, hm," he runs his tongue across the upper brim of teeth. "dry."

"Well, I'm elated that some of us can unbutton themselves in the midst of all this madness. Let their strings come loose."

With that image, Astarion's fingers become slack at the leather binding, pattering their twos and threes. "And was your day an eventful one?" he asks.

It's probably the most egregious thing she's heard since her sudden encounter with Raphael, so she finds it hard to hawk up an answer, one that properly fits his expectations, anyway. She feels like she's just been waterboarded, dead to the world, then spit right back into perfect, postured place. Without a creature noticing.

How anyone can voluntarily teleport themselves as their choice of transportation doesn't cease to confound her.

Astarion's gaze flickers towards her before carping, "please, don't be so conversational."