From somewhere beneath Astarion, a groan, and then that elbow is digging less incidentally and more with an eye to dislodging the fucker —
“What the fuck,” a slightly muffled, unusually-accented voice demands, baffled, a query which is accompanied by the rapid sound of blades unsheathing very close by them, at which point Athénaïs gives up on the elbow manoeuvre and rolls out from the tangle of limbs, raising a hand: “If anyone’s loading elves into a trebuchet, it’s probably that fucking Avvar, so let’s all be very cool for thirty seconds.”
Getting to her full height of 4’10” is not actually a terribly impressive difference in stature from being on the stone to standing, but she is nevertheless a striking figure when she looks down at Astarion, a perspective she will likely enjoy only briefly. Her hair is loose and violet to her waist, silk-straight and nearly as much of her as she is person; vitiligo marks out milk patches on otherwise lightly tanned skin, and her ears draw into high points. It’s not her clothing — slim-fitting blue leather, blouse slashed open to her waist, feathered — that marks her out for an authority figure so much as the way that all the heavily armed and distinctly uniformed mostly-humans nearby them are clearly falling back on no more than her say so.
Waiting, not leaving. Holding, not sheathing. But her carelessly delivered word is law, right away.
“Hi, champ,” along with her hand offered to help him up, the way she reaches for him exposing an elaborate pair of daggers at her hips. “Big fall, huh!”
Astarion stares. First at the blades fastened at her hips, and then at the pointy blades being brandished by the— guards? Fuck. What shit situation has he gotten himself into now?
He's kind of offended by this whole thing, and certainly by the way she speaks to him as if he's a toddler—or perhaps brain damaged, which he really might be given the parasite in his brain and the fall he just took—but it seems very fucking prudent to be polite right now. So, although he'd rather brush off the offered hand, he reaches for it and delicately allows for her to help him up.
Gods, she's short. He feels the urge to rest an elbow on her head.
Instead: "Gentlemen, surely we don't need all of these blades. I'm the victim here!" And he always will be.
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“What the fuck,” a slightly muffled, unusually-accented voice demands, baffled, a query which is accompanied by the rapid sound of blades unsheathing very close by them, at which point Athénaïs gives up on the elbow manoeuvre and rolls out from the tangle of limbs, raising a hand: “If anyone’s loading elves into a trebuchet, it’s probably that fucking Avvar, so let’s all be very cool for thirty seconds.”
Getting to her full height of 4’10” is not actually a terribly impressive difference in stature from being on the stone to standing, but she is nevertheless a striking figure when she looks down at Astarion, a perspective she will likely enjoy only briefly. Her hair is loose and violet to her waist, silk-straight and nearly as much of her as she is person; vitiligo marks out milk patches on otherwise lightly tanned skin, and her ears draw into high points. It’s not her clothing — slim-fitting blue leather, blouse slashed open to her waist, feathered — that marks her out for an authority figure so much as the way that all the heavily armed and distinctly uniformed mostly-humans nearby them are clearly falling back on no more than her say so.
Waiting, not leaving. Holding, not sheathing. But her carelessly delivered word is law, right away.
“Hi, champ,” along with her hand offered to help him up, the way she reaches for him exposing an elaborate pair of daggers at her hips. “Big fall, huh!”
no subject
He's kind of offended by this whole thing, and certainly by the way she speaks to him as if he's a toddler—or perhaps brain damaged, which he really might be given the parasite in his brain and the fall he just took—but it seems very fucking prudent to be polite right now. So, although he'd rather brush off the offered hand, he reaches for it and delicately allows for her to help him up.
Gods, she's short. He feels the urge to rest an elbow on her head.
Instead: "Gentlemen, surely we don't need all of these blades. I'm the victim here!" And he always will be.