[Astarion provides a description of the particular spot he's thinking of, all dry facts and the kind of distracted focus that speaks to dredging details from an uncooperative frame of mind. But he doesn't let Sebastian go without a dip back into a lower register, something sultry about the way he tastes the syllables.]
I'll be waiting.
[The particular memorial bench Astarion directs Sebastian to is tucked into a little grove of trees that have overgrown the aesthetics of their positioning. Not enough to be immediately noticeable, given the devotion of the park's groundskeepers. But it's enough that the overly rigid distance between them has drifted a little, enough that their roots are tangling under the soil, coiling up out of it in ragged joints. Enough that their limbs mingle, the bright foliage still clinging to the branches mingling into a gloomy nighttime canopy.
The perfect spot for a vampire to set upon some unsuspecting prey.
But the prey that's coming isn't unsuspecting, and Astarion isn't setting himself upon anyone. He's been down that road. All it earned him was an empty stomach. No, Astarion is seated on that bench in plain view thirty minutes after the call ends, elbow set on the arm of it, and fingers drumming idly against the chin that nearly meets his hand. He's leaned on that elbow, sagged into the bench. His posture is bored, but his legs are folded and ankles crossed under the seat in order to ward away the restless bouncing they want to take up.
His gaze, his thoughts, are entirely elsewhere. Stewing in the knowledge that there is something's very, very wrong about how hungry he is. In those first nights when he'd crept into camp with his companions. In the knowledge that if he plays this wrong it will mean a stake between his ribs.
Clucking his tongue, Astarion pushes the thought away and sits up straighter, folding his hands idly over his lap after idly smoothing his trousers over his legs. Nothing for it, is there? He can't think when it feels like his empty veins are rubbing together. A drink, though, a drink will quell these rattling thoughts, and then he'll be able to get to the bottom of this.
Tapping his heal against the dagger in his boot for the third time since he sat down, Astarion finally refocuses on his surroundings, red eyes casting over the night around him.]
no subject
I'll be waiting.
[The particular memorial bench Astarion directs Sebastian to is tucked into a little grove of trees that have overgrown the aesthetics of their positioning. Not enough to be immediately noticeable, given the devotion of the park's groundskeepers. But it's enough that the overly rigid distance between them has drifted a little, enough that their roots are tangling under the soil, coiling up out of it in ragged joints. Enough that their limbs mingle, the bright foliage still clinging to the branches mingling into a gloomy nighttime canopy.
The perfect spot for a vampire to set upon some unsuspecting prey.
But the prey that's coming isn't unsuspecting, and Astarion isn't setting himself upon anyone. He's been down that road. All it earned him was an empty stomach. No, Astarion is seated on that bench in plain view thirty minutes after the call ends, elbow set on the arm of it, and fingers drumming idly against the chin that nearly meets his hand. He's leaned on that elbow, sagged into the bench. His posture is bored, but his legs are folded and ankles crossed under the seat in order to ward away the restless bouncing they want to take up.
His gaze, his thoughts, are entirely elsewhere. Stewing in the knowledge that there is something's very, very wrong about how hungry he is. In those first nights when he'd crept into camp with his companions. In the knowledge that if he plays this wrong it will mean a stake between his ribs.
Clucking his tongue, Astarion pushes the thought away and sits up straighter, folding his hands idly over his lap after idly smoothing his trousers over his legs. Nothing for it, is there? He can't think when it feels like his empty veins are rubbing together. A drink, though, a drink will quell these rattling thoughts, and then he'll be able to get to the bottom of this.
Tapping his heal against the dagger in his boot for the third time since he sat down, Astarion finally refocuses on his surroundings, red eyes casting over the night around him.]