Astarion's own gaze is drawn down as those large, glowing eyes regard him from near Daan's ankles, and an uncomfortable sensation runs through him as the fine hairs at his nape prick up to stand on end. Cats are supposed to be distinguished, elegant creatures — in truth he finds them highly relatable — but there's something off about this one that sets his blood on edge. With any luck the thing will wander off in the night and end up as as a little furry snack.
Fortunately for both of them, Daan pulls his attention back up as he hands him a half-filled cup. Astarion lifts it to his nose for a disdainful sniff, swirls the contents once, twice, before setting it against his lips and taking a small sip.
It's awful, of course, but it isn't Gods-awful. It isn't quite what he wants — his attention passes Daan's throat for a second time but he forces himself not to linger, and instead knocks back another mouthful before pulling a face for posterity.
"... It'll do," he sighs with the long-suffering tone of one doing another a favour, as the warmth of cheap booze and honey spreads across his tongue. "'Hate' would be too strong a word, in any case."
He holds out the cup expectantly, indicating that Daan should go ahead and fill it properly. In the meanwhile he decides to do a little further prying:
"So! These standards of yours ... to what other aspects of your life to they stretch, I wonder? Work? Friends? Lovers?"
no subject
Astarion's own gaze is drawn down as those large, glowing eyes regard him from near Daan's ankles, and an uncomfortable sensation runs through him as the fine hairs at his nape prick up to stand on end. Cats are supposed to be distinguished, elegant creatures — in truth he finds them highly relatable — but there's something off about this one that sets his blood on edge. With any luck the thing will wander off in the night and end up as as a little furry snack.
Fortunately for both of them, Daan pulls his attention back up as he hands him a half-filled cup. Astarion lifts it to his nose for a disdainful sniff, swirls the contents once, twice, before setting it against his lips and taking a small sip.
It's awful, of course, but it isn't Gods-awful. It isn't quite what he wants — his attention passes Daan's throat for a second time but he forces himself not to linger, and instead knocks back another mouthful before pulling a face for posterity.
"... It'll do," he sighs with the long-suffering tone of one doing another a favour, as the warmth of cheap booze and honey spreads across his tongue. "'Hate' would be too strong a word, in any case."
He holds out the cup expectantly, indicating that Daan should go ahead and fill it properly. In the meanwhile he decides to do a little further prying:
"So! These standards of yours ... to what other aspects of your life to they stretch, I wonder? Work? Friends? Lovers?"