Hells, what he wouldn't give for a real drink. Not a purtid rat alreay tasting of black rot; not a boar, or a badger, or some unfortunate courier's horse; a drink of hot, fresh life-blood from a living, thinking thing. He's hungry enough that the question stalls him for a moment, and red eyes drift almost absently to the apple of Daan's throat before flitting up to his face again.
Get ahold of yourself, you fool.
"I suppose something is usually better than nothing ..."
His reply seems a little sardonic, though, as does the slight face he pulls at the unlabelled drink of dubious origin. Cazador may have fed his spawn on dead vermin but at least his purse was always kept heavy for his seductions: ply them with expensive wine, make them feel like he only had eyes for them, then seduce them all the way back to his master's palace of death.
No.
No.
Cazador is his master no longer ... but that doesn't mean he can't employ the same methods for himself. He lets the frown melt away into something exasperated yet charming:
"But if you feed me a cup of tavern piss you shan't find me quite so amenable to these little ... night-time chats, in future. Understood?"
PERCEPTION CHECK: PASSED As Astarion's eyes flick toward Daan's neck, it doesn't seem as if the cleric notices. Yet, distinctly, the wide-eyed cat by Daan's feet is gazing up, watching unblinkingly. It is as if the cat is observing and processing what Astarion briefly gazes at -- and is thinking on it. Though, again, maybe a trick of the campfire light? Yet, that would be twice now, wouldn't it? Something might really be going on with that feline, but it's hard to place what other than unsettlement.
A soft huff escapes Daan, very close to a laugh but not quite making it. It isn't an unwilling noise, but almost as if he's so tired that he can't quite make it to even a chuckle. Still, he seems amused, and he takes out another cup to fill.
"I have some standards. I can't promise it's top shelf, but it's not all bad. Honey mead. It's... passable, shall we say."
The cup is filled halfway, just in case Astarion's palette is too delicate for the flavor. It isn't horrible, but Daan certainly has had better.
He's also had much, much worse.
"If you hate it, just give it back. I'd hate to waste it, good or bad."
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?"
For a brief moment, Daan is quiet as he fills up the cup properly this time, all the way to the brim. The bottle is set down after Daan refills his own, and he considers a moment before he has a drink.
"I'm flexible in some respects," he decides to say. "Work, I take it seriously, but I realize I might come off as... unusual, in some regards. Friends, I'm pretty open for. Lovers..."
For a moment, he trails off. It could be less Astarion being nosy but also seeking something specific here. He wouldn't be the first. Might not even be the last, to be honest. Even if he hasn't had that lifestyle in quite sometime.
Anyway. He holds up his hand, holding it out at his leftmost.
"Let me put it this way. The range in pure theoretical. On one end of the spectrum, you have someone like Wyll. Terribly genuine, an idealist, and sometimes adorably naive." His hand moves in a line to end at the rightmost. "At the exact end of the other side, you have Lae'zel. Bloodthirsty, impatient, barely tolerating the rest of us. For personal tastes, I would say... just a notch before Lae'zel, in terms of standards? I like to think that's very lax."
"Nosey? I'm offended, darling. I much prefer to think of it as a healthy interest."
But yes, he's absolutely nosey, and if his expression is anything to go by he seems genuinely amused by Daan's description of his standards. Who'd have thought his tastes would range so widely — Gods, that they would run close to Lae'zel? It's excellent news for him, of course, as it suggests he'd be open enough to a silver-tongued rogue, which is really all Astarion needed to hear.
"How very curious," he all but purrs, before glancing across to the Gith'yanki's tent.
"I'm almost tempted to tell her that she could be in with a shot at you — but I suspect she wouldn't take kindly to any pointers I might offer on toning down her bloodthirsty, impatient side."
A silly, high-pitched chuckle escapes him as he lifts his cup to his lips, before indulging in a long sip of the pilfered mead.
"Although I have to say: I'm a little surprised. I'd thought most clerics would be a bit more ... discerning, in their tastes. Shadowheart, for example."
There's a soft huff before he goes to have his own swig from his cup, his eye trailing toward Lae'zel's tent. "Yes, tell her that and also you might as well tell the sky to stop being blue."
The comment about clerics makes him pause before finishing the contents of his cup.
"Yes, I imagine that would be true for most clerics, so... fiercely devoted to their gods and whatnot." Daan sets his cup down for now and shrugs. "Suffice it to say, I've been in a position more than a few times to expand my tastes. How fortunate the gods are so forgiving of debauchery so long as you do a few prayers and favors."
Yet, there is the slightest hint of distaste in Daan's voice concerning the pantheon. It isn't the mead talking either, for the cleric still seems suitably sober.
"Well, enough on me. And what about you? Specific tastes, or is it a free range?"
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no subject
Hells, what he wouldn't give for a real drink. Not a purtid rat alreay tasting of black rot; not a boar, or a badger, or some unfortunate courier's horse; a drink of hot, fresh life-blood from a living, thinking thing. He's hungry enough that the question stalls him for a moment, and red eyes drift almost absently to the apple of Daan's throat before flitting up to his face again.
Get ahold of yourself, you fool.
"I suppose something is usually better than nothing ..."
His reply seems a little sardonic, though, as does the slight face he pulls at the unlabelled drink of dubious origin. Cazador may have fed his spawn on dead vermin but at least his purse was always kept heavy for his seductions: ply them with expensive wine, make them feel like he only had eyes for them, then seduce them all the way back to his master's palace of death.
No.
No.
Cazador is his master no longer ... but that doesn't mean he can't employ the same methods for himself. He lets the frown melt away into something exasperated yet charming:
"But if you feed me a cup of tavern piss you shan't find me quite so amenable to these little ... night-time chats, in future. Understood?"
no subject
As Astarion's eyes flick toward Daan's neck, it doesn't seem as if the cleric notices. Yet, distinctly, the wide-eyed cat by Daan's feet is gazing up, watching unblinkingly. It is as if the cat is observing and processing what Astarion briefly gazes at -- and is thinking on it. Though, again, maybe a trick of the campfire light? Yet, that would be twice now, wouldn't it? Something might really be going on with that feline, but it's hard to place what other than unsettlement.
A soft huff escapes Daan, very close to a laugh but not quite making it. It isn't an unwilling noise, but almost as if he's so tired that he can't quite make it to even a chuckle. Still, he seems amused, and he takes out another cup to fill.
"I have some standards. I can't promise it's top shelf, but it's not all bad. Honey mead. It's... passable, shall we say."
The cup is filled halfway, just in case Astarion's palette is too delicate for the flavor. It isn't horrible, but Daan certainly has had better.
He's also had much, much worse.
"If you hate it, just give it back. I'd hate to waste it, good or bad."
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?"
no subject
For a brief moment, Daan is quiet as he fills up the cup properly this time, all the way to the brim. The bottle is set down after Daan refills his own, and he considers a moment before he has a drink.
"I'm flexible in some respects," he decides to say. "Work, I take it seriously, but I realize I might come off as... unusual, in some regards. Friends, I'm pretty open for. Lovers..."
For a moment, he trails off. It could be less Astarion being nosy but also seeking something specific here. He wouldn't be the first. Might not even be the last, to be honest. Even if he hasn't had that lifestyle in quite sometime.
Anyway. He holds up his hand, holding it out at his leftmost.
"Let me put it this way. The range in pure theoretical. On one end of the spectrum, you have someone like Wyll. Terribly genuine, an idealist, and sometimes adorably naive." His hand moves in a line to end at the rightmost. "At the exact end of the other side, you have Lae'zel. Bloodthirsty, impatient, barely tolerating the rest of us. For personal tastes, I would say... just a notch before Lae'zel, in terms of standards? I like to think that's very lax."
no subject
"Nosey? I'm offended, darling. I much prefer to think of it as a healthy interest."
But yes, he's absolutely nosey, and if his expression is anything to go by he seems genuinely amused by Daan's description of his standards. Who'd have thought his tastes would range so widely — Gods, that they would run close to Lae'zel? It's excellent news for him, of course, as it suggests he'd be open enough to a silver-tongued rogue, which is really all Astarion needed to hear.
"How very curious," he all but purrs, before glancing across to the Gith'yanki's tent.
"I'm almost tempted to tell her that she could be in with a shot at you — but I suspect she wouldn't take kindly to any pointers I might offer on toning down her bloodthirsty, impatient side."
A silly, high-pitched chuckle escapes him as he lifts his cup to his lips, before indulging in a long sip of the pilfered mead.
"Although I have to say: I'm a little surprised. I'd thought most clerics would be a bit more ... discerning, in their tastes. Shadowheart, for example."
Pricklier than a manticore, that one.
no subject
The comment about clerics makes him pause before finishing the contents of his cup.
"Yes, I imagine that would be true for most clerics, so... fiercely devoted to their gods and whatnot." Daan sets his cup down for now and shrugs. "Suffice it to say, I've been in a position more than a few times to expand my tastes. How fortunate the gods are so forgiving of debauchery so long as you do a few prayers and favors."
Yet, there is the slightest hint of distaste in Daan's voice concerning the pantheon. It isn't the mead talking either, for the cleric still seems suitably sober.
"Well, enough on me. And what about you? Specific tastes, or is it a free range?"