All right, but here's one for you: would that still be your pick if you, as the subject, were being honoured as a pompous rich man? With a hideous feathered cap immortalized, forever, let's say. For argument's sake.
[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]
no subject
[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]