December FamMeet

[cleavethetides]

Who: The Grove
What: Town Hall
When: Mid-Late December
Where: Inn Lobby
Warnings: Child death mentions, torture, body horror all probably will be brought up.

[ In the morning, Irene will trek around the Grove to knock on doors and let everyone know she's setting up a information sharing meeting in the Inn's lobby. She figures there would be best, considering the new fireplace (thread pending on my behalf) set up and the fact it's about as safe as they're going to get.

Irene also lets everyone know that any fights and any blatant drama starters will be met with punishment. She doesn't elaborate on this further. Zahliya is invited. Irene tells Moder if she wants to sit by the door to listen, she can. She does not invite the merchant siblings, however - though she'll make no objections if someone else does.

She seems to be writing things down in their shared journals this meeting so people can reference this later. ]

Comments

[neckromancy]

[Hello, Mr. Statue. Hope you're open to company, because you're getting some. Ever the light one on his feet, Astarion's approach is mostly silent, although by no means stealthy. A hand is raised up into Lancelot's field of vision, one that waves back and forth a few times as if to get the armored occupant's attention.

No words are exchanged just yet. It's like when people try to bother the royal guards outside Buckingham Palace to see if they can get a reaction.]

[alligatus]

[ He is very open to company! Even if he is grouchy and kind of mean. Unlike those royal guards though, Lancelot will answer. A voice coming out a bit altered due to the helm upon his head. ]

Do you have need of something?

[neckromancy]

[Oh! Wonderful! Honestly he wasn’t expecting to get a reaction, and while Lancelot’s voice doesn’t necessarily cause him to jump, it’s clear by the way his eyes widen a bit that he’s slightly startled.

That expression soon melts off into one filled with amusement, complete with that trademark smirk of his. The hand drops, and his own arms cross as he pivots to lean a hip against the wall.]

Oh, not at all, actually. I was merely curious as to whether or not your leash and collar allowed you to make proper conversation.

[alligatus]

My Master? [ He regards the lowly way Astarion speaks on how it is it means to be controlled. Though Astarion speaks about a leash and collar, to one who is a Knight. Lancer or Lancelot, simply thinks Astarion means his relationship as a servant with Irene as his Master. ] No, Irene does not seem to care who I speak to. If anything, she would want me to speak more.

I've little interest in small talk, however, if you need company. You'd best seek it elsewhere.

[neckromancy]

[There’s something in the word Master that causes that smirk of his to sharpen, and he tilts his head thoughtfully to the side as he mentally chews on the response.]

How fortunate indeed. Lapdogs work best when pampered, after all.

[His shoulders roll up into a lazy shrug, and one hand is brought forward so that he can examine the beds of his nails.]

That’s quite alright, darling. If you’d prefer not to yap about, your silence suits me just fine.

[alligatus]

Lapdog? [ Lapdog, it's been so long since he heard this term in a demeaning sort of way. ]

There are those of us meant to lead, and those of us meant to follow.

[It's an open-ended statement, made with a slight irk tone from his voice. To none in particular. As if Lancer himself, isn't entirely fond of having said it. As if in a way, he simply implies it is better off that way. This was a man who had zero pride in being a Knight and hates being one, ultimately. ]

[neckromancy]

[That earns a scoff, though Astarion’s attention remains on his preening. Between the horrors of last month and everything going on in this one, it’s admittedly been some time since he’s given his cuticles the proper attention.

Hm. He clicks his tongue and makes a mental note to address that later.]

Ah, yes, of course. Silly me. [A bit of filing wouldn’t hurt his nails either, honestly. The length is beginning to edge on the concerning side.] I’ve certainly heard that servitude does wonders for a coward’s complexion. If nothing else, eliminating the need to think for one’s self frees up a lot of time, I’d presume?

[cleavethetides]

Hey, hijo de puta.

How about you fucking hold your tongue when talking about my friend, huh?? Or would you rather I cut it out for you?

[neckromancy]

[Oh, hello!

He does look up from his nails at that, humming a bit as he sizes her up]

Ah, there’s “Master.” You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not as easy to domesticate, I prefer standing to kneeling.

[cleavethetides]

Well you can only call me Master if you fucking intend to grovel.

[neckromancy]

[The amusement doesn’t quite leave his face, but he does lower his hand to fully re-fold his arms again.]

Darling, I’m flattered by the attention, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I’m not overly fond of relationships where I’m not allowed to bite back. Power dynamics and the like, I’m sure you understand.

[Oh, and there goes the statue! Goodbye statue. That’s a neat little trick, actually, rather impressive.]

[alligatus]

[ Coward, he isn't wrong. Lancer's demeanor does not change when Astarion says what it is, he says. If anything, whatever semblance of pride he exuded seems to relax.

Finally, someone who actually sees his worth as it should be seen.

However, hearing the crossed words Irene has - suddenly sharp and vicious, meant to defend him and whatever lack of honor Lancelot has? He is, genuinely confused. The helm turns, to regard both of them in some capacity and he is unable to speak between feeling validated in his self-deprecation but then suddenly, defended for once in his life.

For once in his life he is confused, and wants to leave actually. Too much attention on him all at once, he suddenly disappears in a flurry of golden specs. He is that one black man gif peacing the fuck out. ]