( She knows he isn't, and her head ducks as her cheeks redden, not immune to Astarion's tone nor his words, no matter how practiced he might be at it. There's something... there's just something that pulls at her head as she looks at him. Like he's just emerged from one of those paintings the patriars liked to hang on their walls, or get done for themselves. Karlach never saw Gortash with one, but she doesn't doubt that maybe it's more his style than she'd have liked to admit.
Not that Karlach came here to think about her past any more than Astarion would want reminded of his own, so she lets the tent flap fall down behind her -- knowing full well that Astarion likes his privacy -- and kneels before him. Still careful not to touch.
She won't until he says it's alright. And gods, she wants to, she meant every word about how attractive she found him. But it's more than his perfect curled hair and the sharp points of his face -- it's his sense of humor, the fact that she understands the wounds he bears even if she can't make sense of them. They all do what they had to do to survive, and they both played their parts well; perhaps too well, in Astarion's case.
There's something offputting in the way he drags his eyes down her, though Karlach can't seem to put her finger on what, exactly. It'll come to her, she thinks, it always does. She didn't get to live through ten fucking years of the literal Hells to not get a little smarter. )
Yeah? I could say the same about you. ( Her hands fold in front of her, in her lap, fingers intertwining with each other over and over again as her tail swishes with the effort it's taking to keep the rest of her still. ) Hells, Astarion, you really do know how to make yourself look delectable. Is that okay? To call you delectable, I mean.
( She doesn't want to hurt him. She'd rather throw herself off a cliff than hurt him. )
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Not that Karlach came here to think about her past any more than Astarion would want reminded of his own, so she lets the tent flap fall down behind her -- knowing full well that Astarion likes his privacy -- and kneels before him. Still careful not to touch.
She won't until he says it's alright. And gods, she wants to, she meant every word about how attractive she found him. But it's more than his perfect curled hair and the sharp points of his face -- it's his sense of humor, the fact that she understands the wounds he bears even if she can't make sense of them. They all do what they had to do to survive, and they both played their parts well; perhaps too well, in Astarion's case.
There's something offputting in the way he drags his eyes down her, though Karlach can't seem to put her finger on what, exactly. It'll come to her, she thinks, it always does. She didn't get to live through ten fucking years of the literal Hells to not get a little smarter. )
Yeah? I could say the same about you. ( Her hands fold in front of her, in her lap, fingers intertwining with each other over and over again as her tail swishes with the effort it's taking to keep the rest of her still. ) Hells, Astarion, you really do know how to make yourself look delectable. Is that okay? To call you delectable, I mean.
( She doesn't want to hurt him. She'd rather throw herself off a cliff than hurt him. )