( Duty. Honour. Pride. Bile and venom on his tongue, he hisses: )
The grace of my betters.
( The filial answer, before a man doubtlessly depleted of love and devotion for his forefathers. There is an edge to men who have shed their consideration, like blades dulled and wanting. He suspects, Astarion could infect a wound, but barely cut through blocks of lotus paste.
A childish whim, to flinch, to allow another the paltry proof of his poor temper. No matter. )
no subject
The grace of my betters.
( The filial answer, before a man doubtlessly depleted of love and devotion for his forefathers. There is an edge to men who have shed their consideration, like blades dulled and wanting. He suspects, Astarion could infect a wound, but barely cut through blocks of lotus paste.
A childish whim, to flinch, to allow another the paltry proof of his poor temper. No matter. )
You have already been entertained.