[He has to say, there are very few people, if any, that could make Jaskier feel a pang of guilt for being a little petty. There is certainly a petty part of him that listened to Astarion's requests, after he got over that initial desire to destroy it (which he put far too much work into, and suffered a neck ache for, to do.)
It's not what he says, but the tone -- the look on his face as if he is seeking patience from a higher power.]
I believe I've heard such a thing before. If it sets your heart at ease, know I do nothing because I must.
[Possibly outside of breathing. But he sees no point in being cruel about it, especially when he recalls how Astarion mentioned keeping that little sketch of his. And though Jaskier is about to say you really owe me nothing, the curious part of him wins over his mouth in order to keep him silent, giving Astarion the room to reconsider.
Of course he wishes to know more. He's not stupid. And if the chance comes...
His brows raise behind the hanging strands of his hair that have fallen from behind his ears.] You what? [He squawks, pounding the table without meaning to. A few eyes glance their way, then away.] Ever? How is that possible? Is that -- some sort of curse?
[Oh, no. He's already formulating how he's going to make this happen, past a painting. Every man deserves his gods-given right to fret over his physical appearance for the rest of his days! (Even if, now, it certainly does make sense. Beyond being a bit of a peacock.)]
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It's not what he says, but the tone -- the look on his face as if he is seeking patience from a higher power.]
I believe I've heard such a thing before. If it sets your heart at ease, know I do nothing because I must.
[Possibly outside of breathing. But he sees no point in being cruel about it, especially when he recalls how Astarion mentioned keeping that little sketch of his. And though Jaskier is about to say you really owe me nothing, the curious part of him wins over his mouth in order to keep him silent, giving Astarion the room to reconsider.
Of course he wishes to know more. He's not stupid. And if the chance comes...
His brows raise behind the hanging strands of his hair that have fallen from behind his ears.] You what? [He squawks, pounding the table without meaning to. A few eyes glance their way, then away.] Ever? How is that possible? Is that -- some sort of curse?
[Oh, no. He's already formulating how he's going to make this happen, past a painting. Every man deserves his gods-given right to fret over his physical appearance for the rest of his days! (Even if, now, it certainly does make sense. Beyond being a bit of a peacock.)]