[ As soon as the chicken is mentioned — and as Gale chatters (and, notably, course-corrects) — Astarion scoops her up from the floor. (Her head settles into her pale feathers, clearly comfortable in the vampire's arms.) He has half a mind to point out that they could ask Shadowheart the same thing, ask her to prove that she's who she says she is, but this has already been much too elaborate a ruse for a deceiver.
Defensive for no reason: ] She's a hen.
[ He frowns as he looks down at the bird, who coos and tucks her little beak into his chest. He can feel Gale's eyes boring holes into his skull, the kernel of shared knowledge between them pointing directly to the confession that will have to made sooner or later. So the next sound that leaves Astarion's mouth is a deep sigh, accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I named her Shadowheart.
[ His gaze remains averted, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the very sentimental nature of naming a creature after someone else. ]
no subject
Defensive for no reason: ] She's a hen.
[ He frowns as he looks down at the bird, who coos and tucks her little beak into his chest. He can feel Gale's eyes boring holes into his skull, the kernel of shared knowledge between them pointing directly to the confession that will have to made sooner or later. So the next sound that leaves Astarion's mouth is a deep sigh, accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I named her Shadowheart.
[ His gaze remains averted, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the very sentimental nature of naming a creature after someone else. ]
She looks like you.