A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
no subject
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Away from the others.