Soft-bodied men, without callouses to their fingers or living in their bones, have never been Ashu's preferred choice of lovers. Youth holds no allure. Everything dies. To an assassin, nothing is as beautiful as the fragility of life. The people who dance at its edge. Muscles and scars.
V has been through shit. That Ashu knows implicitly.
"You'll like Dunmeri food then," he notes appreciatively, snapping his fingers at the vendor for two orders of those 'head blowing' wings. The meaning is not lost on him, thought against the sexualized everything of this city, it comes across as canned. Does not inspire confidence. "Dunmer too. Our bite is as good as our bark. Better, actually." Which is why they spent the majority of their time turning it against each other.
The wings start with a punch to the palate, that rudderless heat radiating from the center of your tongue outward, then settling at the roof of your mouth. Nothing Ashu hasn't felt before. Rather bland, all things considered. In the name of fairness he judges the meal based not on the sauce but the chicken—that is better. Crispy skin, juicy meat. Brined, breaded then fried.
A non-committal, "Hm," escapes his lips, dabbing them with a paper napkin. Doesn't wish to unduly influence V's opinion. Prickly arse he might be, but he understands the importance of allowing others to experience things on their own. "So?"
no subject
V has been through shit. That Ashu knows implicitly.
"You'll like Dunmeri food then," he notes appreciatively, snapping his fingers at the vendor for two orders of those 'head blowing' wings. The meaning is not lost on him, thought against the sexualized everything of this city, it comes across as canned. Does not inspire confidence. "Dunmer too. Our bite is as good as our bark. Better, actually." Which is why they spent the majority of their time turning it against each other.
The wings start with a punch to the palate, that rudderless heat radiating from the center of your tongue outward, then settling at the roof of your mouth. Nothing Ashu hasn't felt before. Rather bland, all things considered. In the name of fairness he judges the meal based not on the sauce but the chicken—that is better. Crispy skin, juicy meat. Brined, breaded then fried.
A non-committal, "Hm," escapes his lips, dabbing them with a paper napkin. Doesn't wish to unduly influence V's opinion. Prickly arse he might be, but he understands the importance of allowing others to experience things on their own. "So?"