the excitement of the moment wears off rather fast, after they're done. and astarion isn't a stranger to being nude in front of someone, but he rarely is seen. acknowledge in a way beyond his body, usually the allure and the setting is different, people do not seem to be so quick to ask about the marks on his body. the poem. after they are done with him they aren't as interested, they get turned to meat. or something of the like. he sighs, putting on half a smile. and it's only because jack seems to have some to share of his own that it perks astarion's interest. "-it's a poem." he starts, rather abruptly. doesn't move, let's jack see the scars. scars he hasn't even seen himself. he hs felt them, the memory of how someone's flesh can be carved and warped, something there when there once was nothing. "cazador, in his ever twisted mind, had an affinity for the arts. considered himself quite the artist. he did this to all of his slaves, spent a whole night working on it, revising it." he settles in his words. keeps his composure only by sheer will, dares not to turn. not to meet jack's eyes. for a moment. he turns slowly, understands the morbidly curiousity that can take over someone. red eyes inspecting jack's tan skin, before landing back to his eyes.
