[He's lucky he complies when he does, because he was at serious risk of being dragged by his ear. Childish, helpless, perhaps he's neither of these things or both-- either way, deep in the black recesses of Teren's shriveled heart, there is affection for him and genuine affront that he would be so rude.
She stalks ahead of him and flips her tent flap open, her eyes like the points of daggers dragging him across a flat surface, and once he's inside she gestures at the mirror.
The ensemble is for certain fancier than anything he's likely worn before, but all things considered, it's fairly understated and isn't half as frilly as it feels. The style is more Fereldan than Orlesian, and, like most of Teren's creations, strikingly utilitarian.
She stands with her arms crossed, glaring and waiting for him to comment.]
[ Alistair is glaring and crossing his arms, too, looking into the mirror—still unhappy, still uncomfortable, still feeling a bit like some sort of sad clown who will no longer be able to act like he's above all of the pretense rather than in over his head, good bye to the high-chinned I-wasn't-trying-to-impress-you-anyway careless confidence that got him through the Abbey and a dozen things after it, farewell forever, perhaps he'll just hide in a corner where no one can see him use the wrong utensil or hear him say the wrong thing and think, ah, that man is clearly trying to be one of us and failing, what a buffoon—
but at least there aren't ruffles. ]
Next time we go somewhere, I'm choosing your clothes.
[ Not a chance doesn't make him sulk any less, and neither does being shooed, but he does pause at the entrance to her tent to turn and raise an eyebrow over his shoulder — still a little sharp, but with a glint of better humor. A small glint. ]
You aren't going to threaten to kill me if I get her pregnant?
Usually, [ Alistair admits, with cheek, and also with a deliberate scrunchy wrinkle of his nose that requires his mouth to do something similar to a smile. He doesn't actually need to be told twice—not this time, not this specific thing, he's very careful—and he turns to leave for real rather than force her to do so. ]
[Now that he seems to have accepted the outfit, Teren's anger has dissipated. But that doesn't mean he needs to know that.
She catches the smarm in his expression and rolls her eyes, waiting until he turns around to pick up her measuring tape and whip him once with it before he can get out of range.]
Arse. [There definitely isn't any affection in her tone, she has no idea what you're talking about. Get out.]
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no subject
She stalks ahead of him and flips her tent flap open, her eyes like the points of daggers dragging him across a flat surface, and once he's inside she gestures at the mirror.
The ensemble is for certain fancier than anything he's likely worn before, but all things considered, it's fairly understated and isn't half as frilly as it feels. The style is more Fereldan than Orlesian, and, like most of Teren's creations, strikingly utilitarian.
She stands with her arms crossed, glaring and waiting for him to comment.]
no subject
but at least there aren't ruffles. ]
Next time we go somewhere, I'm choosing your clothes.
no subject
[Not a chance.]
Go on then, take it off and I'll have it ready by the time we leave for Halamshiral.
[She pats his back, shooing him back out to return to his tent where his other clothes are.]
And stop sulking, it's unbecoming.
no subject
You aren't going to threaten to kill me if I get her pregnant?
no subject
Do you need to be told twice? [she counters, angling her head warningly.]
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no subject
She catches the smarm in his expression and rolls her eyes, waiting until he turns around to pick up her measuring tape and whip him once with it before he can get out of range.]
Arse. [There definitely isn't any affection in her tone, she has no idea what you're talking about. Get out.]