despite herself, karlach grins. the expensive dresses were a nice fantasy, when they'd passed the store. but karlach grew up too poor for that, and since her return, the infernal engine only meant that she'd ruin anything nice. there's no point to spending coin on beautiful silks just to watch herself singe them. she says it casually, i can't wear things like that anyway. she doesn't know what version of karlach could get to wear such beautiful fabrics, such luxuriant colors. it's nice, though, as a fantasy. as a dream. a karlach who didn't have to become this blood-soaked, war-roughened thing to survive. a karlach who could twirl and dance at a ball, like a storybook princess.
and then astarion gets offended on her behalf. which, to be fair, it isn't hard to offend astarion, but it warms the place where her heart should be nonetheless. with dammon's adjustments, she supposes she wouldn't be in danger of burning the fabrics anymore. and the sparkle in astarion's eye as he talks about fitting her for a dress is magnetic. it draws karlach in, like a moth to -- well, a moth to flame.
she giggles; for a moment she is too flustered for words. then it passes. "what, are you serious?" from the look in his eyes, he is. and again, karlach thinks about how amazingly lucky she is. even if she's going to die at the end of all this, she'll die out of avernus, doing things she'd never thought possible. breathing fresh air. dancing at a ball. falling in love with the most wonderful man in the world, and being loved in return.
she takes both his hands in hers. "fangs," she says it in a very serious tone, because she's not used to being formal, not like him, and she wants to be proper about it. "would you do me the honor of fitting me for a dress?" @anquenin