A dream he doesn't let himself hope for, and yet wants all the same.]
His eyes, yes. Pretty as they are. [And there's the temptation to leave it at that level precisely. Stick to the figurative shallows of it all: talk about how he's breathtaking to look at, captivating in a fight. The strength of his bridge line or the narrowness of his hips. How his voice thrums when he speaks, so characteristically his own, and unmistakably unique. The little downturned slant to his ears, a little doggish— and entirely precious, compared to the knifing sharpness (ignoring the local terminology) of the ears Astarion possesses and is used to from his life in Toril (not home, anymore).
At first, yes, back when this world was all fresh tracks in untouched snow to his mind, he was drawn to each of those superficial facets with ease, but now...]
I wasn't alone, you know. In enslavement, I mean. Enthrallment. Whatever you want to call it.
My master had countless other spawn at his beck and call, and when he sent me out to hunt for him— as I've mentioned to you before— I was at least able to drown myself for a time in the company of the living. [And soon to be dead.] I knew people. I thought I knew them all, much in the same way I imagine a bard does, too: set your sights on someone, watch them for a time, and their world might as well make itself into an open book.
Usually an ugly one.
And it never bothered me so much that I was a monster when everyone else around me was one too, albeit just a different sort of breed: the rich, the greedy, the callous, the lustful, the utterly, selfishly spoiled— who always will be exactly what they are from the moment they're born till the day they die.
[There are times when he's proud of his fangs. His eyes. His ability to be terrible and terrifying in perfectly equal floes. There are times when he can't stand to look in the mirror, if only because he still sees everything he's lost for good.]
He's different.
And I don't mean because he understands what it is to be so trapped, and I don't mean because he suffered. I've met plenty of others that have in all its varying degrees, and there certainly isn't a shortage here.
When he's beside me, I find myself capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.
[Not better. Not kinder. Not gentler, the way some people insist it's meant to go, where betterment is the only goal of being near someone else, just— ]
no subject
A dream he doesn't let himself hope for, and yet wants all the same.]
His eyes, yes. Pretty as they are. [And there's the temptation to leave it at that level precisely. Stick to the figurative shallows of it all: talk about how he's breathtaking to look at, captivating in a fight. The strength of his bridge line or the narrowness of his hips. How his voice thrums when he speaks, so characteristically his own, and unmistakably unique. The little downturned slant to his ears, a little doggish— and entirely precious, compared to the knifing sharpness (ignoring the local terminology) of the ears Astarion possesses and is used to from his life in Toril (not home, anymore).
At first, yes, back when this world was all fresh tracks in untouched snow to his mind, he was drawn to each of those superficial facets with ease, but now...]
I wasn't alone, you know. In enslavement, I mean. Enthrallment. Whatever you want to call it.
My master had countless other spawn at his beck and call, and when he sent me out to hunt for him— as I've mentioned to you before— I was at least able to drown myself for a time in the company of the living. [And soon to be dead.] I knew people. I thought I knew them all, much in the same way I imagine a bard does, too: set your sights on someone, watch them for a time, and their world might as well make itself into an open book.
Usually an ugly one.
And it never bothered me so much that I was a monster when everyone else around me was one too, albeit just a different sort of breed: the rich, the greedy, the callous, the lustful, the utterly, selfishly spoiled— who always will be exactly what they are from the moment they're born till the day they die.
[There are times when he's proud of his fangs. His eyes. His ability to be terrible and terrifying in perfectly equal floes. There are times when he can't stand to look in the mirror, if only because he still sees everything he's lost for good.]
He's different.
And I don't mean because he understands what it is to be so trapped, and I don't mean because he suffered. I've met plenty of others that have in all its varying degrees, and there certainly isn't a shortage here.
When he's beside me, I find myself capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.
[Not better. Not kinder. Not gentler, the way some people insist it's meant to go, where betterment is the only goal of being near someone else, just— ]
I'm finally at ease.