[He will tear Riftwatch apart if ever they go back.
All of them. Every single one. Every wretched little scientist and arrogant Rifter who thinks they know better; every smug Orlesian and idiotic wretch who thinks that they were doing Astarion a favor by calling him little more than spirit, ghost, whore to be pushed into laying on his back so they could call it spying, oh, he'll tear them apart. He'll burn them alive. He'll slaughter them one by one on the ashes of Anders' madness, and it will not be some roaring rampage of revenge, no, he will do it coldly. Methodically. Savoring their terror and ignoring their pleas, until at last the halls run scarlet with their blood and all their records are destroyed—
In his hand, the quill creaks warningly. Leto blinks down at it, realizing belatedly how tightly he's gripped it.
And it's a fantasy, of course. He will not tear it apart for the same reason he did not the first time; the same reason he and Astarion drifted gently but deliberately away from the organization, allowing themselves to disappear rather than draw attention to an abrupt departure. But what was good sense in Thedas is cowardice in Toril, and there is nothing that sparks rage faster than hearing Astarion speak so miserably.]
They did not know of what they spoke, and the things they feigned having authority upon were no more than a childish attempt at control that endlessly fell flat.
[It's curt and cold. His handwriting is normally a methodically neat thing, precise to a fault; now it's blocky and thick, every letter all but carved into delicate paper.]
They did not bring you back to your senses. They cut you down to feel better about their own pathetic lives, whether that was because you were an elf or a Rifter or simply not obedient enough to suit their whims.
[Another pause.]
Do you think that still? That you are more monster than person?
no subject
All of them. Every single one. Every wretched little scientist and arrogant Rifter who thinks they know better; every smug Orlesian and idiotic wretch who thinks that they were doing Astarion a favor by calling him little more than spirit, ghost, whore to be pushed into laying on his back so they could call it spying, oh, he'll tear them apart. He'll burn them alive. He'll slaughter them one by one on the ashes of Anders' madness, and it will not be some roaring rampage of revenge, no, he will do it coldly. Methodically. Savoring their terror and ignoring their pleas, until at last the halls run scarlet with their blood and all their records are destroyed—
In his hand, the quill creaks warningly. Leto blinks down at it, realizing belatedly how tightly he's gripped it.
And it's a fantasy, of course. He will not tear it apart for the same reason he did not the first time; the same reason he and Astarion drifted gently but deliberately away from the organization, allowing themselves to disappear rather than draw attention to an abrupt departure. But what was good sense in Thedas is cowardice in Toril, and there is nothing that sparks rage faster than hearing Astarion speak so miserably.]
They did not know of what they spoke, and the things they feigned having authority upon were no more than a childish attempt at control that endlessly fell flat.
[It's curt and cold. His handwriting is normally a methodically neat thing, precise to a fault; now it's blocky and thick, every letter all but carved into delicate paper.]
They did not bring you back to your senses. They cut you down to feel better about their own pathetic lives, whether that was because you were an elf or a Rifter or simply not obedient enough to suit their whims.
[Another pause.]
Do you think that still? That you are more monster than person?