[He can't see it. Can't sense it. There's no shift throughout the Weave that grabs him by the head or heart and shakes with transferred pain. Aside from little blotwork scratches and a willingness to circle old scars (barely two years somehow equating to old these days— gods, as if freedom works in dog years now that he's grown used to it: so short-lived and fragile that even the smallest spans are milestones rivaling greater swaths, trouncing decades at a time), there's really nothing to suggest that this isn't one more passed-off bit of grimness between two things already mired in it.
Honestly, they've been steeped in darkness so long they might as well be two fish talking about water each and every time it breaks— there's nothing there worth dwelling on they haven't picked apart before.
But then go figure it's minutiae like those little patchwork scrawls that Astarion's well-trained in. Most of all when it comes to Leto.
And like that, he has his answer.]
You know, I've met a lot of monsters over the years who live just like everyone else. Governing property and dressing better than you'd ever expect, knowing what they really are. They own pets, talk sweet, have reputable standing and oh so many friends, not to mention vault stores that'd make your very pretty head spin if you caught even a glimpse.
Even in Thedas, it wasn't really different.
[Merchant princes. Tevene Magisters. Hightown. Orlais. The Chantry.]
So if a handsome wretch from a fallen bloodline happened to find a lover, make a home with him atop a tavern, adopt two pups and only drink small sips of scrounged-up blood by moonlight, well, if you ask me, it wouldn't change a bit of what he truly was.
But
[But....]
No.
Or if I am, then not by even half as much as I used to fear back then, when the world was so new it might as well have been blinding.
[The stories get it wrong. They always do.]
I know you. You wouldn't have followed me here otherwise. And you damned well wouldn't have stayed.
So if I can't trust in my own judgment, then I trust yours.
no subject
Honestly, they've been steeped in darkness so long they might as well be two fish talking about water each and every time it breaks— there's nothing there worth dwelling on they haven't picked apart before.
But then go figure it's minutiae like those little patchwork scrawls that Astarion's well-trained in. Most of all when it comes to Leto.
And like that, he has his answer.]
You know, I've met a lot of monsters over the years who live just like everyone else. Governing property and dressing better than you'd ever expect, knowing what they really are. They own pets, talk sweet, have reputable standing and oh so many friends, not to mention vault stores that'd make your very pretty head spin if you caught even a glimpse.
Even in Thedas, it wasn't really different.
[Merchant princes. Tevene Magisters. Hightown. Orlais. The Chantry.]
So if a handsome wretch from a fallen bloodline happened to find a lover, make a home with him atop a tavern, adopt two pups and only drink small sips of scrounged-up blood by moonlight, well, if you ask me, it wouldn't change a bit of what he truly was.
But
[But....]
No.
Or if I am, then not by even half as much as I used to fear back then, when the world was so new it might as well have been blinding.
[The stories get it wrong. They always do.]
I know you. You wouldn't have followed me here otherwise. And you damned well wouldn't have stayed.
So if I can't trust in my own judgment, then I trust yours.