[The first step is the hardest. That moment prior to action when everything is at a standstill in the jaws of dread.
And then it ebbs.
Maybe Leto still feels that apprehension. Maybe he's still afraid of something here twisting into old horror— or new ones, unintended. Either way, what seeps into his mind when that magic finally takes hold is warm. Bright. The warbling of attending crowds in golden halls. The vibrant echo of their voices— consonants sharp— as they patter off of painted plaster and smoothly polished stone. Perhaps in some ways it is like Tevinter: the food is rich in its arrangement, the tannin smell of wine is strong (but sweet). Only something else overshadows the setting, doing more to distort old echoes than either fashion or half-blurred focus.
A sense of belonging.
Deep. Unshakably deep. So concrete he could walk on it and never fall, carrying him through a haze of conversations had with younger shades. Excitement framed by hushed gossip, eager invites. Something like a fraction of a dance or the press of a palm against his own, silk-on-silk and laced with praise. Words he might recognize. Some he won't.
And when it ends in a minute or so, it's a quiet bleed that carries Leto back into the present, away from Astarion's mind. Severing the bond, but not the weight of those pale fingers still nesting along the edge of suntanned knuckles.]
Welcome back.
[Oh, he wants to know what Leto thought— how it felt— but first: the moon elf needs to breathe.]
no subject
And then it ebbs.
Maybe Leto still feels that apprehension. Maybe he's still afraid of something here twisting into old horror— or new ones, unintended. Either way, what seeps into his mind when that magic finally takes hold is warm. Bright. The warbling of attending crowds in golden halls. The vibrant echo of their voices— consonants sharp— as they patter off of painted plaster and smoothly polished stone. Perhaps in some ways it is like Tevinter: the food is rich in its arrangement, the tannin smell of wine is strong (but sweet). Only something else overshadows the setting, doing more to distort old echoes than either fashion or half-blurred focus.
A sense of belonging.
Deep. Unshakably deep. So concrete he could walk on it and never fall, carrying him through a haze of conversations had with younger shades. Excitement framed by hushed gossip, eager invites. Something like a fraction of a dance or the press of a palm against his own, silk-on-silk and laced with praise. Words he might recognize. Some he won't.
And when it ends in a minute or so, it's a quiet bleed that carries Leto back into the present, away from Astarion's mind. Severing the bond, but not the weight of those pale fingers still nesting along the edge of suntanned knuckles.]
Welcome back.
[Oh, he wants to know what Leto thought— how it felt— but first: the moon elf needs to breathe.]