[....Dead? Never mind Astarion's calcified contempt for all things deified— Maker and Chantry included— his mind reels towards rejection. Bristles in denial that scarcely feels his own, because buried down deep in the hollow of his blackened ribs lies the urge to point across the Veil and spit out that they're right there—

Wretches and despots, all, inclined to ignore the despairing wails of the damned, but dead? No. Not that.]

We're not all— [Mage-blooded. A sister. What terms don't do to dizzy him, those revelations do.] no. Well, I mean, technically there are some wizards that've been rumored to lengthen their own lifespans through the arcane, but it isn't like that for the rest of us.

[His eyes are following Fenris as he rises; little widened flashes of caught light faceted like garnets.]

Elves are creatures of the fey, darling. [And if that doesn't resonate:] Wild magic. Wild places? Forests filled with ancient aspects of creation, inherently infused with the magic of our pointy-eared, entirely untamed progenitors? Oh come on— something in here has to sound familiar to you.

[Please, let it sound familiar. He doesn't want to think about you wilting before his eyes.]