They might as well be gurgling noise for all Astarion can recognize in them: no Corellon, no Angharradh, not even a Tethrin or an Oberon to speak of. But the gods did die— ages upon ages ago, before Ao supposedly took reign. Perhaps—
Perhaps nothing, is the snap of a door shut within his mind, pulling presence back into his unfixed pupils. It's not the distant past he should be looking at: it's here. Here, where what is and isn't true is made simple, regardless of what he wants it to be or wishes that it was. There'll be time later to think about ramifications, possibilities, and promise. It's the present where Fenris dwells beside him, and he could lose him to an assassin in a soirée gown just as readily as he could to time.
With a puff of air let out through his nose, he rises. Shoos Fenris back towards the bed and moves to weave a bit of jewelry back in with all those braids— metal cool against his fingers. Cheap glass and painted resin, but no nobles will ever notice in the glow of lantern light.]
In Faerûn, elves only came to live with humans and the other mortals after departing the realm of our gods and being largely cut off from it. Even so, we never found our lifespans shortened.
[There is no coddling; he cannot sense Fenris' guilt or disappointment, and so doesn't think to quell it as he works.]
no subject
They might as well be gurgling noise for all Astarion can recognize in them: no Corellon, no Angharradh, not even a Tethrin or an Oberon to speak of. But the gods did die— ages upon ages ago, before Ao supposedly took reign. Perhaps—
Perhaps nothing, is the snap of a door shut within his mind, pulling presence back into his unfixed pupils. It's not the distant past he should be looking at: it's here. Here, where what is and isn't true is made simple, regardless of what he wants it to be or wishes that it was. There'll be time later to think about ramifications, possibilities, and promise. It's the present where Fenris dwells beside him, and he could lose him to an assassin in a soirée gown just as readily as he could to time.
With a puff of air let out through his nose, he rises. Shoos Fenris back towards the bed and moves to weave a bit of jewelry back in with all those braids— metal cool against his fingers. Cheap glass and painted resin, but no nobles will ever notice in the glow of lantern light.]
In Faerûn, elves only came to live with humans and the other mortals after departing the realm of our gods and being largely cut off from it. Even so, we never found our lifespans shortened.
[There is no coddling; he cannot sense Fenris' guilt or disappointment, and so doesn't think to quell it as he works.]
Has it really always been like that for you?