[It's permission Gale doesn't stand a chance of getting.]
That I owe them?
[Bile in the back of his throat curdles those words right from the start. What toothless bristling Gale had earned doesn't hold a candle to the anger Astarion finds now. A bright, inhuman flare around his irises.]
They think that I owe them?
[He's hunched forwards when he asks a second time, lips peeled back around his fangs. He's seeing red with all the avidity of a man that's forgotten his own sin and kept stock of the worst that've been done to him. It's been so long, after all. So much bliss imbibed that what he thinks of when reminded of their existence isn't one more unpalatable task given in the dead of night, but of bruises split wide open like cracked fruit. Bile in his throat, sour in the preset as the past bleeds out around his ears.
Fuck them.
Fuck them for the audacity.]
They should be grateful I'm not hunting them for sport after what they did to me. [Raptorish twisting. Anger hot, not cold.]
If any of their lot survive this ill-advised coup against Cazador Szarr, they can count themselves lucky to be alive. That can be my gift to them, in thanks for their....generous cooperation.
[It won't be until he sees their camp— or sees them— that he'll remember that secondary clan. Not until it's darker and quieter and safer, and the buzzing in his ears mercifully quietens down. Right now, he can't.
no subject
That I owe them?
[Bile in the back of his throat curdles those words right from the start. What toothless bristling Gale had earned doesn't hold a candle to the anger Astarion finds now. A bright, inhuman flare around his irises.]
They think that I owe them?
[He's hunched forwards when he asks a second time, lips peeled back around his fangs. He's seeing red with all the avidity of a man that's forgotten his own sin and kept stock of the worst that've been done to him. It's been so long, after all. So much bliss imbibed that what he thinks of when reminded of their existence isn't one more unpalatable task given in the dead of night, but of bruises split wide open like cracked fruit. Bile in his throat, sour in the preset as the past bleeds out around his ears.
Fuck them.
Fuck them for the audacity.]
They should be grateful I'm not hunting them for sport after what they did to me. [Raptorish twisting. Anger hot, not cold.]
If any of their lot survive this ill-advised coup against Cazador Szarr, they can count themselves lucky to be alive. That can be my gift to them, in thanks for their....generous cooperation.
[It won't be until he sees their camp— or sees them— that he'll remember that secondary clan. Not until it's darker and quieter and safer, and the buzzing in his ears mercifully quietens down. Right now, he can't.
And it isn't fair, but anger isn't fair.
So few things are.]