[ When Astarion comes to, it's with a pounding headache and a feeling like he'd picked a fight with an entire tavern-full of people. Which is, in fact, not too far from what he'd been doing before Lestat had knocked him out. ]
Urgh. [ Astarion clutches his head as he pushes himself up from the floor, noticing belatedly the jacket that had been placed underneath—and then, directly afterward, the man staring down at him with obvious wariness. Astarion’s brow furrows in confusion. ] Who are you? What—ugh.
[ The memories come flooding back. How he'd ended up in this place against his will. The sudden mania that had overtaken him on the second floor. People running, shouting, bleeding. He'd wanted them dead. Maybe he'd even succeeded in killing some of them. It's all a blur, one that has him squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace. Yet, in the tumult of angry, fearful faces, he finds he does recall the one before him now; a pale, gray-eyed man who'd managed to pin his clawing, desperate hands down and knock him out cold with a single, well-aimed blow to the head.
Well. That would explain the headache.
Astarion opens his eyes, exhaling through his teeth as the man speaks. ]
Maddening as this place is, that particular murderous rage wasn't my choice, [ he says, a little fractiously. ] Though, given the fact you haven't killed me yet, I assume you already suspected as much.
[ He pushes himself up to a sitting position, noticing for the first time their surroundings: the gaudy lights, the macabre decor, the people milling about in various stages of injury and distress. Astarion’s face falls. ]
We’re still in this blasted place? [ His voice is shrill with indignation. ] Hasn’t it had its fun already?
iv
Urgh. [ Astarion clutches his head as he pushes himself up from the floor, noticing belatedly the jacket that had been placed underneath—and then, directly afterward, the man staring down at him with obvious wariness. Astarion’s brow furrows in confusion. ] Who are you? What—ugh.
[ The memories come flooding back. How he'd ended up in this place against his will. The sudden mania that had overtaken him on the second floor. People running, shouting, bleeding. He'd wanted them dead. Maybe he'd even succeeded in killing some of them. It's all a blur, one that has him squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace. Yet, in the tumult of angry, fearful faces, he finds he does recall the one before him now; a pale, gray-eyed man who'd managed to pin his clawing, desperate hands down and knock him out cold with a single, well-aimed blow to the head.
Well. That would explain the headache.
Astarion opens his eyes, exhaling through his teeth as the man speaks. ]
Maddening as this place is, that particular murderous rage wasn't my choice, [ he says, a little fractiously. ] Though, given the fact you haven't killed me yet, I assume you already suspected as much.
[ He pushes himself up to a sitting position, noticing for the first time their surroundings: the gaudy lights, the macabre decor, the people milling about in various stages of injury and distress. Astarion’s face falls. ]
We’re still in this blasted place? [ His voice is shrill with indignation. ] Hasn’t it had its fun already?
[ ]