Not quite like that. These past few weeks, there have been... episodes—random attacks of pain or seeing things that aren't really there. All of them to do with my master but... [ His brow furrows and he shakes his head. ] None of them have lasted that long. Or felt so real.
[ It had truly felt as if he'd been back in the kennels with Cazador—as if he'd never really left. Will it keep getting worse, he wonders? How much worse could it get before Cazador finally comes to collect?
He remains watchful as Nikolai goes to fetch what he's asked for; and certainly, he catches the hesitation when the man realizes what exactly has been requested of him. Astarion waits, almost impatiently, for what comes next: the disgust, the fear, and perhaps something worse as well: anger or hatred. At the very least, he expects that gallant sympathy the man has displayed thus far to gutter out like candlelight in a rainstorm.
Instead, the man bluntly declares that he's bring Astarion two bags and promptly does exactly so, returning to him and holding out the blood like it's nothing more extraordinary than a a bottle of wine. For a moment, Astarion just stares at him. ]
You don't—I— [ He looks from Nikolai to the bagged blood in his hand. Could it really be so easy? After another moment's hesitation, he takes the bags, still looking a bit bewildered. ] Thank you.
[ The blood bags are cold and scentless in his hands, but they might as well be ambrosia for all Astarion cares. They contain human blood, after all—a veritable feast compared to the vermin he'd been forced to subsist off for the past two centuries. Astarion gives Nikolai one last assessing look, like he's deciding whether or not he might take offense to the sight of a blood-drinker living up to the title—then decides to-hell-with-it and rips the cap off of one of the bags with his teeth. He drinks deeply of the blood within. Having enough is still such a novelty to Astarion that it feels like a luxury, something he could lose with the slightest turn of fate.
One that he will lose, once he is Cazador's once more.
He finally pulls the bag away from his lips, already looking a bit less pale than he did before. ]
A pleasure, [ he says, some of the strength returned to his voice. ] I'm Astarion—and perhaps a kilyklava. If that word means 'vampire spawn.'
no subject
[ It had truly felt as if he'd been back in the kennels with Cazador—as if he'd never really left. Will it keep getting worse, he wonders? How much worse could it get before Cazador finally comes to collect?
He remains watchful as Nikolai goes to fetch what he's asked for; and certainly, he catches the hesitation when the man realizes what exactly has been requested of him. Astarion waits, almost impatiently, for what comes next: the disgust, the fear, and perhaps something worse as well: anger or hatred. At the very least, he expects that gallant sympathy the man has displayed thus far to gutter out like candlelight in a rainstorm.
Instead, the man bluntly declares that he's bring Astarion two bags and promptly does exactly so, returning to him and holding out the blood like it's nothing more extraordinary than a a bottle of wine. For a moment, Astarion just stares at him. ]
You don't—I— [ He looks from Nikolai to the bagged blood in his hand. Could it really be so easy? After another moment's hesitation, he takes the bags, still looking a bit bewildered. ] Thank you.
[ The blood bags are cold and scentless in his hands, but they might as well be ambrosia for all Astarion cares. They contain human blood, after all—a veritable feast compared to the vermin he'd been forced to subsist off for the past two centuries. Astarion gives Nikolai one last assessing look, like he's deciding whether or not he might take offense to the sight of a blood-drinker living up to the title—then decides to-hell-with-it and rips the cap off of one of the bags with his teeth. He drinks deeply of the blood within. Having enough is still such a novelty to Astarion that it feels like a luxury, something he could lose with the slightest turn of fate.
One that he will lose, once he is Cazador's once more.
He finally pulls the bag away from his lips, already looking a bit less pale than he did before. ]
A pleasure, [ he says, some of the strength returned to his voice. ] I'm Astarion—and perhaps a kilyklava. If that word means 'vampire spawn.'