[ It's unfortunate what Vanessa is able to deduce in these few moments alone. She is apt at spotting the details that most work to hide, with unblinking eyes that can unmask near anyone with a look. She can’t recall most of the terrors that his psyche summoned, but Cazador is the only name that stuck, as well as that fear. Observing him now, considering his remarks to her so far, she wouldn’t need any of that to understand what type of man, or rather vampire, that Astarion’s master is. The type that would be quite unlucky to meet her, even if he didn't seek the end of days.
She has no desire to be mistaken for one of his worshippers, but allowing Astarion to talk himself in a circle has given her enough context to finally speak once more. With one hand pressed to her chest, she recites a poem in a voice that rasps out the words with careful starts and stops. ]
After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
[ There is no hurry as she speaks, taking care with each line while gesturing in his direction. ]
The Feet, mechanical, go round – A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
[ The huskiness of her voice then softens with her hush, and her head tips while she lets her hand settle back to rest politely her lap. ]
This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
no subject
She has no desire to be mistaken for one of his worshippers, but allowing Astarion to talk himself in a circle has given her enough context to finally speak once more. With one hand pressed to her chest, she recites a poem in a voice that rasps out the words with careful starts and stops. ]
After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
[ There is no hurry as she speaks, taking care with each line while gesturing in his direction. ]
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
[ The huskiness of her voice then softens with her hush, and her head tips while she lets her hand settle back to rest politely her lap. ]
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
[ Then silence. ]