[ When the woman rises to her feet, only Astarion's eyes move with her, holding her gaze, while the rest of him remains kneeling on the floor, tense and expectant. Expectant of what, he's not sure anymore. The woman hasn't followed the script he expected, but however ghastly a spectacle it may have been, her divergence from it is no relief to him. Instead, it only leaves him even more on tenterhooks, unsure of the rules, the stakes, or even the game they're playing anymore—sure only that he's already lost.
She says he's made a grave mistake, and that, he already knows as well. But it's only when she says he'd chosen someone treasured that true comprehension slowly begins to dawn. ]
The boy I fed from—you're... You've done all this because of him?
[ Astarion barely even remembers the boy–only his blood and that first, intoxicating taste of wholeness it had granted him. What else was there to even remember? The boy had been catatonic, a blank slate. Astarion hadn't even been sure if he was a real person at all. And yet, he'd been treasured—treasured by something that had worn Cazador's image like a mask, dragged Astarion through hours upon hours of his worst torments, and now tosses the guise aside as something pitiful. As if she hadn't used it to bring Astarion to his very knees.
Now, he finally rises to his feet, and there he stands, wound as tight as a bowstring and yet perfectly still. He wants to run. He wants to tear the woman's lying throat out. He wants to sink into the Hells themselves and then deeper still to where no living thing will ever lay their blasted, considering eyes upon him ever again.
But it is far from the first time Astarion has had to swallow such feelings. He stares at the woman, motionless. ]
What are you? [ he asks. And then: ] What do you want?
no worries, the holidays are a lot!
She says he's made a grave mistake, and that, he already knows as well. But it's only when she says he'd chosen someone treasured that true comprehension slowly begins to dawn. ]
The boy I fed from—you're... You've done all this because of him?
[ Astarion barely even remembers the boy–only his blood and that first, intoxicating taste of wholeness it had granted him. What else was there to even remember? The boy had been catatonic, a blank slate. Astarion hadn't even been sure if he was a real person at all. And yet, he'd been treasured—treasured by something that had worn Cazador's image like a mask, dragged Astarion through hours upon hours of his worst torments, and now tosses the guise aside as something pitiful. As if she hadn't used it to bring Astarion to his very knees.
Now, he finally rises to his feet, and there he stands, wound as tight as a bowstring and yet perfectly still. He wants to run. He wants to tear the woman's lying throat out. He wants to sink into the Hells themselves and then deeper still to where no living thing will ever lay their blasted, considering eyes upon him ever again.
But it is far from the first time Astarion has had to swallow such feelings. He stares at the woman, motionless. ]
What are you? [ he asks. And then: ] What do you want?