[ It feels laughable to say that Astarion has anything that might be termed an advantage in this interaction; he can do nothing but listen as the woman lays out the terms by which he might escape having his mind ground into dust. Yet, as she continues to speak, he realizes there is what might be called a small mercy in all of this: that she truly does not seem to know that much about him. It feels unthinkable. The torments he's endured for the past weeks had been so personal, so precisely targeted, that he'd assumed she must know nearly as much about him as Cazador. And yet... she seems to picture Astarion as some voracious hunter, leaving a long trail of victims behind him, of which her cherished imbecile is simply the most recent. It does not seem to occur to her that the boy had been the exception rather than the rule.
Perhaps that is why her first demand feels relatively lenient; she does not know just how tightly he'd been bound before. Astarion will be allowed to keep himself fed, with seemingly no reservation given as to whether the blood may be from a thinking creature or otherwise so long as it comes from the city's bagged supply. Astarion doesn't think much of her condition that he must inform her of any willing donors, either—he can't imagine he'd be able to find any in the first place.
He must not show any sign of relief; if she gets the impression she is leaving him quarter, it will only give her reason to tighten his leash. ]
As you say, [ he says, wishing he could let himself drift away from his body so he wouldn't have to hear the gutless submission in his own voice. He's played this role long enough that he could do it in his sleep; often enough, it felt like he was. But the woman's inexorable gaze doesn't grant him any such reprieve. He couldn't pull his attention away from her even if he tried. ] I won't feed on another soul—aside from those who... offer it.
[ There's a tinge of puzzlement on those last words. Clearly, he finds the idea of willing donors to be rather dubious. ]
no subject
Perhaps that is why her first demand feels relatively lenient; she does not know just how tightly he'd been bound before. Astarion will be allowed to keep himself fed, with seemingly no reservation given as to whether the blood may be from a thinking creature or otherwise so long as it comes from the city's bagged supply. Astarion doesn't think much of her condition that he must inform her of any willing donors, either—he can't imagine he'd be able to find any in the first place.
He must not show any sign of relief; if she gets the impression she is leaving him quarter, it will only give her reason to tighten his leash. ]
As you say, [ he says, wishing he could let himself drift away from his body so he wouldn't have to hear the gutless submission in his own voice. He's played this role long enough that he could do it in his sleep; often enough, it felt like he was. But the woman's inexorable gaze doesn't grant him any such reprieve. He couldn't pull his attention away from her even if he tried. ] I won't feed on another soul—aside from those who... offer it.
[ There's a tinge of puzzlement on those last words. Clearly, he finds the idea of willing donors to be rather dubious. ]