I— [There's a lot to be drawn over. A lot to be said. Lifetimes could pass without him getting it all out into the open, and like the lifeless still of his chest that only breathes for play acting rather than necessity, his mind and his body hold fast: loathe to ever let go of anything, even his own ridiculous habit of feeling.

So, for the sake of compromise, perhaps, his tenor softens from here on out. Lowers itself alongside its pitch. Granted he's still affecting his usual practiced purr (worn like a mask whenever conversation closes in on vulnerable soft spots in his defenseless underbelly), but the tone is theirs, if nothing else. Not all reflectively blithe— just some.

Just enough to keep him sane on his own, on his master's figurative and literal doorstep, supposing about things as fickle as favor. Luck. Hope.]

Do, actually.

[There, the truth, whatever its shade.]

Or at least I agree with the idea of possibility, when it comes to him.

We've traversed two worlds, now. And you've seen— well, probably just heard how commonplace divinity is here, without half as many separating divides between realms as in yours. [The Fade. The veil. Reality. Dreams. Crossroads like a sort of melted intersection— ] Who's to say we were ever the only ones?

Your ancestors might actually have been Eladrin. Or mine, yours.

Your maker— a god like any other.

[A pause. His shift mild and deferentially wry. Gentle, where it'd been all barbed cattiness about slaves and pain (memories that— Astarion of all people knows— don't unstick.)

He never ignored that fragile admittance, only marked it.]

Albeit a shitty one, but a god, nonetheless.