[He hums softly in acknowledgement, some part of him . . . mm, not relaxing, but at least settling just a little more. Sometimes bad things really do just happen at random— and while he will not forget this issue, nor cease researching it, at least he knows just how much he has to fret over it. Cazador (and any other spawn that might be roaming this city) is still their biggest threat.
He glances around. It's a nice day, or at least it was. What had been bright and inviting suddenly seems wrong: too bright, too sunny, too raw. He has never been an elf comfortable in nature, and though he knows full well Astarion was snatched from the city streets, still, some part of him aches to be nestled safe among buildings and people.
Or maybe it's not about being safe. Maybe it's about having Astarion somewhere where he can see him: safely tucked away in their home, with Leto and his sword standing between him and the doorway. Him and all of Toril, with its vampiric lords and strange tentacled creatures and gods that walk among men . . . it's not that it's so much worse than Thedas. Frankly, it's still better than Thedas, if for no other reason than Leto had walked out of the city boundaries without being followed or asked sneering questions. But so much is strange and different here, and that brings its own form of homesickness.
Anyway.]
Were you ever going to tell me if I hadn't asked?
[It's a real question, not an accusation. He understands tucking away painful memories; gods know there are a few he hasn't mentioned to Astarion yet, simply because they're too awful to talk about. But he wonders.]
About your own experience, or that Rifter . . . what was his name?
no subject
He glances around. It's a nice day, or at least it was. What had been bright and inviting suddenly seems wrong: too bright, too sunny, too raw. He has never been an elf comfortable in nature, and though he knows full well Astarion was snatched from the city streets, still, some part of him aches to be nestled safe among buildings and people.
Or maybe it's not about being safe. Maybe it's about having Astarion somewhere where he can see him: safely tucked away in their home, with Leto and his sword standing between him and the doorway. Him and all of Toril, with its vampiric lords and strange tentacled creatures and gods that walk among men . . . it's not that it's so much worse than Thedas. Frankly, it's still better than Thedas, if for no other reason than Leto had walked out of the city boundaries without being followed or asked sneering questions. But so much is strange and different here, and that brings its own form of homesickness.
Anyway.]
Were you ever going to tell me if I hadn't asked?
[It's a real question, not an accusation. He understands tucking away painful memories; gods know there are a few he hasn't mentioned to Astarion yet, simply because they're too awful to talk about. But he wonders.]
About your own experience, or that Rifter . . . what was his name?