[It hangs, that thought. Snags on nothing (and everything) all at once. Like the world itself is unraveling second by miserable second spent standing here in the open air, letting whatever this is sink in, and he can't put his fingers to the seam line to stop it. But if Astarion's good at anything at all, it's knowing when to let his mind shut off entirely, numbing himself to everything as surely as flipping a sickening little switch.
He exhales thinly. Tips his head towards a set of nearby stairs.] We shouldn't talk here.
Come on.
[It isn't far from where they'd taken refuge, his Lowtown flat. A closet of a place: just as rusted and worn as any other building in Kirkwall's lower belly— though it's high enough that the flowing smell of ocean air filters out chalk and soot more keenly than one might expect, given the often funneling walls of Lowtown itself.
Most importantly, it's far from either the Alienage or the Gallows, which is all Astarion truly cares about for the moment, anyway.
He fits his key into the lock securing heavy iron doors. Cracks them, and leaves room for Fenris to follow inside.]
Watch your step, darling.
[And he does, in fact, mean that: most of the floor (the shelves, the crates and so on, too) is littered with clutter of every conceivable type. A magpie's nest of junk and treasure alike, and none of it sorted in the slightest, though it glitters in low light from a deeply dimmed hearth.]
no subject
[It hangs, that thought. Snags on nothing (and everything) all at once. Like the world itself is unraveling second by miserable second spent standing here in the open air, letting whatever this is sink in, and he can't put his fingers to the seam line to stop it. But if Astarion's good at anything at all, it's knowing when to let his mind shut off entirely, numbing himself to everything as surely as flipping a sickening little switch.
He exhales thinly. Tips his head towards a set of nearby stairs.] We shouldn't talk here.
Come on.
[It isn't far from where they'd taken refuge, his Lowtown flat. A closet of a place: just as rusted and worn as any other building in Kirkwall's lower belly— though it's high enough that the flowing smell of ocean air filters out chalk and soot more keenly than one might expect, given the often funneling walls of Lowtown itself.
Most importantly, it's far from either the Alienage or the Gallows, which is all Astarion truly cares about for the moment, anyway.
He fits his key into the lock securing heavy iron doors. Cracks them, and leaves room for Fenris to follow inside.]
Watch your step, darling.
[And he does, in fact, mean that: most of the floor (the shelves, the crates and so on, too) is littered with clutter of every conceivable type. A magpie's nest of junk and treasure alike, and none of it sorted in the slightest, though it glitters in low light from a deeply dimmed hearth.]