All that time spent shedding the tatters of his past, cutting his teeth on Tevinter's crude dilation: venatori and magisters and abominations alike, learning Thedas right down to its digressive core. He’s no god killer. No vampire lord capable of twisting the fibers of the world around him to suit his needs, but he knows— more than anything— how to keep just one step ahead of a rising tide. How to keep his claws sharp by way of the daggers at his hip, the contacts in his pocket, even in the upper echelons of Wycome. Kirkwall. Ferelden.
If this is where the map of his resources all comes together, if there's something in it that can be done to keep safe the first person to have ever stretched a hand out to him from the mottled dark (who stretched out his hand now only minutes prior without a second of hesitation), then fine. It'll be where Astarion's tireless selfishness dies.
Easily.
He sits upright. He chooses to, keeping himself at a distance, knowing just how thin the ice must be. Woven through the air like a tangible thing, choking out everything else.] I don’t know if it was luck or pure chance that brought you here tonight. I suppose it doesn't matter.
Whatever it was, I’m not about to lose you again.
[Not to any pleonetic Venatori, not to slavers or mages. Not to anyone or anything. His chosen kin is his own, and he'll rip the rest to tatters for the sake of keeping him safe.]
Still, you can run if you need to. I won’t stop you— [Panic is a potent poison, and his flat is so damned small.] But my fangs aren’t just for show. And if you decide to stay, anyone senseless enough to think you’re here alone won’t realize that mistake until it’s too late, I can promise you that.
no subject
[(Six months.
Nothing.
And everything.)
All that time spent shedding the tatters of his past, cutting his teeth on Tevinter's crude dilation: venatori and magisters and abominations alike, learning Thedas right down to its digressive core. He’s no god killer. No vampire lord capable of twisting the fibers of the world around him to suit his needs, but he knows— more than anything— how to keep just one step ahead of a rising tide. How to keep his claws sharp by way of the daggers at his hip, the contacts in his pocket, even in the upper echelons of Wycome. Kirkwall. Ferelden.
If this is where the map of his resources all comes together, if there's something in it that can be done to keep safe the first person to have ever stretched a hand out to him from the mottled dark (who stretched out his hand now only minutes prior without a second of hesitation), then fine. It'll be where Astarion's tireless selfishness dies.
Easily.
He sits upright. He chooses to, keeping himself at a distance, knowing just how thin the ice must be. Woven through the air like a tangible thing, choking out everything else.] I don’t know if it was luck or pure chance that brought you here tonight. I suppose it doesn't matter.
Whatever it was, I’m not about to lose you again.
[Not to any pleonetic Venatori, not to slavers or mages. Not to anyone or anything. His chosen kin is his own, and he'll rip the rest to tatters for the sake of keeping him safe.]
Still, you can run if you need to. I won’t stop you— [Panic is a potent poison, and his flat is so damned small.] But my fangs aren’t just for show. And if you decide to stay, anyone senseless enough to think you’re here alone won’t realize that mistake until it’s too late, I can promise you that.
[Trust me, darling.
Like leaping from a ledge.]