[It takes less than a breath for Astarion to shift to one side, leaving more than enough room for Fenris to find his way into settling however he needs to (less space or more, curled or coiled or locked tense as the stony walls they’re presently sheltered by). It takes more than that for him to rise, just briefly, with a staying gesture— one hand lifted in an utterly silent promise I’m not leaving— as he steps over to the nearby hearth and stokes its ashen coals into something warm once again, feeding it until the space begins to fill with faint light. Soft heat.
No, they probably won’t sleep again tonight. Might as well keep his companion from freezing in the process.
With that, he slips back into place, offering a wan smile to match the dark circles beneath his eyes (darker tonight for all the obvious reasons). Small, and lost in the next beat when he tips his own head back to stare at the ceiling, fingers folded loosely somewhere over his own chest. Tangled light in thin cotton.
They’ve spoken more than enough of all their harrowing fears, their festering scars; it’s time to let something else in.]
Mm. My world is very different.
You’d like it, I think— you’d do well there. And I don’t mean that by Thedosian standards: our people [our people, he says] are respected in Faerûn. Beloved. When others look to high places either in nature or amongst gilded spires, they find us there. High Elves. Eladrin. Long-lived and even longer envied.
I was...admittedly always a little domesticated, I assume. I don’t feel any deeper pulls to wild places, and I don’t think that is numbness is Cazador’s doing so much as a byproduct of the life I led, the preferences I must've nursed. [He's had more than enough time to ruminate on it. Consider where all the minuscule fragments of his persisting habits must've come from— and in the end, he's content to leave it at that.]
But amongst our people there were always stories of powerful, untamed warriors. Marked blade-wielders [Whether Fenris looks or not he lifts a hand, waving it across his face, down towards his chest— mirroring the flow of so many tattooed lines.] called Bladesingers: sacred guardians of both the common elven people and its most adored nobility. Our sacred spaces.
Guardians of everything, in fact.
As it was told to me, most of them favored longswords, and it was their innate magic— their ability to make themselves near invulnerable in battle— that made them such formidable opponents.
Still, they were often lone wanderers by trade. Most go entirely unseen for eons at a time.
[In fact, most believe they've all but vanished entirely. Died, or forgotten, or, having failed to pass on their craft, withered away into history itself.]
Which is to say, my darling, if anyone ever spotted you in Faerûn, they’d likely throw a damned feast in your honor. Wash the very ground you walk on, make a bed for you— entirely free of charge.
no subject
No, they probably won’t sleep again tonight. Might as well keep his companion from freezing in the process.
With that, he slips back into place, offering a wan smile to match the dark circles beneath his eyes (darker tonight for all the obvious reasons). Small, and lost in the next beat when he tips his own head back to stare at the ceiling, fingers folded loosely somewhere over his own chest. Tangled light in thin cotton.
They’ve spoken more than enough of all their harrowing fears, their festering scars; it’s time to let something else in.]
Mm. My world is very different.
You’d like it, I think— you’d do well there. And I don’t mean that by Thedosian standards: our people [our people, he says] are respected in Faerûn. Beloved. When others look to high places either in nature or amongst gilded spires, they find us there. High Elves. Eladrin. Long-lived and even longer envied.
I was...admittedly always a little domesticated, I assume. I don’t feel any deeper pulls to wild places, and I don’t think that is numbness is Cazador’s doing so much as a byproduct of the life I led, the preferences I must've nursed. [He's had more than enough time to ruminate on it. Consider where all the minuscule fragments of his persisting habits must've come from— and in the end, he's content to leave it at that.]
But amongst our people there were always stories of powerful, untamed warriors. Marked blade-wielders [Whether Fenris looks or not he lifts a hand, waving it across his face, down towards his chest— mirroring the flow of so many tattooed lines.] called Bladesingers: sacred guardians of both the common elven people and its most adored nobility. Our sacred spaces.
Guardians of everything, in fact.
As it was told to me, most of them favored longswords, and it was their innate magic— their ability to make themselves near invulnerable in battle— that made them such formidable opponents.
Still, they were often lone wanderers by trade. Most go entirely unseen for eons at a time.
[In fact, most believe they've all but vanished entirely. Died, or forgotten, or, having failed to pass on their craft, withered away into history itself.]
Which is to say, my darling, if anyone ever spotted you in Faerûn, they’d likely throw a damned feast in your honor. Wash the very ground you walk on, make a bed for you— entirely free of charge.
You'd be more venerated than the Divine herself.