[It's charming, Astarion thinks. The fumbling struggle to understand something that pulls its form from the opposite of everything Thedas seems to promise endlessly: tainted gods and fallen empires, binding history that swears, even amongst the elven side of things as far as Astarion can tell, whatever glory might've existed amongst the elves in ancient times was so thoroughly sundered that their legacy might as well be damp paper. Sodden earth. A map of places that once belonged to their kind, all cluttered with towering statues of chantry sisters or Orlesian bowers— or worse.
He feels that adjustment more than he spots it out of the corner of his eye, how Fenris rolls up onto his side, and for the moment chooses not to look back.]
Probably ought to warn you that you’re asking the wrong person for a history lesson. [Astarion says softly, the words just shy of a breathy little laugh; not at all bothered either by his own shortcomings or the question itself.] Eladrin, as the term used to be, was meant in reference to our great, great ancestors. Chosen creatures of the wilds, you might say, very in tune with nature, unlike myself— and unlike most elves these days, for that matter.
Meaning there’s a lot of bickering about who’s what and why, and at this point I’d argue a great deal of it’s all semantics: dated pish-posh over who came before whom, what happened when, that sort of thing.
Still, when discussing what makes a High Elf a High Elf, most of it comes down to appearance. We’re slighter things by nature, compared to humans or dwarves or just about anything else. Sharp ears, of course, vital to mention those. Our eyes— barring my own, now— glittering bright in daylight like gold dust through a passing stream. [Now he tips his chin to one side, letting it fall somewhere near his shoulder with an easy little grin that fails to flash even the edge of a fang. One index finger lifting, not leaving the center of his chest when he motions towards Fenris himself.] Like yours.
We don’t age like other races do, either. No withering away even at the end of our life.
Those who call themselves sun elves tend to favor warmer hues in terms of their hair; moon elves, less saturated— silvers and blacks, though as you can imagine, there’s plenty of crossover.
You, for the record, could be either. But I’d fit you in with the moonish sort, personally. They’d like you a great deal, thoughtful thing that you are.
[Even reclusiveness likely wouldn’t keep them from peering at Fenris like some long lost member of their pack.]
As for the lack of worship, like I said: I’m not really a traditionalist.
no subject
He feels that adjustment more than he spots it out of the corner of his eye, how Fenris rolls up onto his side, and for the moment chooses not to look back.]
Probably ought to warn you that you’re asking the wrong person for a history lesson. [Astarion says softly, the words just shy of a breathy little laugh; not at all bothered either by his own shortcomings or the question itself.] Eladrin, as the term used to be, was meant in reference to our great, great ancestors. Chosen creatures of the wilds, you might say, very in tune with nature, unlike myself— and unlike most elves these days, for that matter.
Meaning there’s a lot of bickering about who’s what and why, and at this point I’d argue a great deal of it’s all semantics: dated pish-posh over who came before whom, what happened when, that sort of thing.
Still, when discussing what makes a High Elf a High Elf, most of it comes down to appearance. We’re slighter things by nature, compared to humans or dwarves or just about anything else. Sharp ears, of course, vital to mention those. Our eyes— barring my own, now— glittering bright in daylight like gold dust through a passing stream. [Now he tips his chin to one side, letting it fall somewhere near his shoulder with an easy little grin that fails to flash even the edge of a fang. One index finger lifting, not leaving the center of his chest when he motions towards Fenris himself.] Like yours.
We don’t age like other races do, either. No withering away even at the end of our life.
Those who call themselves sun elves tend to favor warmer hues in terms of their hair; moon elves, less saturated— silvers and blacks, though as you can imagine, there’s plenty of crossover.
You, for the record, could be either. But I’d fit you in with the moonish sort, personally. They’d like you a great deal, thoughtful thing that you are.
[Even reclusiveness likely wouldn’t keep them from peering at Fenris like some long lost member of their pack.]
As for the lack of worship, like I said: I’m not really a traditionalist.
[A beat, and then, light as tugging on a tail:]
But I like you well enough already.