[Slaves with such short lifespans. Astarion’s lip curls vividly in reflexive contempt as he listens, but at the same time— is that not a mercy in its own way? Strange and twisted and awful, true, but better fifty years than two hundred. Better that, than an eternity.

(But even then there’s a part of Astarion that protests, always, that isn’t servitude better than oblivion?)

He pinches his eyes shut for a second. Forces the ghost of the past from his mind, and then:] Mhm. For Riftwatch and Tevinter both, in fact, though these days when it comes to research and learning, everyone’s most obsessed with unearthing the mystery of a set of supposed Gates that’ll lead to— to—

I don’t know. Maybe the Fade, maybe the Golden City. All I know is the Venatori are utterly mad about them, and that can’t be any good.


But let’s not talk about that.

[He doesn’t want to talk about that. And he suspects Fenris doesn’t either.]

You might think several hundred is unthinkable, but I promise you, sometimes it’s not nearly enough.

And maybe....well, maybe it’s not so impossible, considering the gaps between worlds, that your origins and mine weren’t all that different. Like otherworldly explorers, our progenitors, crossing boundaries and finding their own ways to settle. [Stranger things have happened, and despite everything barring Thedas and Toril from one another, here Astarion stands.

He rolls onto his own side, now, one arm cradled beneath his head, grin running wide and sharp as anything. Incorrigible is the word for it. Confident in whatever he decides.]

Either way, you’re an Eladrin now, whether you like it or not. I’ve already made up my mind.