You think I brought you into my bed to mock you? [There's a soft click of his tongue, tame when it meets the back of his teeth.] Darling, I would never.
I could’ve saved myself the trouble and done that hours ago if I wanted to.
[But he doesn’t want to, is the thing. The sole little implication left suspended there between them as his smile softens just slightly at its edges, only by the barest amount of degrees. A missable thing.]
That said, you’re right. Pretty tales aside, you probably don’t have any sort of birthright to go rooting around for.
But I’d argue no more or less than I do, either: a monster of a thing who’s never left distinctly human cities in all his days, who never much cared for ancient rites or sacred oaths or...bare feet, for that matter.
I’ve been to wild places, and I know what sits within me is different than what’s in them.
[It’s harder to emphasize that in the absence of a place or a people, he’s come to realize what matters more is just what you choose for yourself.
What you choose to be.
It lives in his hovel of a home. A place he pays in triple for, compared to any human tenant— and while he could blackmail and extort his way into paying nothing, it’s a point of pride that he doesn’t. That he stares them in the eye each month, that watery-faced little creature that expects nothing at all from him, when he smiles as he forces that weight into their palm, purring.
He’ll be more than this, too, someday. Have more than this, the coffer beneath his bed laden with coins he’s even dared to steal from Riftwatch itself, unnoticed.
He’s certain of it.]
I’ve seen it in you, too. [He leans forward when he says it, just so, voice turning conspiratorial for a silent, weighted beat. Underscored by the sound of wind rattling low against the glass.]
You know what it’s like, don’t you?
Belonging nowhere. Nowhere at all, and not just because of what they took from you.
[And there, his lips peel pack decisively:]
So to the Hells with it. Knife-ear, rabbit, city elf, Dalish, slave. This world is far too small for you, my dear— and for me too, besides. Don’t let it collar you to its expectations.
Do you see this? [Astarion gestures with a flicking index finger towards a Ferelden painting in the corner, half covered, and almost lost behind a sack of potatoes.] There, that painting, I stole from a Lord in Hightown. By the door, those statuettes? Val Chevin. The finery on the far sill, Wycome, at the Duke’s inner circle....and I took so much more than that back with me.
[Pale fingers curl in a gruesome estimation of clawed hands, gnarled when he clutches them to his chest, emotive in the purest sense.]
I stood in the heart of Corypheus’ stronghold and shot arrows through the skulls of his lackeys. I tore the throat from a blood mage and left him gasping over the countless bodies bled to fuel his magic.
A slave to his own dying fear.
[He sits upright, palm pressed flat to the mattress, neck stretched long; whatever shadows haunting them in seconds or minutes or hours prior all gone, given just how brightly (devilishly) he grins, pale curls tumbled low across half his face, red eyes narrowed with an untamed cast, overlong canines flashed.
Look, Fenris. Look at everything he’s done.]
So yes. Eladrin. High elf. That’s what I am.
And if you want to be, [his chin tips lower, eyes lidded and dark when he promises, with all defiant, unbroken certainty]
no subject
I could’ve saved myself the trouble and done that hours ago if I wanted to.
[But he doesn’t want to, is the thing. The sole little implication left suspended there between them as his smile softens just slightly at its edges, only by the barest amount of degrees. A missable thing.]
That said, you’re right. Pretty tales aside, you probably don’t have any sort of birthright to go rooting around for.
But I’d argue no more or less than I do, either: a monster of a thing who’s never left distinctly human cities in all his days, who never much cared for ancient rites or sacred oaths or...bare feet, for that matter.
I’ve been to wild places, and I know what sits within me is different than what’s in them.
[It’s harder to emphasize that in the absence of a place or a people, he’s come to realize what matters more is just what you choose for yourself.
What you choose to be.
It lives in his hovel of a home. A place he pays in triple for, compared to any human tenant— and while he could blackmail and extort his way into paying nothing, it’s a point of pride that he doesn’t. That he stares them in the eye each month, that watery-faced little creature that expects nothing at all from him, when he smiles as he forces that weight into their palm, purring.
He’ll be more than this, too, someday. Have more than this, the coffer beneath his bed laden with coins he’s even dared to steal from Riftwatch itself, unnoticed.
He’s certain of it.]
I’ve seen it in you, too. [He leans forward when he says it, just so, voice turning conspiratorial for a silent, weighted beat. Underscored by the sound of wind rattling low against the glass.]
You know what it’s like, don’t you?
Belonging nowhere. Nowhere at all, and not just because of what they took from you.
[And there, his lips peel pack decisively:]
So to the Hells with it. Knife-ear, rabbit, city elf, Dalish, slave. This world is far too small for you, my dear— and for me too, besides. Don’t let it collar you to its expectations.
Do you see this? [Astarion gestures with a flicking index finger towards a Ferelden painting in the corner, half covered, and almost lost behind a sack of potatoes.] There, that painting, I stole from a Lord in Hightown. By the door, those statuettes? Val Chevin. The finery on the far sill, Wycome, at the Duke’s inner circle....and I took so much more than that back with me.
[Pale fingers curl in a gruesome estimation of clawed hands, gnarled when he clutches them to his chest, emotive in the purest sense.]
I stood in the heart of Corypheus’ stronghold and shot arrows through the skulls of his lackeys. I tore the throat from a blood mage and left him gasping over the countless bodies bled to fuel his magic.
A slave to his own dying fear.
[He sits upright, palm pressed flat to the mattress, neck stretched long; whatever shadows haunting them in seconds or minutes or hours prior all gone, given just how brightly (devilishly) he grins, pale curls tumbled low across half his face, red eyes narrowed with an untamed cast, overlong canines flashed.
Look, Fenris. Look at everything he’s done.]
So yes. Eladrin. High elf. That’s what I am.
And if you want to be, [his chin tips lower, eyes lidded and dark when he promises, with all defiant, unbroken certainty]
...so you are.