[ Astarion isn't certain what he expected to hear, but this wasn't it. He had never pictured their proxy leader as what sounded almost like a homebody, happy in their relationship with their God and their husband. The idea doesn't sit right with the life they're leading now, as if all of that had been somehow torn from him. It's clear as day that something happened to the husband, the spouse, and he doesn't want to push and prompt at what befell him. Now is hardly the time for quite that level of sadness, even with the darkness of the starlight resting on their shoulders.
What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
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What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
He sounds perfectly charming.