Oh, logic becomes a different beast in the second that those words are spoken. Ten days feels like a sinking in his gut— ribs in the pit of his stomach— vertigo humming hard across the borders of his ears, trying to tip him backwards even when he's laying down, a centrifuge that now neither of them can escape: consistency devours deniability. Makes a meal out of every argument that this is purely happenstance or crude, childish suspicion. Astarion's overactive imagination run wild.
It's not.
It's not, he thinks, the midline of his fingers tightening softly around fabric, leaving half-moon dents in the places where they settle.
Ten days, and even Astarion's acidic bloodline isn't anywhere near as wicked to go stealing memories from their slaves servants— or whatever else it might have been (all things that send a sickly shiver crawling up the young elf's rapidly straightening spine).]
I....Hells.... [Soft, soft, that intercession; hitting the roof of his mouth like the exhale that it truly is. He needs to breathe, and gods swear he has to get it wherever he can in the middle of this talk that reeks of iron. Of nightmares.
Because even at its tamest, it is a nightmare.]
I don't know enough about Tevinter, [or about Magisters— those who wield the very framework for civilization itself through the bones of its arcane technology— always well off, and with good reason, but there's a difference between classes and culture in that sense; they don't swim through the same circles. They don't share the same beliefs as simple aristocracy.
And so:] I couldn't begin to guess.
It could be....I mean, anything, honestly. Even technology or— [he gestures loosely in the nonexistent space between their reclined bodies.] some kind of device or magic embedded under your skin. Or—
[His eyes flick up. He licks his lips.
There's the precipice. The dark edge to his assumptions. Not the limits of possibility, but the limits of what he wants to suggest.
He won't cross that line.
Not tonight. Not ever.
Not without some kind of proof.]
It doesn't matter. You haven't had issues since you came here, like you said. We should just forget about it.
no subject
Oh, logic becomes a different beast in the second that those words are spoken. Ten days feels like a sinking in his gut— ribs in the pit of his stomach— vertigo humming hard across the borders of his ears, trying to tip him backwards even when he's laying down, a centrifuge that now neither of them can escape: consistency devours deniability. Makes a meal out of every argument that this is purely happenstance or crude, childish suspicion. Astarion's overactive imagination run wild.
It's not.
It's not, he thinks, the midline of his fingers tightening softly around fabric, leaving half-moon dents in the places where they settle.
Ten days, and even Astarion's acidic bloodline isn't anywhere near as wicked to go stealing memories from their
slavesservants— or whatever else it might have been (all things that send a sickly shiver crawling up the young elf's rapidly straightening spine).]I....Hells.... [Soft, soft, that intercession; hitting the roof of his mouth like the exhale that it truly is. He needs to breathe, and gods swear he has to get it wherever he can in the middle of this talk that reeks of iron. Of nightmares.
Because even at its tamest, it is a nightmare.]
I don't know enough about Tevinter, [or about Magisters— those who wield the very framework for civilization itself through the bones of its arcane technology— always well off, and with good reason, but there's a difference between classes and culture in that sense; they don't swim through the same circles. They don't share the same beliefs as simple aristocracy.
And so:] I couldn't begin to guess.
It could be....I mean, anything, honestly. Even technology or— [he gestures loosely in the nonexistent space between their reclined bodies.] some kind of device or magic embedded under your skin. Or—
[His eyes flick up. He licks his lips.
There's the precipice. The dark edge to his assumptions. Not the limits of possibility, but the limits of what he wants to suggest.
He won't cross that line.
Not tonight. Not ever.
Not without some kind of proof.]
It doesn't matter. You haven't had issues since you came here, like you said. We should just forget about it.