What can he say? All the things that spring to mind are disbelieving and inane both— for though that's impossible feels like the most rational response, what use would there be in this man making this up? He was so helplessly bewildered in those first few moments, tender prey for demons any Theodosian knows to flee; he stood at the edge of the fire for so long, terrified to the point of trembling tension, a shivering dog struggling to decide if a mouthful of meat was worth risking another beating.
And he came from the Fade. That sickly green mark on his palm— Fenris still doesn't understand what it means, but perhaps it's a marker. A vulgar scar born of wandering between worlds, and gods, who knows how the Fade truly works? The rifts that now shimmer regularly upon hillsides and fields are a doorway for demons to invade; is it truly such a leap in logic to assume they connect to—
Ah. But there's the snag.
Another world, and the concept is so strange as to baffle. Another world? Another time is almost more easily understood, for he has seen past and present play out in his brief forays. And yet . . . assume it's possible. Assume there are other worlds out there, other— other places, other countries . . .]
Assuredly he should.
[He says it absently. In the next moment his eyes flick up, crimson meeting emerald.]
I believe you.
[His hand flicks up, upturned palm hushing any incredulous scoffing that might occur.]
I do not understand it. Not fully. I have never heard of other worlds, and I would hear more of what you mean. [Maybe it is another time, some nagging part of Fenris whispers. Some elf stumbling out from Elvhenan, his ancient empire long crushed to dust beneath Tevinter's heel. Somehow, that's so much easier to understand— but then again, he speaks so modernly . . .]
But it seems equally impossible that you have not heard of Corypheus. Nor that you do not know what the Fade is. And though I will not say I trust you . . . it seems pointless for you to lie. Especially to me.
[So. So now what? He doubts this little organization in Kirkwall has any answers waiting for him, but curiosity (and anxiety) shared is curiosity halved— and perhaps Astarion is not the only one with such a mark.]
no subject
What can he say? All the things that spring to mind are disbelieving and inane both— for though that's impossible feels like the most rational response, what use would there be in this man making this up? He was so helplessly bewildered in those first few moments, tender prey for demons any Theodosian knows to flee; he stood at the edge of the fire for so long, terrified to the point of trembling tension, a shivering dog struggling to decide if a mouthful of meat was worth risking another beating.
And he came from the Fade. That sickly green mark on his palm— Fenris still doesn't understand what it means, but perhaps it's a marker. A vulgar scar born of wandering between worlds, and gods, who knows how the Fade truly works? The rifts that now shimmer regularly upon hillsides and fields are a doorway for demons to invade; is it truly such a leap in logic to assume they connect to—
Ah. But there's the snag.
Another world, and the concept is so strange as to baffle. Another world? Another time is almost more easily understood, for he has seen past and present play out in his brief forays. And yet . . . assume it's possible. Assume there are other worlds out there, other— other places, other countries . . .]
Assuredly he should.
[He says it absently. In the next moment his eyes flick up, crimson meeting emerald.]
I believe you.
[His hand flicks up, upturned palm hushing any incredulous scoffing that might occur.]
I do not understand it. Not fully. I have never heard of other worlds, and I would hear more of what you mean. [Maybe it is another time, some nagging part of Fenris whispers. Some elf stumbling out from Elvhenan, his ancient empire long crushed to dust beneath Tevinter's heel. Somehow, that's so much easier to understand— but then again, he speaks so modernly . . .]
But it seems equally impossible that you have not heard of Corypheus. Nor that you do not know what the Fade is. And though I will not say I trust you . . . it seems pointless for you to lie. Especially to me.
[So. So now what? He doubts this little organization in Kirkwall has any answers waiting for him, but curiosity (and anxiety) shared is curiosity halved— and perhaps Astarion is not the only one with such a mark.]
Tell me where you came from. In detail this time.