[That Astarion's attention only briefly flickers towards the mare (mostly) minding her own business is a testament to rapt engrossment. Something so ingrained at the smallest sampling that not even Astarion's own fear can tear him off its back right now.]
Blood magic. [Is the sunken sound that leads in brittle disbelief.] Yes. That sounds familiar. [What a sick joke, that even entire realms away, masters are ever the same.
What a miracle that it's breakable.]
And this is the first time in two centuries I haven't been able to feel his control over me from it. Or— [His body blinks. He has to breathe. Swallow on occasion. Beneath his ribs his heartbeat is a colting upswing of nausea that won't subside the longer he looks down towards his fingertips and finds his nails, well. Nails. No talons. No sign of clipping, only the soft beds of thinner outlines.] anything of him at all.
[No, on second observation, his tongue catches the backs of his fangs— canines and front teeth still dagger-sharp when and where he presses down. What of his eyes, then? His reflection? His deathly aversion to sunlight or running water?
It's too much to hope for. The next jolt from his pulse makes him certain he'll be sick, and he has to suck in air through his nostrils over the hard clap of his fingertips across his mouth when he doubles over just to keep it a suspicion, rather than fact. When he glances back up, it's with a question on his lips.]
no subject
Blood magic. [Is the sunken sound that leads in brittle disbelief.] Yes. That sounds familiar. [What a sick joke, that even entire realms away, masters are ever the same.
What a miracle that it's breakable.]
And this is the first time in two centuries I haven't been able to feel his control over me from it. Or— [His body blinks. He has to breathe. Swallow on occasion. Beneath his ribs his heartbeat is a colting upswing of nausea that won't subside the longer he looks down towards his fingertips and finds his nails, well. Nails. No talons. No sign of clipping, only the soft beds of thinner outlines.] anything of him at all.
[No, on second observation, his tongue catches the backs of his fangs— canines and front teeth still dagger-sharp when and where he presses down. What of his eyes, then? His reflection? His deathly aversion to sunlight or running water?
It's too much to hope for. The next jolt from his pulse makes him certain he'll be sick, and he has to suck in air through his nostrils over the hard clap of his fingertips across his mouth when he doubles over just to keep it a suspicion, rather than fact. When he glances back up, it's with a question on his lips.]
Did he change you?