[To say that he wants to know more is an understatement, for Astarion's answer is nothing short of baffling. More than equal, and it's not that he cannot imagine what the other elf means, but . . . it's one thing to understand the meaning. Quite another to apply that framework to elves, to imagine them as, what? Kings? Rulers? Higher-ups in government? It seems . . . mmph, unlikely is the nice answer. Utterly incomprehensible is a better one. How does it work? Are humans at the bottom of the food chain, then? Or is it dwarves? And what of Astarion and his master— is his former master an elf too, then?
Later, though. For now . . . he stands beside Astarion, watching him drink in Kirkwall in all her dubious glory, and wonders what he thinks. If even the architecture and the banners seem strange to him, repulsive and backwards in their proclamations, or if some things remain consistent. Perhaps, he thinks, it's a sensation not unlike when he himself first came to the Free Marches: a place so like and unlike Tevinter as to be baffling, with only the outlines of familiar habits and rhythms to guide you as you stumbled blindly throughout.
They linger like that for a few minutes. It isn't enough to really take in the sights, not yet, but it's something.]
Come.
[His voice soft as he gently sets a hand at Astarion's elbow.]
To this organization first— and then, if you wish it, my home.
[It's located in the Gallows of all places, which is, to Fenris' mind, a rather ominous choice— but he supposes there's few other unclaimed patches right now. It's no less ghastly an area than he remembers— bronze statues kneeling in weeping supplication and iron fences jagged and high— but the amount of mindless Tranquil wandering around is severely lessened, so that's something.
There's a few people out and about, and though he can't be sure, he thinks he sees a flash of green on one of the palms there. This is it, then, and he glances over at Astarion.]
no subject
Later, though. For now . . . he stands beside Astarion, watching him drink in Kirkwall in all her dubious glory, and wonders what he thinks. If even the architecture and the banners seem strange to him, repulsive and backwards in their proclamations, or if some things remain consistent. Perhaps, he thinks, it's a sensation not unlike when he himself first came to the Free Marches: a place so like and unlike Tevinter as to be baffling, with only the outlines of familiar habits and rhythms to guide you as you stumbled blindly throughout.
They linger like that for a few minutes. It isn't enough to really take in the sights, not yet, but it's something.]
Come.
[His voice soft as he gently sets a hand at Astarion's elbow.]
To this organization first— and then, if you wish it, my home.
[It's located in the Gallows of all places, which is, to Fenris' mind, a rather ominous choice— but he supposes there's few other unclaimed patches right now. It's no less ghastly an area than he remembers— bronze statues kneeling in weeping supplication and iron fences jagged and high— but the amount of mindless Tranquil wandering around is severely lessened, so that's something.
There's a few people out and about, and though he can't be sure, he thinks he sees a flash of green on one of the palms there. This is it, then, and he glances over at Astarion.]
Do you wish me to stay with you?